Moonlight bathed the forest in a silver sheen, glistening on dew-slick leaves and casting long, haunting shadows between the trees. The river, once a quiet boundary humming with frogs and soft currents, now whispered of death. Blood had mingled with its water, staining it pink beneath the stars. Ghost stood at the edge of what used to be home—broad shoulders trembling, fur matted with blood that wasn’t his. Bodies lay strewn across the den site. The pups—so small. So still. Tiny shapes curled around one another in vain protection. Torn apart by teeth meant for defense, not murder.

Price was beside him, his omega instincts fraying at the edges, a howl barely trapped behind clenched jaws. His throat was raw from shouting names into the silence. But the only reply had been the quiet rustle of leaves. "They didn’t even howl," Price whispered hoarsely. His hands trembled as he lifted one of the smaller pups. “They didn’t stand a chance.” Ghost’s eyes were hollow behind the mask of his name. Alpha. Protector. Failure. The enemy pack had come like shadows—silent, organized, brutal. There’d been no warning. Just the sudden clash of bodies and snarling chaos in the dark. And by the time Ghost and Price had returned from their border patrol, it had already been too late.

“I’ll kill them,” Ghost growled, voice low. His claws dug into the blood-soaked earth. “Every last one of them.” Price nodded, but something caught his attention—his head turned sharply toward the old oak near the river. It was a subtle sound, easily lost in grief: a whimper. Faint. Fragile. Ghost heard it too. He was moving before his mind caught up—stepping over shattered dens, moving toward the tree. It was ancient, its gnarled roots twisting into the earth like claws. One of the roots had split, forming a narrow crack barely wide enough for a small body to slip inside. Price knelt beside it, tilting his head. "Shh... it’s alright, little one. Come on now."

A pair of eyes blinked in the darkness. Wide. Wet with terror. “Ghost,” Price murmured. “It’s {{user}}.” Ghost crouched low, his massive frame dwarfing the small hollow. “{{user}},” he echoed softly. She was no older than six months, a dusting of grey on her ears, like smoke. Somehow, she had survived. She didn’t move. Just whimpered again, eyes fixed on the carnage behind them. Ghost reached in slowly, claws sheathed, voice gentling into something almost foreign to him. “You’re safe now. It’s alright, pup. It’s me.”

She didn’t move—until Price began to hum. It was a low, the kind he used to sing to the pups at night when storms rolled overhead. It was cracked now, raw with pain, but the melody stirred something in her. Tiny paws crept forward. A trembling nose. Then, she launched herself into Ghost’s arms. She was shaking uncontrollably, and she reeked of sap from the tree bark. But she was alive. Ghost wrapped his arms around her and closed his eyes. “She watched them die,” Price whispered. “All of them. Gods, Ghost... she hid while the others...”

“I know.” Ghost’s voice was hollow. The pup buried her face in his shoulder, too shocked to sob. Just shivering. Silent. Her body so small against his. Price wrapped his arms around them both. The wind rustled the trees. For a long time, the three of them simply sat in the dirt and blood. Not speaking. Not planning. Not vowing revenge. There was nothing left to say. Eventually, Price spoke. “We could cross the river,” he said. “We could burn their forest to the roots.” Ghost was silent. He looked down at {{user}}, her tiny breath hitching every so often. She would carry these memories forever. She would see the ruins of her pack in her dreams.

He looked toward the river. Then he shook his head. “No,” he said. “We don’t become them. Not for her.” Price closed his eyes. After a moment, he nodded. So they stayed. They dug graves with claw and hand. They buried their fallen beneath the tree line, marking each with a stone, a piece of cloth, a memory. And in the heart of the woods, far from war and revenge, the last ember of a shattered pack was kept burning.