Helvar arrived on the fifth dawn with snow in his beard and suspicion in his eyes.
Juno watched from the edge of the old mating circle as the Alder Run party picked their way up the last slope toward the blood moon camp. The wind knifed along the ridge, tugging at cloaks and sending plumes of breath streaming sideways.
“Looks like a walking pine stump,” Kellan muttered at her shoulder, arms folded against his chest. “Solid. Grumpy. Will absolutely smack you with a shovel if you step on his fields.”
Juno squinted.
The lead wolf—Helvar, presumably—was broad and middle-tall, compacted muscle under a dark, fur-lined coat. His hair was iron gray, shaved close at the sides, longer on top, tied back with a strip of leather. Deep lines creased his face, not all from age—some from squinting into snow and sun, some from frowning at problems that wouldn’t move.
Four wolves walked with him—two younger men with similar jawlines and dark hair, a woman with braids coiled tight against her head, and another elder whose white beard was tucked into his belt to keep it from whipping around.
They all smelled of damp earth, sheep, root vegetables…and that faint, bitter tang of water turned wrong.
Juno’s wolf bristled.
Riven stood a few steps behind her, posture relaxed but attention sharp. Every time the wind shifted, Juno felt him track the newcomers’ scents, cataloguing them, measuring their weight against the memory of the Maw’s stink.
Lysa moved to the front of the gathered Pine Crest delegation, cloak snapping, silver hair braided back. Bram and Soren flanked her—Bram solid as a boulder, Soren in a dark coat that was definitely more about appearance than warmth.
Neutral ground, Juno reminded herself. Old pine stumps stood sentinel around the clearing, the stones of the new ritual circle still faintly darker than the snow-dusted earth.
Helvar stopped at the edge of that circle, his boots crunching in the packed snow.
He took in the three alphas, their wolves ranged behind them, the faint shimmer of Irena’s wards around the stones, the scar where the jar had shattered.
Then his gaze settled on Juno.
It stayed there for a beat too long.
She held it.
Let him see the scar on her cheek from a rockfall years ago, the calluses on her hands, the way she did not drop her eyes.
Something like recognition flickered in his.
“You’re her,” he said. His voice was deeper than Juno expected. Rough, like gravel under wheels. “The one who bit back.”
Murmurs rustled through the Pine Crest wolves behind her and his own small party.
Juno’s jaw tightened. “I’m one of them,” she said. “We bit together.”
Helvar’s gaze slid past her, to Riven.
His nostrils flared.
Bram’s wolves had described Riven to him, Juno realized. The rogue at the border. The killer. The chained one.
Helvar’s hand brushed briefly the hilt of the knife at his belt.
Lysa took a step forward, drawing the attention back to herself.
“Helvar of Alder Run,” she said. “Welcome to the blood moon camp. You made good time.”
He inclined his head, a bare acknowledgment. “When your spring turns black,” he said, “you run.”
Soren’s mouth curved. “Straight into the mouth of another problem,” he said lightly. “But at least this one brings snacks.”
Helvar’s eyes flicked to him, unimpressed.
Bram snorted. “Pay him no mind,” he said. “Soren’s tongue is sharper than his teeth.”
Soren put a hand to his heart. “I am wounded,” he said.
Lysa’s lips twitched. “We’ve read your letter,” she said to Helvar. “We know the broad strokes. But words on hide are one thing. I’d like to hear it from your mouth.”
Helvar’s jaw flexed.
He glanced once more around the circle, then nodded curtly.
“Inside,” Lysa said. “It’s cold enough out here for even my wolves’ brains to freeze.”
***
The meeting took place in the same command tent Juno had first nearly collapsed in, weeks ago.
It felt smaller now.
Crowded.
Lysa, Bram, Soren, Helvar, and Helvar’s white-bearded elder— who introduced himself as Torven—took the positions around the low central table.
Irena, Corin, and the two visiting witches from Silver Peak and the valley sat or stood near the walls, a half-circle of magic and memory.
Juno and Riven took their by-now familiar places side by side on one of the fur-strewn benches.
Kellan, Mira, and a few handpicked scouts loitered near the entrance, close enough to hear, far enough to be dismissed if Helvar objected.
He didn’t.
His gaze swept the tent’s interior once, cataloguing with the same efficiency Juno recognized in herself: exits, weapons, who stood where.
Then he fixed his eyes on Lysa.
“You knew the Maw before this,” he said. “Before your circle. Before your…bite.”
It was not a question.
Lysa inclined her head. “We’ve told the stories,” she said. “Caves to avoid. Deals not to make. I saw…signs…last winter. Rogue scent that wasn’t, wolves gone missing, wards humming wrong. I didn’t realize how close she’d crept until Riven hit our border.”
Helvar’s gaze flicked to Riven.
“What were you then?” he asked. “A knife in her hand? A dog on her chain?”
Riven’s jaw clenched.
“Both,” he said quietly. “And neither. Enough of me left to hate it. Not enough to stop it. Until…recently.”
Helvar grunted. “You killed three Ridge wolves,” he said. “And gods know who else before that.”
“Yes,” Riven said, meeting his gaze. “I won’t ask you to forget it. Or forgive it.”
“Good,” Helvar said. “Because I won’t.”
Silence fell, heavy.
Juno’s shoulders tensed.
Helvar went on, eyes on Riven. “But you also tore a root out of her. That…changes the tally.”
He turned back to Lysa. “When our spring turned black,” he said, voice rougher now, “we tried everything we knew. Boiling. Warding. Praying. The water stayed wrong. Animals wouldn’t drink. Wolves who did got…sick. Dreams. Whispers. Teeth under their tongues.”
Irena hissed under her breath.
“Teeth under their tongues?” she repeated. “Old story. Very old.”
Helvar nodded once. “My grandmother was a tale-keeper,” he said. “She used to say if you see teeth where they shouldn’t be, Mother Below is hungry. We started seeing them. In water. In puddles. In mirrors. That’s when the crow came.”
He jerked his chin at Soren. “Your man’s bird,” he said.
Soren smiled thinly. “My crows go where the stories are,” he said. “They heard ‘black spring’ and ‘whispers’ and flew straight to me. I flew them on to Lysa.”
“And we sent you word back,” Lysa said. “Of what happened here. Of what we did. And what we failed to do.”
Helvar’s jaw worked. “The pit,” he said. “The shard. The…root.”
His eyes slid again to Juno and Riven.
“You stood in her mouth and came out with teeth still in your heads,” he said. “That’s…more than most.”
Juno’s wolf preened.
She told her to sit.
“We didn’t kill her,” Juno said. “We hurt her. Made her…pull back. For now. But that…tooth…” She swallowed. “We trapped a piece. It’s gone, but the place it left hurts. She’ll…test it.”
Helvar grunted. “She already is,” he said. “Our spring hasn’t gotten worse. But it hasn’t gotten better. Like she’s…waiting.”
“Watching,” Riven murmured. “Seeing what you’ll do.”
“And what we will,” Helvar said, looking at Lysa.
Corin leaned forward. “What do you want?” she asked bluntly. “From us. From them.”
Helvar’s mouth twisted. “Not your war,” he said. “We have ours. Always did. We don’t need big mountain wolves marching in and telling us which way to piss. We need…knowledge. Tricks. Wards. Ways to make her hurt when she nips at our roots.”
Soren smirked. “A do-it-yourself demon-fighting kit,” he said. “Convenient.”
Helvar ignored him.
Lysa tapped her fingers lightly on the table. “We can share what we know,” she said. “What we did right. What we did wrong. But you should understand this: once you start biting, she doesn’t forget. You put your teeth in her once, and you’re on her list.”
Helvar’s eyes flashed. “She’s already at our door,” he said. “I’d rather be on her list with my jaws open than with my throat exposed.”
Bram grunted approvingly.
Irena nodded slowly. “Good,” she said. “You’re not asking us to slay your dragon for you. You’re asking for a fire and a hammer.”
Torven, the white-bearded elder, spoke up for the first time. His voice was quieter, but carried. “Stories say the Maw doesn’t like being laughed at,” he said. “Or ignored. Or bitten. You did all three.”
“That last one took,” Soren murmured.
Torven went on, eyes on Juno. “My grandmother said once that if you want to scare something that lives in the dark, you call it by its wrong name,” he said. “You drag it into a story that isn’t its own. Make people sing about it badly. Mock it. That frightens it more than teeth.”
Juno’s brows drew together. “You’re suggesting we…mock a god,” she said.
Torven’s mouth twitched. “She’s not a god,” he said. “She’s a wound that grew a mouth. Big difference. Wounds don’t like jokes.”
Riven exhaled, half-laugh, half-wince. “And how does that help a black spring?” he asked.
Torven’s eyes gleamed. “Stories spread,” he said. “Same as rot. You bit her here. You shouted her name. Others heard. They’ll talk. She’s used to being feared in whispers. Not in…tavern songs.”
Soren perked up. “You’re speaking my language,” he said. “I know at least three bards who’d love to write a ballad about a wolf who ripped a demon’s throat-node out.”
Juno groaned. “Absolutely not,” she said.
Riven buried his face in his hands.
Lysa rubbed her temples. “We are not starting a cult,” she said. “Or a fan club. Or whatever you’re thinking, Soren.”
He pouted. “I was thinking of a little reputation management,” he said. “If wolves in distant hills hear ‘the Maw tried to eat a mountain and choked,’ they’re more likely to join our side when the time comes.”
“They’re also more likely to paint targets on our backs,” Corin muttered.
“Already there,” Helvar pointed out. “Might as well put armor over them.”
Juno’s head spun.
Politics.
Stories.
Caves.
Her own heart.
It was a lot.
Lysa took a slow breath. “Here’s what we offer,” she said. “We’ll send a small team to Alder Run for a week. One witch. One old wolf. One of ours who can teach basic warding and water-reading. Maybe one or two fighters. They’ll see your spring. They’ll advise. They’ll come back.”
Helvar’s eyes narrowed. “No alpha,” he said. “No Juno. No…him.”
He jerked his chin at Riven.
Lysa’s lip curled. “You think I’m going to send my two best bite-back wolves into an unfamiliar valley pack whose alpha I’ve met once?” she asked. “No.”
Helvar’s nostrils flared.
Juno’s spine straightened.
“I’ll go,” she said, before she could overthink it.
Every head snapped toward her.
Lysa’s eyes flashed. “Juno—”
“I can see the lines,” Juno said quickly. “In the water. In the rock. I felt it in the cave. I know her taste. I—”
“And that’s exactly why you’re *not* going,” Lysa cut in, voice sharp. “You’re glowing like a beacon to her. You step near that spring, she’ll lick you through the surface.”
Heat surged in Juno’s chest—anger and fear and the bitter taste of being…protected.
“I’m not—” she started.
Riven’s hand closed lightly around her wrist under the table.
She froze.
He shook his head minutely.
His eyes said *Not this way.*
Her jaw worked.
Helvar watched the silent exchange with a faint, knowing frown.
“Who, then?” he asked.
“Me,” Irena said, voice iron. “And Nyra,” she added, nodding at the Silver Peak cave-runner. “We know veins. We know wards. We’re not as...interesting...to her as these two,” she jerked her chin at Juno and Riven. “We can get in, look, and get out without turning your spring into a beacon.”
Nyra nodded. “And I want to see how your hills sing,” she said to Helvar. “Compare notes. Maybe steal some of your rock chants.”
Torven’s beard twitched. “You share yours,” he said. “We share ours.”
Lysa nodded slowly. “That’s my offer,” she said. “Take it or leave it. You want Juno and Riven, you wait. You come to *us* again. When we know more. When we’re better prepared. I won’t throw them at every black puddle that shows up.”
Helvar stared at her for a long beat.
Then he inclined his head. “Fair,” he said. “I don’t like outsiders in my bones. But I like rot less. I’ll take your elders.”
Torven huffed. “We’re not that old,” he muttered.
Helvar ignored him. “And the stories?” he asked, eyes flicking between Soren and Lysa. “What do you plan to do with those?”
Soren’s grin sharpened. “Oh, I have plans,” he said. “There’s a tavern in the eastern passes that owes me favors. And a bard who still writes me letters. We’ll…shape what gets sung. Make sure ‘bit back’ is in the chorus.”
Lysa sighed. “Keep it accurate,” she said. “No dragons. No angels. No making us sound invincible. The last thing we need is pups thinking they can throw rocks at the Maw without getting their hands bitten off.”
Soren placed a hand over his heart. “Realistic heroism,” he said. “Got it.”
Juno groaned quietly.
Riven leaned closer. “On the bright side,” he murmured, “if there are songs, we can judge them.”
“Harshly,” she agreed.
Helvar pushed to his feet. “We’ll host your elders,” he said. “We’ll listen. We’ll watch. But know this—” His gaze swept them all. “We won’t be your soldiers. We’ll stand on your side when the Maw chews on your walls. Not in front of them.”
“Same,” Bram said. “We help. We don’t…kneel.”
“Good,” Lysa said. “We’re wolves, not priests.”
The meeting broke after that.
Plans were made—routes traced on maps, timelines set, contingents assigned.
Juno and Riven slipped out when they could.
The cold outside bit after the heat of the tent.
Snowflakes drifted lazily.
Juno’s breath steamed.
She flexed her fingers, still faintly tingly from Riven’s brief grip.
“You wanted to go,” he said quietly.
She huffed. “Obviously,” she said. “Black spring? New pack? New caves? My brain built three different patrol maps while Helvar was still taking his boots off.”
He smiled faintly. “Yeah,” he said. “I felt that.”
“But Lysa’s right,” she admitted, grudging. “If we start throwing ourselves at every veined hole she opens, we’ll burn out. Or she’ll start using them to bait us.”
He nodded. “If she knows you’ll come running to every rot, she’ll make a lot of rot,” he said.
Her lips twisted. “She’s not stupid,” she said.
He snorted. “Understatement,” he said.
They walked in silence for a few paces.
“Gari, huh?” he said, after a moment. “You think that name will stick?”
“Don’t care if it does,” she said. “As long as it sticks in *us*.”
He smiled, small and real.
“You’re very fond of claiming things,” he said.
She arched a brow. “You complaining?”
His gaze dipped briefly to her mouth.
“No,” he said. “Not about that.”
Heat crept up her neck.
She cleared her throat. “We should—” she started.
“—check the wards,” he said at the same time.
They both laughed, the sound awkward and easy at once.
“We can…walk the perimeter,” she suggested. “Make sure nothing’s…fidgeting.”
“Good,” he said. “Move. Before my brain starts replaying that sled hill again.”
Her cheeks flamed.
“Shut up,” she muttered.
“Make me,” he replied.
Her wolf perked.
“Later,” she said.
“Promise?” he asked.
Her heart did that stupid flip again.
“Maybe,” she said.
It wasn’t quite a *yes*.
It wasn’t a *no,* either.
The thread between them tightened a little more.
Ahead, the ward-stones hummed faintly in the snow, lines of defense against teeth below.
Beside her, Riven’s shoulder brushed hers with every step.
Inside her chest, something warm and sharp continued to grow—a new root, reaching down into old scars.
Not the Maw’s.
Hers.
His.
Theirs.
And the mountain, for all its age and silence, was learning a new word for that:
Hope.