The first time I stepped outside after the ritual, the world smelled…different.
Or maybe I did.
The rain had rinsed the air clean, leaving only sharp pine, wet earth, and a faint tang of stone. The ravine’s hum—the constant low buzz I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying in the back of my skull—was muted. Not gone. But less like a scream and more like a distant murmur.
Brenna walked beside me, half-bouncing, half-hovering, as if she wanted to simultaneously drag me into mischief and wrap me in blankets.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” she asked for the twelfth time. “You’re not going to suddenly fall over and start muttering about soup again?”
“I am *never* going to live that down, am I,” I muttered.
“Nope,” she said cheerfully. “I’m having it carved on a plaque for your door. ‘Here sleeps Kaia Thorn: Stormbound, Ravine-Sealer, Soup Enthusiast.’”
Ashra huffed with laughter. *We approve. Accurate.*
I rolled my eyes. “I’m fine,” I said—this time, not entirely a lie. My muscles still complained when I moved too fast, but the bone-deep exhaustion had finally receded to something manageable. The healers had forced more tonics down my throat than I ever wanted to taste again.
Miri had patted my cheek with uncharacteristic gentleness and declared I could “resume light idiocy” as long as I promised to sleep eight hours and eat something that wasn’t bread.
“Light idiocy,” Brenna said now. “Like, what, tripping over your own feet but not into any magical holes?”
“Something like that,” I said dryly.
We cut across the main yard toward the pup field.
It was a patch of open ground on the gentler slope beyond the training rings, half-fenced, half-ringed by low berry bushes. Younger wolves practiced shift control there, away from sparring warriors and flying weapons.
Today, a cluster of pups between seven and eleven were tumbling over each other in a pile of arms and legs and partially sprouted claws. An older omega, Sima, stood nearby with a whistle, trying to corral them into some semblance of order.
She spotted me first.
“Kaia!” she called. “Over here, girl. We’ve been waiting.”
My stomach fluttered.
“Remind me,” I murmured to Brenna, “why did I agree to this?”
“Because you’re a sucker for big eyes and trembling lips,” she said. “And because Elyra asked nicely. And because we both know you wish someone had done this for *you* when your wolf didn’t come.”
I hated that she was right.
A week ago, Elyra had cornered me after dinner, looking more wrung-out than regal, and asked if I’d be willing to help with “elemental awareness” for the pups.
“Nothing fancy,” she’d said quickly, seeing me flinch. “No power-pushing. Just…being present. Letting them see you’re not a monster. Answering questions.”
I’d said I’d think about it.
Then I’d seen the pup from the ravine clinging to Eren’s hand in the infirmary, flinching every time she heard a crack of thunder.
“Fine,” I’d grumbled. “I’ll talk.”
Now, as the pups spotted me and their chatter rose to a frantic pitch, I wondered if I should have clarified *how many*.
“Is that her?”
“The lightning one?”
“Can she fry people?”
“My brother says she burned the whole hall down.”
“That’s not true,” a small voice piped up indignantly. “She saved me.”
A hush fell.
All the little faces swung toward the speaker.
Rina, the ravine pup, stood in the cluster, her dark curls pulled back into a lopsided tail, her hands still bandaged lightly where bark had bitten her palms.
Our gazes met.
Her chin lifted.
“She held the ground,” Rina said stubbornly. “When it was falling. And she told the stone to remember. Nana says so.”
Warmth clogged my throat.
“High praise,” Brenna murmured. “Nana doesn’t hand out ‘stone remembers’ lightly.”
Sima clapped her hands. “All right, gremlins,” she said. “Circle. And if anyone bites anyone who isn’t consenting, I’ll personally make you scrub the privies.”
There was a chorus of groans, but the pups hustled to form a rough circle in the grass.
I stepped into the center.
Dozens of eyes—brown, green, gold—stared up at me.
Ashra shifted uneasily. *We prefer running to speeches,* she muttered.
*Same,* I said.
But running wouldn’t fix what the ravine had cracked open.
“Hi,” I said, feeling absurdly awkward for someone who had faced down a half-awake storm goddess. “Um. I’m Kaia.”
“We *know*,” one pup said, rolling his eyes. “We’re not babies.”
“Yeah,” another chimed in. “You’re the elemental. From the stories.”
My cheeks heated. “Stories,” I muttered. “Great.”
“Can you do lightning right now?” a boy with missing front teeth blurted. “Just a little? I wanna see.”
Sima opened her mouth to scold him.
I lifted a hand.
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s a fair question.”
The pups wriggled, leaning forward, ears metaphorically pricked.
I crouched so I wasn’t towering.
“It’s…complicated,” I said. “Sometimes I can. Sometimes I *shouldn’t*. It’s not a party trick. It’s…part of me. And if I throw it around without thinking, people get hurt.”
A small girl frowned. “But you used it to stop the fire,” she said. “Nana said you told it where to go.”
“I tried,” I said. “I’m still learning. That’s why I train. With Kellan. With Tiernan. With…others.”
A boy with a shock of bright red hair blurted, “Do you like it?”
Silence fell.
Every gaze sharpened.
“Like…this?” I asked. “The…storm. The power. Being…elemental.”
He shrugged, embarrassed. “My sister says if she had lightning, she’d shock every warrior who ever called her slow,” he said. “But my da says it’s a curse. That it twists wolves’ heads. I don’t know who’s right.”
Ah.
There it was.
The question not on the parchment.
Did I like being…me.
“Yes,” Ashra said immediately in my head. *We like being loud.*
I took a breath.
“Sometimes,” I said slowly. “Sometimes I love it. Running under the moon and feeling the earth hum under my paws. Warming myself in cold water. Knowing I can help when things go very, very wrong.”
I swallowed.
“And sometimes I hate it,” I admitted. “Because it scares people. Because it hurts when I lose control. Because some wolves look at me and see a walking weapon, not a person.”
Rina watched me, gaze solemn.
“So is it a curse?” she asked quietly. “Or a gift?”
“Yes,” I said.
Confusion rippled.
“What does that mean?” a boy demanded.
“It means,” I said, “that it’s a *thing*. A big, loud, strong thing. What we do with it…that’s what makes it feel like curse or gift. And a lot of that isn’t up to us. It’s up to wolves around us. How they treat us. How they train us. Whether they see us as tools or…kids.”
Guilt flickered across Sima’s face.
“Some packs,” I went on, “didn’t do a great job with that. So elementals like me grew up angry. Hurt. Wanting to burn the world back. That doesn’t mean *you* are wrong if your wolf hums differently. It means the adults in your life better step up.”
A few of the pups glanced nervously toward the older wolves at the edge of the field.
Good.
“Will we all be elementals?” one girl asked, eyes wide.
“No,” I said. “Most of you will have…normal wolves. Strong. Fast. Loyal. Some of you might have…little quirks. A bit of extra heat. A knack for storms. That doesn’t make you monsters.”
“But what if my wolf *doesn’t* come?” a small boy blurted, voice cracking. “Like yours. Everyone says you were…broken. For a long time.”
Pain stabbed.
“I was,” I said honestly. “Or I felt like I was. Because everyone *told* me I was. Every day. In every look. Every word. For years.”
The pups went very still.
“Being wolfless hurt,” I said quietly. “It made me feel…alone. Less. It made some wolves treat me like…trash.”
Sima flinched.
“But you know what?” I added. “I survived anyway. I learned to run on two legs. To throw knives. To dodge towels. To make the best soup in the pack.”
“That’s true,” Brenna called from the fence. “Her soup’s amazing.”
I smiled faintly.
“If my wolf had never come,” I said, “I still would have had…me. My brain. My hands. My friends. My…stubbornness. That’s not less. It’s just…different.”
“So if my wolf’s late, I’m not…bad?” the boy whispered.
“No,” I said firmly. “You’re not bad. You’re not cursed. You’re just on a different timeline. And if anyone tells you otherwise, send them to me and I’ll set their hair on fire.”
The circle tittered.
“Not really,” I amended. “Probably. Maybe just singe their eyebrows.”
“Kaia,” Sima said warningly.
“I’m kidding,” I said.
Mostly.
Rina edged closer until she stood almost within arm’s reach.
Her fingers twisted in the hem of her tunic.
“When I close my eyes,” she said in a rush, “I feel like the ground is going to…move. Like it’s waiting. To open. To swallow me. And when it rains, I hear…voices. In the drops. Telling me to jump. Am I…crazy?”
My heart clenched.
“No,” I said softly. “You’re…sensitive. To the land. To what’s under it. That’s not madness. That’s…being tapped into something old. It’s scary. But it can be…beautiful. If we learn how to listen without obeying every whisper.”
Her eyes filled. “How?”
Ashra stirred, attentive.
*Tell her truth,* she said gently. *Even if it’s messy.*
“I don’t know yet,” I admitted. “Not fully. I’m still learning. But I know this: you are not alone. When the ground feels like it’s moving, call someone you trust. Nana. Sima. Eren. Me. When the rain whispers, whisper back, ‘No, thank you.’”
Some of the pups giggled.
Rina managed a watery smile.
“Can…you show us?” another pup blurted. “Not lightning. Just…how to listen.”
I hesitated.
Tiernan watched from the hill above, arms folded, Kellan beside him.
Rhys and Elyra stood further back, under a tree.
All their eyes were on me.
Once, that would have frozen me.
Now…they were part of the equation, not the whole.
“Okay,” I said. “We’ll try something small. Safe. And if anything feels bad, *you tell me*. Out loud. No being brave at the expense of your fingers.”
They nodded, solemn.
“Sit,” I said.
They plopped down in the grass.
“Close your eyes,” I said. “Hands on the ground. Just…feel.”
Giggles and fidgets.
Eventually, they settled.
I moved among them, Ashra stretching.
Her awareness brushed the ground.
The hum responded, lazy and warm.
*Gentle,* she murmured. *We are not asking much. Just…hello.*
I let a tiny flicker of that connection slip outward.
Not a surge.
A whisper.
Like dipping toes in a stream and inviting others to feel the current.
The grass under our fingers seemed to…tighten.
The soil’s slow heartbeat pulsed a little stronger.
A few pups gasped.
“I feel it,” one whispered. “Like a…drum.”
“Like a purr,” another said.
“Like Nana snoring,” a third added.
I bit back a laugh.
Rina’s brow furrowed, eyes still squeezed shut.
“It’s…loud,” she whispered. “But not…angry. Like…like it’s…*tired*.”
“Yes,” I said softly. “It is. We asked a lot of it. It held when it wanted to fall. It swallowed a wolf who poked it. It listened when we begged. Now…it wants a nap.”
“A nap,” Brenna echoed. “Same.”
A boy’s lower lip wobbled. “What if it wakes up angry again?” he asked.
“Then we apologize,” I said. “We fix what we can. And we stand together. Not alone.”
I lifted my hands.
The faint thread of connection eased.
The hum receded, settling back into its quieter rhythm.
“Open your eyes,” I said.
They did.
Some looked dazed.
Some thrilled.
Some simply puzzled.
“That’s enough for today,” I added quickly. “No trying to make the ground dance at home. No daring your siblings to jump near cliffs. And *definitely* no blood on stones without an adult present.”
Sima blew her whistle. “You heard the elemental,” she called. “If I catch any of you chanting at rocks unsupervised, I’ll have Kellan make you run laps until your tails fall off.”
The pups groaned.
Rina tapped my knee.
I looked down.
“Thank you,” she said shyly. “For…catching me. And for…this.” She gestured at the ground.
“You’re welcome,” I said.
On impulse, I held out my fist.
She stared, then bumped it with her own.
Sima herded them toward the berry bushes for a break, calling for juice and biscuits.
I straightened slowly, my legs protesting.
Brenna sidled up, grinning. “Look at you,” she said. “Kaia Thorn, Pup Whisperer.”
“Please don’t call me that,” I begged.
“You were good,” she said, ignoring me. “Honest. Scary. Weird. Very on-brand.”
“Thanks,” I muttered.
Tiernan descended the hill as the pups scattered.
“You didn’t melt anyone,” he said. “I call that a win.”
“Yet,” I said.
He smiled.
Elyra approached, her cloak pulled close against the chill.
“That was…better than I could have hoped,” she said. “They…listen to you. More than they do to Kellan.”
“I tell better stories,” I said.
Kellan snorted. “You tell longer ones,” he muttered.
Elyra’s gaze went to the spot where Rina had sat.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“For almost dropping her in the ravine?” I said dryly.
“For catching her,” she said. “Twice. Once with your paws. Once with your words.”
Emotion rose.
I swallowed it down.
“It’s not enough,” I said. “For what happened before.”
“No,” she said. “It isn’t. But it’s…a start.”
We held each other’s gaze.
For the first time, I saw not just the Luna—the graceful, controlled woman who’d stood by while my parents died.
I saw a tired, flawed wolf trying desperately to steer a pack through storms she hadn’t planned for.
It didn’t erase the past.
But it made hating her…harder.
Ashra nudged me. *We can be angry and still see,* she murmured.
“I’m not…forgiving you,” I said bluntly.
A flicker of pain crossed Elyra’s face.
“I know,” she said. “I don’t expect it. I’m grateful you’re still here anyway.”
She turned and moved away, shoulders a fraction more bowed.
Tiernan watched her go, then looked at me.
“You didn’t have to say that,” he said softly.
“I did,” I said. “But I didn’t say the rest.”
“The rest?” he prompted.
“That I’m…starting to understand,” I admitted grudgingly. “Not excuse. Understand. That’s…new.”
He smiled gently. “Understanding is where change starts,” he said. “Even if forgiveness never comes.”
Silence stretched.
The pups shrieked in the distance, chasing each other with sticky, juice-damp hands.
For a moment, the world felt…almost normal.
“You were good,” Tiernan said again, startling me.
“With them,” he added. “Honest. You didn’t sugarcoat. You didn’t dramatize. You just…were.”
“I didn’t know what else to be,” I muttered. “I’m terrible at lying.”
“That’s one of the many things I like about you,” he said, entirely too casually.
Heat crawled up my neck.
“You keep saying that,” I said.
“It keeps being true,” he replied.
Ashra purred. *We are never getting used to this.*
*I don’t want to,* I admitted.
He reached out and brushed a strand of hair back from my face, fingers lingering for a heartbeat at my temple.
“You look less gray,” he observed. “Miri will be pleased.”
“I feel less like porridge,” I said.
His mouth twitched. “Good.”
He hesitated.
“There’s something I want to show you,” he said. “When you’re ready.”
My pulse jumped. “What?”
“Not here,” he said. “Not…in this packhouse. In Stormwake.”
My stomach flipped.
“You want me to…leave?” I asked.
“Not permanently,” he said quickly. “Just…visit. See my mountains. My storms. My wolves. Meet my mother. My stonekeepers. Let them see you’re not just a story I brought back from Redwood like a stray.”
I stared.
“You think of me as a stray?” I demanded.
“No,” he said, startled. “Bad phrasing. I think of you as…mine. But Stormwake doesn’t know you. They only know I came here for a Summit and stayed because an elemental girl and an old ravine decided to make my life interesting.”
Ashra snorted. *He wants to show us to his pack,* she said. *To his mother. This is serious.*
“I’m not…your Luna,” I blurted. “Not yet. Maybe not ever.”
He flinched, just a little.
“I know,” he said. “I’m not asking you to stand on my mountain and declare yourself. I’m asking if you’d be willing to *see* the world I come from. So when you choose—because you *will* choose—it’s not just between Redwood and some nebulous idea of Stormwake. It’s between two real places.”
The thought of leaving Redwood, even temporarily, made my chest tighten.
My home.
My omegas.
My ravine.
But the idea of *not* seeing Stormwake…of basing my future on stories and Tiernan’s carefully curated tales…that felt wrong too.
“When?” I asked cautiously.
“In a few weeks,” he said. “Once the worst of the post-ritual chaos settles. After your next council session with Elyra and Rhys. Before your birthday.”
He watched my face carefully.
“You’ll come back,” I said. “After?”
He smiled crookedly. “You’d better,” he said. “Or Brenna will burn my mountains down.”
“Damn right I will,” Brenna called.
I laughed, startled.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “I’ll…think about it.”
“That’s all I ask,” he said.
Ashra hummed. *We want to see his storms,* she said. *And his mother. And his stone.*
*You just want to sniff his bed,* I said.
*That too,* she replied shamelessly.
My cheeks heated.
Tiernan’s nostrils flared, as if he’d caught some hint of my fluster.
His mouth curved.
“Think about it,” he repeated. “No pressure. No alpha orders. Just…an invitation.”
An invitation.
To his home.
To his *life*.
To a future that wasn’t just washing dishes and dodging Beta’s sons.
The idea terrified me.
And thrilled me.
“I’ll…let you know,” I managed.
He nodded.
“Good,” he said.
Rain began to fall again, light and steady.
The pups squealed and stuck out their tongues to catch drops.
Brenna yelped and darted under a tree, cradling her mending basket.
Nana lifted her face and laughed.
I closed my eyes and let the rain wash over my skin, cool and clean.
For the first time, the whisper in it wasn’t *jump*.
It was *stay*.
*Choose.*
*Live.*
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