*Sage*
The first “Legend of the Gallatin” poster went up in the gas station by the highway.
It was a cheap printout—black-and-white, a little grainy. I’d sketched the silhouette myself: a wolf on a ridge under a full moon, trees black teeth against pale sky.
We’d added a slogan.
*They were here before us. They’ll be here after. Respect the wild.*
Below, smaller text.
*Report wildlife sightings to the U.S. Fish & Wildlife office. Keep your distance. Keep your stories.*
“Nice,” Edda said, tilting her head at it. “Mysterious. Vaguely threatening. I’d totally buy a mug.”
“That’s the next step,” I said. “Baby steps. Posters, then brochures, then merch.”
We’d come down to the gas station as a group—me, Kieran, Rafe, and Edda. In human form, bundled in coats and hats, we looked like any group of outdoorsy weirdos passing through.
The clerk behind the counter—a lanky kid named Tyler with acne and a wolf tattoo on his forearm—had been more than happy to let us tape the poster to the corkboard near the bathrooms.
“Dude, that’s sick,” he’d said. “You make that?”
“Part of a new outreach program,” I’d said. “Trying to get people thinking about wolves as…neighbors instead of monsters.”
He’d snorted. “Dude, I *like* monsters.”
“Then think of them as…cool neighbors with better teeth,” I’d said.
He’d laughed and gone back to scrolling his phone.
Now, as we stepped outside into the thin winter sunlight, I exhaled.
“One down,” I said. “Fifty to go.”
“You really think this will work?” Rafe asked, flicking his lighter closed and shoving it back into his pocket.
“Work how?” I asked. “We’re not trying to make people love you. We’re trying to…direct their fear.”
“From us,” Edda said, “to what?”
“To the idea of disrespecting the wild,” I said. “We make the threat…abstract. ‘Bad things happen to people who don’t follow the rules.’ Not ‘a specific wolf ate my cousin.’”
“Humans are more afraid of rules than teeth?” Rafe asked, amused.
“Some are,” I said. “Especially when those rules are vague. ‘Don’t go into the woods alone at night.’ ‘Don’t leave food out.’ ‘Don’t mess with things you don’t understand.’ Old fairy tale stuff.”
Kieran’s mouth twitched. “Fairy tales,” he said. “You’re turning us into bedtime stories.”
I shrugged. “Better than cryptid-of-the-week on a conspiracy channel.”
“That’ll happen anyway,” Edda said. “Humans love a blurry photo.”
“Then we make sure the photos they get are…curated,” I said. “Howl silhouettes. Tracks. Wolf shapes in the distance. Nothing…in between.”
“Which means,” Kieran said, “no one shifts within sight of a road. Ever. No matter how tired, no matter how safe it feels.”
He said it loud enough that the others in earshot outside the station could hear.
Rafe winced. “Gonna be a fun memo,” he muttered.
“We’ll survive,” Kellan rumbled from where he leaned against the truck. “We did before.”
“It’s not just about survival,” Mara said. She’d come down ostensibly to pick up medicine, but we all knew she wanted to watch. “It’s about…how we live.”
“How we live,” Kieran echoed. “Or how we…hide.”
She met his gaze. “Sometimes those are the same.”
I watched them talk, something old and wordless passing between them.
History.
Grief.
A thousand choices I didn’t know.
I turned away.
Let them have that moment.
Inside the station, Tyler leaned over the counter to get a better look at the poster.
“Hey,” he called. “This number goes to you?”
He pointed at the bottom, where I’d listed the FWS office line.
“Yep,” I said. “Any weird sightings, send them my way.”
“Define weird,” he said. “’Cause I’ve seen some shit up there.”
“Four-legged, furry, pointy ears,” I said. “Not your ex.”
He laughed. “She *is* furry, though.”
“Tyler,” Mara said warningly.
He grinned. “Kidding.” He tapped the wolf tattoo on his arm. “Got this after my grandpa told me the old stories. ‘Bout hunting parties that disappeared in the woods. Eyes in the dark. Wolves that walked like men.”
My spine went rigid.
“Old stories?” I asked, forcing my voice to stay casual.
“Yeah,” he said. “He used to say there were things out there that weren’t meant for us. Said the smart folks stayed on the roads. The dumb ones went into the trees and didn’t come back.”
“Smart folks,” Mara murmured. “I liked your grandpa.”
Tyler shrugged. “He was weird. But in a nice way.” He jerked his chin at the poster. “You should put that at the bar. Old man Darnell’s been talking shit again. ‘Bout seeing the devil in your cameras.”
“Has he,” I said, heart thudding.
“Yeah,” Tyler said. “Keeps telling anyone who’ll listen that the feds are covering up monsters. People are starting to get freaked. Or bored. Depends on how many beers they’ve had.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I said.
He saluted with two fingers. “Anytime. Hey, you ever do one of those talks? Like, at the library? About wolves and shit?”
“Education outreach?” I asked. “We’re working on it.”
“You should,” he said. “My little sister loves that stuff. She’d eat up a ‘Legend of the Gallatin’ night. Get all the kids in sleeping bags, tell them about why they shouldn’t feed the coyotes.”
“That…actually sounds great,” I said.
“See?” Edda muttered behind me. “Mugs *and* storytime. You’re building a cult.”
“An informed cult,” I hissed back.
We left with a bag of chips, two coffees, and a list of places to hang more posters.
Back at the village, I set up what passed for my “office” in Kieran’s cabin—a corner of the table with my laptop, a stack of paper, and a crude map of the valley where I was marking potential “legend hotspots.”
“Haunted Hollow.” “Whispering Ridge.” “Devil’s Creek” (Mara vetoed that one; too on the nose).
Kieran watched, leaning in the doorway, arms folded.
“You’re good at this,” he said.
“At…naming things?” I asked.
“At…seeing,” he said. “Connections. Patterns. Threads we can tug.”
I smiled, tired. “That’s my job.”
“Has been,” he said. “Now it’s…more.”
“Lucky me,” I muttered.
He pushed off the door and came closer.
The cabin suddenly felt smaller.
“Have you thought about…what happens after?” he asked quietly.
“After what?” I asked. “After the posters? After we stop Kurt from going viral? After Cassian gets bored and goes away?”
“Do you believe he’ll do that?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“What then?” he pressed.
I stared at the map.
At the little X I’d marked for my old tower.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I can’t see that far.”
“You usually can,” he said.
“Well, my crystal ball’s cracked,” I said.
He was quiet a moment.
Then he reached out.
Gently hooked a finger under my chin.
Tilted my face up.
“Do you want to go back?” he asked.
My throat closed.
“To…my old life?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
I thought of my apartment. My office. My colleagues. Kim.
I thought of fluorescent lights and grant deadlines and field seasons measured in months, not…forevers.
“Yes,” I said.
The word ripped out of me.
“But,” I added, before the pain on his face could harden, “not…without this.”
His brows drew together. “This?”
“You,” I said. “Them. This valley. This…insanity. Being back there without…knowing. Without…you. I don’t think I could do it.”
His grip on my chin tightened.
Hope flared in his eyes.
“You’d…stay,” he said. “If you could…go and return.”
“Yes,” I said. “If I had…a way. A…bridge.”
“Bridge,” he echoed.
“Shut up,” I muttered. “You know what I mean.”
“I do,” he said.
His thumb brushed my jaw.
Heat curled low in my belly.
“What about you?” I asked, before I did something stupid like lean into him. “You ever think about…leaving?”
He looked at me like I’d spoken in another language.
“Leaving?” he repeated.
“Here,” I said. “The valley. The pack. The magic. Putting on a baseball cap and disappearing into some city where no one knows your name.”
His jaw flexed.
“No,” he said.
“Never?” I pressed.
“Once,” he admitted. “When I was young. Before my father died. I thought about running east. Road crews. Desert. No wolves.”
“And?” I asked softly.
“And I came back,” he said. “Because even when it hurts, this is…me. Them. Us. I wouldn’t know how to breathe without it.”
“So we’re both stuck,” I said.
“Or,” he said slowly, “we’re both…choosing. From what we have.”
“That’s one way to spin it,” I muttered.
He huffed a breath that might have been a laugh.
His thumb stroked my jaw again.
My pulse stuttered.
“I can’t promise you safety,” he said. “Or…normal. Or any path that doesn’t have teeth along it.”
“I know,” I said. “I don’t…want normal anymore.”
His eyes darkened.
“What do you want?” he asked, voice low.
You, I thought.
The word sat there, heavy and stupid and terrifying.
I swallowed it.
“I want…space,” I said instead. “To figure out how to be more than just…a problem. I want to help. Really help. Not just…observe.”
“You already do,” he said.
“Then let me do more,” I said. “Don’t lock me in the cabin when things get rough. Don’t make decisions about my life without me. Don’t…protect me so hard I can’t breathe.”
He winced, just slightly.
“I’m trying,” he said.
“Try harder,” I said.
Silence.
Then he nodded, once.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay?” I echoed.
“Okay,” he repeated. “I’ll…try. To bring you into the circle. Not keep you hovering outside it.”
My chest ached.
“Thank you,” I said.
He let go of my chin.
My skin missed his touch immediately.
“You should know,” he added, as he turned away, “that bringing you into the circle means…bringing you into the line of fire.”
“Story of my life,” I muttered.
He paused at the door.
“That’s what scares me,” he said quietly.
Then he left.
I stared at the map.
At the little ink lines crisscrossing it—human roads, wolf runs, old places.
At the tiny circle I’d drawn around the treaty stone.
The place where everything had started.
Where everything could end.
Words had teeth.
So did silences.
We were wielding both.
I just hoped we didn’t bite off more than we could chew.
***
My next Bozeman check-in with Kim came three days later.
She sounded tired.
“Your posters are causing a stir,” she said. “In a good way, mostly. Library wants to host a ‘Legends Night.’ Tourism board loves the branding. Darnell hates it.”
“Of course he does,” I said. “He only likes things he can shoot.”
“Be nice,” she chided. “He’s…complicated.”
“He’s dangerous,” I said. “Complexity doesn’t erase that.”
She sighed. “I know. He’s also loud. He’s been waving his beer around at the bar, telling everyone you’re part of a cover-up.”
My stomach dipped. “Of what, exactly?”
“Depends on how many beers he’s had,” she said. “Some nights it’s ‘mutant government wolves.’ Some nights it’s ‘demon dogs.’ Last night it was ‘man-wolves that walk like men and steal women from towers.’”
I choked. “He said what?”
“Relax, Rapunzel,” she said. “Most people laughed. A few listened. That’s the part that worries me.”
“How many is ‘a few’?” I asked.
“Enough,” she said. “People are bored up there. They want…drama. Stories. Your little myth campaign is giving them a…safer outlet. But Darnell’s feeding them something juicier.”
“Can we…discredit him?” I asked. “Gently.”
“Already on it,” she said. “We’re emphasizing his drinking problem. His…overactive imagination. ‘We understand your concern, Kurt, but the photos you brought us were inconclusive.’”
“The *what*?” I demanded.
She hesitated.
“You brought them,” I said slowly. “Didn’t you.”
“Not the one you’re thinking of,” she said quickly. “He’s got a whole library of wildlife shots. Coyotes, elk, that weird bobcat with half a tail. They keep him busy. He *did* bring in a photo of a big black wolf that looked…off.”
My heart pounded.
“How off?” I asked.
“Light flare,” she said. “Motion blur. It could’ve been anything. We filed it under ‘interesting but inconclusive.’ We told him we’d add it to our dataset.”
“And?” I asked.
“And we did,” she said. “In a folder marked ‘imagery: anomalous.’ Locked. No one sees it without my say-so.”
“Thank you,” I breathed.
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “We’re not out of the woods. Literally. Your valley’s a hot spot. People are talking. Hunters, hikers, Instagram idiots. I got a call from a grad student last week asking if she could do her thesis on ‘modern werewolf folklore.’”
My blood ran cold.
“What did you tell her?” I asked.
“I told her to pick a less overexposed topic,” she said. “Like grizzlies. Or climate change.”
“You’re too good for this world,” I muttered.
“I’m too old for this shit,” she corrected. “Listen, Sage. I trust you. I’m backing your ‘Legends’ project. I’m running interference where I can. But if this escalates—if someone gets hurt, if photos leak, if *anything* points to that valley turning into Ground Zero for Crazy—I’ll have to pull you. Bring you in. Maybe…shut it down.”
“Shut…what down?” I asked, throat tight.
“The project,” she said. “The reintroduction. The whole damn thing.”
I swallowed hard.
“I won’t let that happen,” I said.
“You might not get a choice,” she said softly. “Sometimes these things take on a life of their own. That’s why you have to be…careful. With your data. With your stories. With…whatever you’re not telling me.”
I closed my eyes.
“I’m trying,” I said.
“I know,” she said. “That’s what scares me.”
After we hung up, I sat for a long time, staring at the radio.
Outside, wolves howled.
Inside, words echoed:
*Shut it down.*
The idea of this valley emptied—of wolves culled, dens abandoned, packs scattered—made my stomach twist.
I thought of Blue Tag. Of the sandy female. Of pups rolling in snow.
I thought of Kieran, standing on the ridge, chest heaving, fur dripping with snowmelt.
I thought of losing *all* of it.
“No,” I whispered.
My hands shook.
I needed air.
I stepped outside.
The cold slapped me in the face.
The sky had cleared, stars sharp and bright above the dark trees.
Kieran stood at the edge of the clearing, silhouette black against the snow.
He turned when he heard the door.
Our eyes met across the distance.
Without a word, I walked to him.
Without a word, he opened his arms.
I stepped into them.
His coat smelled like smoke and frost and him.
I buried my face in his chest.
His hand cupped the back of my head.
“Bad call?” he murmured.
“Not…terrible,” I said into his shirt. “But not…great.”
He waited.
I told him.
Kim’s warning. The folder. The threat of shutdown.
He listened, jaw tightening more with each sentence.
When I finished, he exhaled slowly.
“If they shut it down,” he said, “what happens to you?”
“I get reassigned,” I said dully. “Somewhere else. Texas. Wyoming. Anywhere but here.”
“And to us?” he asked.
“They…pull funding,” I said. “Stop monitoring. Maybe…authorize culls. ‘Problem wolves.’ ‘Public safety.’ They’d…erase you. As much as they could.”
His hand tightened in my hair.
“Over my dead body,” he said quietly.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I whispered.
He pulled back just enough to tilt my face up.
“Listen to me,” he said. “We are not going to let your people erase us. We’re not going to let Cassian use you as a match either. You’re not a tool. You’re not a weapon. You’re…Sage. Ours. Mine.”
The word hit like a blow.
“Yours,” I repeated, voice shaking.
He flinched.
“I know you hate that,” he said. “The…ownership. The claim. But in my world, it doesn’t mean ‘possession’ the way you think. It means…responsibility. Care. Priority. It means if something comes for you, it comes through me first.”
Tears burned my eyes.
“I don’t…hate it,” I said, the confession tearing out of me. “I’m just…scared of it.”
“Of being…kept,” he said.
“Of…losing myself,” I whispered. “In you. In this. In…all of it.”
He rested his forehead against mine.
“I don’t want to take you,” he said. “I want you to…come. Stay. Because you choose it. Because you see me. All of me. And you still…reach.”
My breath hitched.
“I am,” I whispered. “Reaching.”
His hands framed my face.
Slowly.
Carefully.
“Then,” he said, “let’s fall together. Not alone.”
And he kissed me.
***
This wasn’t the almost-kiss in the cabin, mouths hovering, fear thick as smoke.
This was…heat.
His lips were warm and firm and tentative at first, as if he was afraid I’d shatter.
I didn’t.
I leaned in.
Opened.
Let his mouth fit over mine more fully.
Something in my chest broke free.
I’d been kissed before.
Clumsy high school boys.
Earnest college guys.
The Jack London Subaru disaster.
None of it had felt like *this.*
Like a dam breaking.
Like a wire connecting two points and suddenly humming with current.
His tongue brushed my lower lip.
I gasped.
He deepened the kiss, hand sliding into my hair, fingers curling at the nape of my neck.
Heat shot straight down my spine.
I clutched at his coat, dragging him closer, like I could crawl into his skin and solve everything that way.
He made a low sound in his throat.
Not quite a growl.
More…a pleased rumble.
It vibrated through my bones.
My knees went weak.
He felt it.
Without breaking the kiss, he shifted, arm sliding around my waist, holding me up.
Snow crunched under our boots.
Cold air seared my cheeks.
His mouth was fire.
When he finally pulled back, I was breathless.
Literally.
“Okay,” I panted. “Okay, that was…”
“Bad idea,” he rasped.
“Excellent idea,” I corrected.
His eyes burned.
Amber in the starlight.
“Again?” I whispered, drunk on him.
He laughed, rough.
“We said slow,” he reminded me.
“I lied,” I said.
He growled softly.
“Don’t tempt me, little wolf,” he said. “We’re standing in the open. Your heart’s beating loud enough to wake the pups.”
“I don’t care,” I said.
“I do,” he said.
His thumb brushed my swollen lower lip.
Heat flashed in his eyes again.
“We go in,” he said. “We sleep. We don’t do…more. Not tonight.”
“Tomorrow?” I asked, unable to help myself.
He huffed a breath that might have been a groan.
“Talk like that and I’ll throw Mara’s rules in the fire,” he said.
“Mara has rules?” I asked faintly.
“Unspoken ones,” he said. “About not jumping destiny before it’s ready.”
“Destiny seems pretty ready,” I muttered.
He smiled, small and aching.
“Go inside,” he said. “Before I forget how to be careful.”
I held his gaze.
Then, slowly, I nodded.
I turned toward the cabin.
He followed, close enough that his heat brushed my back.
Inside, by the hearth, we lay down facing each other, inches apart, hands not quite touching.
His eyes were dark in the flicker of the fire.
I reached out.
Curled my fingers around his.
He squeezed.
“Sleep,” he said.
“For once,” I whispered, “I think I might.”
I did.
And for the first time in weeks, there were no wolves in my dreams.
Just starlight.
And the echo of his voice saying *mine* like a vow.
***