*Kieran*
Humans packed themselves into their dens like anxious prey animals when they were scared.
Town hall smelled like sweat and coffee and old paper.
And fear.
So much fear.
I stood at the back of the room, shoulder against the wall, baseball cap pulled low, hands in the pockets of a borrowed jacket that smelled faintly of Sage’s laundry soap.
*Ryan Morales,* I reminded myself. *Construction. Seasonal tech. Knows shovels and snow plows. Knows nothing about magic or prophecy or the way fear tastes when it curdles into hate.*
I lied even to myself.
The room was rectangular, with rows of metal chairs facing a raised platform at the front. An American flag drooped in one corner. A banner hung on the wall: WELCOME TO BRIDGER—GATEWAY TO THE GALLATIN.
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
Sage sat near the front, at a table with a microphone and a stack of papers.
Her hair was pulled back into a low knot. She wore a blazer over a flannel shirt, jeans, and boots that still had a dusting of snow on them. The cut on her cheek was mostly hidden under a thin layer of concealer and a strategically placed lock of hair.
Kim sat beside her, laptop open, expression set to Professional Concern.
On the other side of the table, a man in a cheap suit fidgeted with his tie.
Mayor, I guessed.
He smelled like stress and stale donuts.
The crowd murmured, shifting in their seats, jackets squeaking, boots thumping.
I picked out scents.
Kurt.
Beer. Anger. Self-righteousness.
At the front right.
Arms crossed.
Glare fixed on Sage.
Tyler.
Gas station kid.
Leaning against the back wall, arms folded, wolf tattoo peeking from under his sleeve.
Smelled…curious.
Nervous.
A teenage girl next to him—Jess. My mind supplied the name. The beanie. The nose ring. The bone tree note.
She smelled like incense and anxiety.
The rest blended into a mass.
Farmers.
Shopkeepers.
Rangers in uniform near the back, hands on their belts.
A cop by the door.
Hand on his radio.
Human teeth.
Human weapons.
No Northridge scent in the room.
Yet.
Mayor Cheap Suit tapped the microphone.
Feedback squealed.
The crowd winced.
“Uh, hi,” he said. “Thanks, everyone, for coming out on such short notice. I know it’s cold and the roads are nasty, so we appreciate you braving the weather. My name is Don Everett. I’m your mayor. We’re here to…talk about recent wolf activity in the valley and address concerns about public safety.”
He cleared his throat.
“As you know, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service has been monitoring the reintroduced wolf population in collaboration with our local landowners. We’ve invited Dr. Sage Holloway, the lead biologist on the project, to give us an update and answer questions. We’ll also hear from representatives from the sheriff’s office and—uh—” he glanced at Kim “—the regional FWS office.”
He shifted.
“We’re gonna keep things civil,” he said, voice tightening. “No yelling. No threats. This is a conversation, not a shootout at the OK Corral.”
A ripple of uneasy laughter.
Sage’s hands were folded on the table.
I could see her fingers twitch.
Mayor Everett gestured to her.
“Dr. Holloway,” he said. “Floor’s yours.”
She stood.
Applause was…polite.
Scattered.
I could feel some people clapping because they thought they should.
Others didn’t bother.
She stepped up to the podium.
Took a breath.
Smiled.
“Hi,” she said into the mic. “I’m Dr. Sage Holloway. Most of you know me as the weird lady in the tower.”
A few chuckles.
Tension eased a fraction.
“First, I want to say thank you,” she went on. “For coming. For caring. For being willing to sit in a room together and talk about hard things. I know wolves are…complicated. They were gone for a long time. Now they’re back. That’s…a lot.”
She paused.
Let that sit.
“I’m here to tell you a few things,” she said. “Some you’ve heard. Some you maybe haven’t. One: wolves are a native part of this ecosystem. They were here before we drew property lines and built fences. Two: they’re not out to get you. They’re not lurking behind every tree waiting to eat your kids. Three: they *are* predators. They can and will take livestock if given the chance. That’s real. That’s why we’re here—to talk about how to minimize that. Together.”
Kurt snorted loudly.
She didn’t flinch.
“Before I moved here,” she said, “I lived in Arizona, working on mountain lion conservation. I saw what happened when fear drove policy. People panicked. Killed every cougar they could find. You know what happened? Deer populations exploded. Car accidents went up. The forest suffered. And the cougars—well, they didn’t disappear. They just got better at hiding. At being where we *didn’t* want them.”
Her eyes scanned the room.
Landed, briefly, on mine.
For a soft heartbeat, the room blurred.
Just us.
Then she moved on.
“Wolves are similar,” she said. “We can’t erase them without erasing part of what makes this place…this place. We also can’t pretend they’re fluffy forest puppies who just want to be Instagrammed. They’re wild. They’re powerful. They deserve respect. So do you. So does your fear.”
Good.
Strong.
I watched the crowd.
Murmurs.
Frowns.
Nods.
A few scowls.
“Let’s talk about the valley,” she said. “About what’s really happening out there.”
She clicked a remote.
A projector whirred to life on the ceiling.
I blinked.
She’d said there wasn’t one.
The wall behind her filled with an image—a map of the valley, color-coded, dots and arrows.
“Thanks to the FWS office for letting me hijack your equipment,” she said. “Visual aids help.”
A few chuckles.
She pointed.
“These are collared wolves,” she said. “We track their movements. We know where they go, where they den, where they hunt. For the most part, they avoid human structures. Not because they *like* you, but because we actively condition them to. We haze. We use fladry. We discourage.”
She nodded toward a photo of red flagging tape strung along a fence.
“Are there exceptions?” she asked. “Yes. That’s why we have compensation programs. That’s why we have rapid response teams. When a cow dies, we show up. We investigate. We make it right as best we can.”
She didn’t look at Kurt.
Not yet.
“But there’s another piece to this,” she said. “A deeper one. One we don’t talk about enough. Wolves are…story animals. Always have been. Our grandparents told stories about them. Their grandparents told stories. Some were warnings. Some were…lies. They stuck. Now, when you hear a howl at night, you’re not just hearing a wolf. You’re hearing centuries of fear and folklore.”
The room shifted.
A few people nodded.
An older woman in the front row wiped at one eye.
“You’ve all heard things,” Sage said. “About big black wolves with eyes like fire. About shapes in the trees. About old shrines in the woods.”
A rustle.
Someone muttered, “Bone tree,” under their breath.
She smiled, small.
“Yeah,” she said. “About that. Some of you have seen it. Up on the ridge. Bones in a tree. Cloth. Feathers. It’s weird. It’s…creepy. It’s also exactly what I’m talking about. It’s a…story anchor. A place where we put our fear. Our fascination. Our…need to make sense of the wild.”
Jess shifted, cheeks flushing.
Tyler elbowed her gently.
Sage went on.
“I’m not here to tell you not to be scared,” she said. “Fear keeps us alive. I *am* here to tell you this: acting out of fear alone leads to bad decisions. We shoot first. Ask questions never. We blame the wrong thing. We hurt the wrong people.”
She paused.
“Last week,” she said, voice softer, “a cow died on Kurt Darnell’s land.”
All eyes swung to him.
He crossed his arms tighter.
“It was a hard hit,” she said. “Financially. Emotionally. I was there. I saw it. Blood in the snow. A family animal, gone. That hurts. It *should* hurt. We investigated. We confirmed a wolf kill. Compensation paperwork is in process.”
Murmurs.
She took a breath.
“Here’s the part you won’t hear at the bar,” she said. “That kill had *two* sets of wolf prints. Two packs. One we know. One we…don’t. Yet. The wolves I’ve been studying? They’ve been avoiding Kurt’s herd all season. Pushed by something else. Something…hungrier. That matters. Because if we don’t understand the *real* problem, if we just blame the first wolf we see, we don’t fix it. We just…move it.”
Silence.
In the back, a ranger shifted, frowning.
Kim watched Sage with a mixture of pride and worry.
“I’m asking you,” Sage said, “not to let fear paint all wolves with one bloody brush. To let data and observation and *time* guide our choices. To give my work a chance to do what it’s meant to do: help humans and wolves live in the same valley without killing each other.”
She looked at Kurt then.
Directly.
“Yell at me,” she said. “File complaints. Call my office. I can take it. Please don’t pick up a gun and decide on your own that you know which wolf deserves to die.”
Kurt’s jaw worked.
For a heartbeat, something like shame flickered in his eyes.
Then it hardened.
He stood.
“Can I speak?” he called.
Mayor Everett winced. “We were going to take questions after—”
“I’m not asking,” Kurt said.
He walked to the front.
Stood beside Sage.
He smelled like beer and adrenaline.
He glared at her.
At the room.
“I’ve lived here my whole damn life,” he said. “My daddy before me. His daddy before him. We ran cattle on these hills when wolves were gone. We lost some to cougars. To disease. To storms. That’s life. I accepted it.”
He jabbed a finger at Sage.
“Then *you* came,” he said. “With your tower. Your collars. Your government money. You brought the wolves back. You told us it’d be fine. ‘Non-lethal deterrents.’ ‘Compensation.’ ‘Coexistence.’ And now I’m looking at my dead cow in the snow and a tree full of bones on the ridge and you’re telling me to be…patient.”
He laughed, harsh.
“I ain’t patient,” he said. “I’m pissed.”
Murmurs.
Some nods.
Some eye rolls.
Sage listened.
Didn’t interrupt.
“I hear things,” Kurt went on. “Not just howls. Stories. About…things in the woods that ain’t right. About wolves that stand on two legs. About shadows that move like men. You can call it fear. Folklore. Whiskey. I call it…wrong.”
My hackles rose.
I forced my shoulders to stay loose.
“You think you know more than us,” he said to Sage. “Because you went to school. Because you got letters after your name. But you don’t live here. Not really. You don’t wake up at three a.m. to a panicked herd because something’s out there that *shouldn’t* be. You don’t tuck your kids in and wonder if the stories your old man told you are coming back to bite you in the ass.”
He faced the crowd.
“Look,” he said. “I ain’t saying we kill every wolf we see. Maybe there’s some good ones. Holloway’s pets. Fine. But we gotta draw a line. We gotta protect what’s ours. And if the government won’t do it, we will.”
Applause.
Real.
Loud.
My heart sank.
Sage’s jaw clenched.
She took the mic back.
“Thank you, Kurt,” she said. “For…saying that out loud. For being honest about your fear. I don’t agree with all of it. Obviously. But I hear you.”
“You’re damn right you do,” he muttered.
“You’re also right about one thing,” she added.
He blinked.
“I don’t live here the way you do,” she said. “I don’t have generational roots. I haven’t buried family on these hills. I am, in many ways, a visitor. A scientist. A…bridge.” She smiled faintly at the word. “That’s why I need you. All of you. To tell me what you’re seeing. To call me when something feels…off. To give me a chance to investigate before you decide the only answer is a bullet.”
She turned to the crowd.
“I’m not asking you to trust wolves,” she said. “I’m asking you to trust *me.* And Kim. And the people in this room who have dedicated their lives to understanding the wild instead of just fearing it.”
Her gaze flicked briefly to me.
Held.
“Give us a season,” she said. “One. Let us gather data. Let us see if these…other wolves behave differently. Let us adjust our strategies. If, after that, nothing changes, I’ll be the one standing here telling you we need to consider lethal control. Not Kurt. Not some shouting match at the bar. Me. With numbers. With proof.”
Gasps.
Kim’s eyes widened.
That was not in the script.
My chest clenched.
Sage lifted her chin.
“You have my word,” she said.
Murmurs.
A few voices shouted questions.
Mayor Everett flailed.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “Let’s—uh—slow down. We’ll open the floor now. One at a time. Please.”
Hands shot up.
Questions flew.
What about our kids?
What about pets?
What about joggers at dawn?
What if we see one near town?
What about the bone tree?
Is that sanctioned?
Is that witchcraft?
Is that you, Doc?
Sage answered.
One by one.
Patient.
Honest.
Careful.
Sometimes she deferred to Kim.
Sometimes Kim deferred to her.
Together, they wove a net of words.
I watched the room.
The way people’s shoulders loosened.
The way their jaws unclenched.
Not entirely.
Not universally.
But some.
A crack in the fear.
A space where something else might grow.
Hope.
Or its more practical cousin: willingness to wait.
Toward the end, Jess stood.
Her hands shook.
“Um,” she said. “Hi. I’m Jess. I, uh, left…a thing. At the tree.”
Laughter.
Good-natured.
“Not sacrificing goats or anything,” she added quickly. “Just…a note. To whoever put it there. Asking you to, uh, watch over my idiot brother. I know that’s silly. But…it made me feel…better. I just wanted to say thank you. For…making a place where we can…put that. Even if it’s just…art.”
Sage smiled, soft.
“Thank you, Jess,” she said. “That’s…exactly what the Legends project is about. Giving us somewhere to put our stories. Our fear. Our love for this place. It’s not magic. It’s…community.”
Jess flushed.
Sat.
Tyler squeezed her hand.
Kurt snorted.
But quieter this time.
The meeting wound down.
Mayor Everett wrapped it up with promises of further discussions, committees, task forces.
Humans loved their committees.
As people began to file out, buzzing, I moved along the wall, keeping my head down, blending as best I could.
“Ryan.”
Sage’s voice.
Soft.
I turned.
She was at the edge of the stage, slipping through a gap in the chairs.
Kim was occupied with a cluster of council members.
Sage made her way to me.
“You were right,” she said quietly. “About needing…backup in there.”
“You were the one talking,” I said. “I just leaned on a wall.”
“You watched,” she said. “You smelled. You…read. That helped.”
“How?” I asked.
“When Kurt spoke, your scent changed,” she said. “You tensed. It let me know when to push, when to pull. When Jess stood up, you…eased. It reminded me there was…hope in the room.”
I blinked.
“You’re reading *me* now,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “Weird, right?”
“We’re all weird,” I said.
She smiled.
“I meant what I said,” she added. “About the season. About…making that promise.”
“I know,” I said.
“Was that…stupid?” she asked.
“Maybe,” I said. “But it bought time. That’s…worth something.”
Her shoulders sagged.
“Tired?” I asked.
“Exhausted,” she said. “And also wired. I want to punch Kurt and hug Jess and then sleep for a week.”
“Do all three,” I suggested.
She snorted.
Kurt pushed past just then, eyes landing on us.
On her.
On me.
His gaze flicked to my chest.
To my hands.
To my face.
“You the new tech?” he asked.
“Ryan,” I said. “Morales.”
He grunted.
“You believe all that?” he jerked his chin toward the stage. “’Data’ and ‘stories’ and ‘respect the wild’?”
I held his gaze.
“I believe fear makes people do stupid things,” I said.
“Like bring wolves back,” he shot.
“Like shoot the wrong ones,” I countered.
He stared at me.
For a heartbeat, something like recognition flickered.
Then he spat on the floor.
“Watch your step, construction boy,” he said. “These hills chew up outsiders.”
He walked away.
Sage exhaled.
“Charm personified,” she muttered.
“Do you think he’ll…listen?” I asked.
“For a season?” she said. “Maybe. If we’re lucky. If nothing else happens to his herd.”
“So we make sure nothing does,” I said.
She gave me a look.
“You can’t control everything,” she said.
“I can try,” I said.
She smiled, tired and fond.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said. “These fluorescent lights are giving me a headache.”
As we stepped out into the cold night, the air hit me like a blessing.
Clean.
Crisp.
Full of stars.
And something else.
Northridge.
Faint.
Far.
Watching.
Waiting.
“Did you feel them?” Sage asked quietly.
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you think they were in there?” she nodded back toward the building.
“No,” I said. “Cassian hates walls. He’d have lurked in the parking lot. In the shadows.”
“Is he…mad?” she asked. “About…what I said. About the other pack.”
“Yes,” I said. “But also…curious.”
“That’s his baseline,” she muttered.
We walked to the truck.
Tyler called, “Hey, Doc!” from across the lot.
We turned.
He jogged over, hands jammed in his pockets against the cold.
“You did good,” he said, a little breathless. “In there. Like…TED Talk level.”
“Thanks,” she said. “You didn’t heckle me. I appreciate that.”
He grinned.
“You see the new offerings?” he asked. “At the tree?”
“Not yet,” she said. “Been a little busy.”
“Someone left a stuffed wolf,” he said. “Like…a plushie. My sister thinks it’s ‘toys for the forest gods.’”
Sage laughed.
“Tell her the forest gods prefer real food,” she said.
“I’ll pass it on,” he said. His gaze flicked to Kieran. “You new?”
“Ryan,” Kieran said.
“Tyler,” he said, offering a hand. “Welcome to the circus.”
They shook.
For a heartbeat, wolf and human, predator and prey, science and myth, all touched flesh.
Then it broke.
“See you up the road,” Tyler said.
He sauntered off.
Sage watched him go.
“Weird kid,” she said fondly.
“Weird is good,” I said.
“Weird might save us,” she said.
We got in the truck.
Drove back toward the mountains.
Toward the bone tree.
Toward Cassian.
Toward whatever waited in the snow.
As the town’s lights faded in the rearview, Sage reached over.
Laced her fingers with mine.
No words.
Just warmth.
Weight.
A choice.
For now, that was enough.
The storm was still coming.
The lines were drawn.
The bones were hung.
The stories were loose.
We’d lit the match.
Now we had to see what burned.
And what, if anything, survived the fire.
***
*To be continued…*