KAEL'S POV
They sent for me before the sun had finished arguing with the horizon.
The council room smelled like old wood and older grudges, a place where decisions were carved quietly and then shouted into the clearing. Light bled through the shutters in thin, righteous lines and painted Duskthorn's portrait in a way that made his painted eyes look alive enough to judge. That painting had watched more than any living thing, and it made the room feel smaller—like the weight of history was sitting on my shoulders before I even had a chance to shrug.
Echo was a low hum against my ribs, the kind of presence that makes you notice the air around you. He liked mornings that smelled like metal and coffee: the prelude to order, the moment before strategy gets put into motion. He flexed under my skin and I felt it answer the room—hungry, patient, ready. I straightened my back because there are rules to the way a Beta stands, and I learned those rules from a man who taught me how to hold a room by the softness of his voice.
Elder Varun was waiting in the center as if he'd grown out of the floorboards. He'd been the kind of man who kept his cane not because his knees failed but because it gave his words a handle. Around him, the other elders sat with that same brittle exhaustion carved into their faces—the lines of men and women who'd watched years erode certainty. Silence sat heavy until Varun's voice cut it away like a blade.
"Kael." He didn't bother with pleasantries. "Good that you could come."
"Elder," I answered, palms flat on my thighs the way my father taught me so I wouldn't look too consuming. Echo thrummed a pleased, small note. He likes being needed.
"We have to preserve the line of leadership," Varun said. The words were blunt—functional. They were the kind of bureaucratic sentences the council settles arguments with, as if leadership were a ledger and not flesh and breath. "Duskthorn's condition is grave. The council requires witnesses for the transfer of authority, should the mantle be passed."
Witnesses. The word landed like the click of iron on leather. In the old ceremonies, it meant oaths and hands and people chosen to speak for the pack when a life's work changed hands. It was the language of ritual and elevation. My chest did the small, traitorous stutter that feels a lot like a promise.
Echo's presence pressed against me then, impatient. Lead. Protect. Take it.
"You need witnesses," I said, steadying my voice because you never let them see you flush. "When—"
"When we decide it must be done," Varun finished. "Publicly. We must show a united front. Bring those who will stand with you. Bring your mark-bearers. Bring those who will accept the change."
There was a flicker in the room when he said it—an exchange of glances that might have been nothing. I caught it at the edge of my vision: the way Elder Sera's mouth pinched, the small, unreadable movement of Elder Tomas' fingers. Small things. But a man in my life taught me that small things are often the map to big ones.
"The pack must not fracture," Varun said. "We need ceremony. We need witnesses."
I nodded because that's what you do when the council speaks ritual, and I let my mind do what it always did when given a task: organize. Who would stand? Garran and the Westwood sentries—steady men who'd bled clean for the pack. My father's old friend, Jorin, who had eyes like a hammer and loyalty like a chain. The Mark-bearers—those whose marks glowed a little brighter at the scent of leadership. I catalogued faces and allegiances the same way I catalogued scars.
Varun's next words should have been the piece that rearranged my expectations, but they weren't. They were the kind of vague, careful language the council uses when they want consensus more than clarity. "Bring those who will accept the change."
Maybe it was just a phrasing. Maybe it was caution. He had no reason to be anything else. The pack was raw and fragile and the elders were not men who rushed into things. They had spent a lifetime defusing friction into whispers.
My chest tasted like iron, the way it does when ambition gets close enough to be mistaken for necessity. I'd been Beta long enough to understand the map of succession. Tradition slides like a current—Alpha to Beta, keepers of law stepping into space as it opens. The thought of stepping fully into that role—of shepherding this pack with more than a Beta's promise—was a dangerous, sweet thing. Echo rolled against my ribs, expectant.
"I'll gather the witnesses," I said. "I'll see to the guards. Make the announcement if you need me to. Tell me when and where."
Varun folded his hands over his cane. There was a softness behind his eyes I didn't immediately place—something like sorrow, like relief, like an old man pleased that the world still had someone to ask for answers. "We will schedule the ritual when the council deems it necessary. For now—prepare. Keep the peace."
Prepare. Keep the peace. The words were simple and weighty both. Practical orders for this mess of tradition, respect, and politics. I walked out with the ring of their voices still in my ears, the way they had asked me to marshal the pack like I was arranging a battalion for a parade I'd been expected to lead.
Outside, the morning air hit me—sharp with frost and possibility. I let my palms open to the sky like something waiting to be filled. Echo thudded in time with my pulse. There were calls to make, guards to position, allies to whisper into place. I thought of the ceremonial grounds: the way light would fall on the stones, the people who would stand in witness, the cadence of my own name spoken with a new weight.
There was a quiet arrogance in the way I imagined it. I'd thought of this more than once—in the long nights when training finishes and you sit with the cups of cold tea the house leaves behind. The image had been rehearsed: the mantle in my hands, the pack looking to me, the murmured approval. I'd told myself I'd be steady. That I could be the kind of man who bore authority without shrinking.
Echo purred approval—a hot, animal sound that promised teeth if any threat stepped too close.
I started calling names even before I left the council yard. Garran answered with his usual curt nod in my head—he'd stand. Jorin would stand, probably with some old grudge tucked in his chest but otherwise loyal. The Mark-bearers were a list of people I could trust to show. I sketched a plan for guard placement and seating and speeches. Leadership was a thing you practiced like a fight: anticipate, position, control the tempo.
There was a small, private knot in my chest—fear dressed up like sense. What if Duskthorn woke and everything unraveled? I pushed the thought down. Duskthorn had been fierce for so long his name alone could fill any empty seat. He was our gravity. If he could not hold the pack, someone had to. I kept the thought as a tool, a reason to be sharper.
My plans were practical, tactical. I made the calls, the steady murmured words over the line as orders and assurances. I told Garran to check the ceremonial stones for wear; I asked the mark-bearers to polish the family marks until the moonlight would bounce off them. Each confirmation felt like a domino placed neatly on a line. I liked the click of progress.
Echo settled into a contented, low vibration. He liked motion. He liked the idea of something that could be controlled. My father's voice—never far—taught me to make certainty where there was none: occupy the space, fill the silence, let others see you fill it.
I would bring witnesses. I would make the ceremony neat and incapable of being twisted into chaos.
I walked the courtyard once, letting the cool morning air clear the varnish off my thoughts. I imagined the pack's faces, their loyalties like weather patterns—some steady, some storming. I imagined myself at the center, steady as a tree, bark rough and hands sure.
For now, everything fit the map I'd drawn in my head. The calls I made clicked into place. The guards agreed. The elders nodded. The council's words were a tidy thing: prepare, witness, preserve order.
And I—Kael, Beta, husband, man with a child on the way and a pack that looked to me for steadiness—moved forward like a man certain of his orbit.
Echo hummed beneath my ribs, content to carry me toward whatever came next. I stamped out the plan and slotted the pieces into place.
I left for my rounds with my chest full of the kind of dangerous hope that tastes like coin. I would gather them. I would lead the witnesses into the clearing. I would make the pack see there was a future that did not collapse when a single heart faltered.