Chapter 15: Brothers in the Shadows
Zach's Point of View
The forest no longer felt like a cage.
Since Bri had arrived, the silence of the woods had shifted its meaning. What once pressed against my chest like a cold, unfeeling wall now seemed alive, almost comforting. The wind still whispered through the pines, but there were other sounds now—small, human sounds—Bri's footsteps along the trail, the snap of a twig under his weight, and occasionally, the soft, incredulous laugh he tried to hide when I teased him.
He had been with us only a few weeks, yet it was as if he had always been here. Part of the rhythm of the forest. Part of the rhythm of my days. And in the strange, unspoken way that life sometimes offered, he belonged.
Bri's presence was quiet but insistent. He moved through the woods with the careful grace of someone who had learned to survive without trust. Every glance, every slight movement, hinted at a life spent measuring others before letting them close. And yet, every day, that invisible thread between us grew stronger, taut with something neither of us named aloud.
He had started calling me kuya—the word for big brother. He didn't say it often, but when he did, it carried a weight far greater than the simplicity of its syllables. I had never had a younger sibling. But if I had, I imagined it would feel like this: a mixture of responsibility, protection, and something warmer I couldn't quite define.
One evening, we sat beneath a crooked tree near the stream. The water shimmered under the sliver of a moon, too bright to be shadowed, too shy to be bold.
"Are you ever afraid when you shift?" Bri asked quietly, his voice almost swallowed by the wind.
"Not anymore," I answered. "But I used to be. The first time, I thought the pain would kill me. The second time… I thought the beast inside would."
He nodded, the flickering firelight catching the edges of his sharp features. "I think if I had a wolf inside me, it would be angry all the time."
I looked at him. His eyes didn't hold pity. They didn't hold fear or sadness either. Just truth. That was what drew me in, what made me respect him. Bri carried his pain silently, without spectacle, without a need for anyone else to understand.
"You're strong, you know," I said. "Not many would've stayed that night when they saw me transform."
He shrugged, scratching at a scab on his elbow. "I think I've seen worse."
"Still," I pressed, "you didn't run. That means something."
He turned toward me then, eyes serious. "You didn't leave me to freeze in the woods either. That means something, too."
I swallowed, staring at the fire. That quiet acknowledgment—the simple, unspoken understanding—was enough.
Later, after he had fallen asleep by the fire, curled into the rough wool blanket Zita had offered with a muttered complaint, I stayed awake, watching the embers die slowly. I thought of him, small in comparison to me, yet carrying a courage far beyond his size. Of the way he looked at me—not with fear, but with curiosity and quiet hope.
I had no younger brother. But I would protect him as if I did.
Training changed after Bri arrived.
I no longer moved through the forest and the clearing for myself. I moved for him, too—for the day he might need someone strong at his side.
Each morning began with drills beneath the pale sunlight that filtered through the autumn leaves. While I ran, shifted, and executed the forms passed down from the Northern Pack, Bri observed. Hesitant at first, awkward in his movements, but determined. Slowly, I taught him how to move without sound, how to blend with shadows, how to read the forest as a map of signs and scents rather than simply a collection of trees.
He was quick to learn. Quicker still to rise when the forest or I threw him to the ground, which happened often in the early weeks.
"You fight like a deer," I teased one morning as I pinned him to the mossy earth.
He groaned, face pressed to the damp grass. "You weigh like a mountain."
I laughed, releasing him. "That's the point."
He sat up, rubbing his shoulder. "One day, I'm going to flip you."
"I'll be waiting," I said, smirking.
With every passing day, his movements grew surer, more precise. His gaze sharpened, his instincts honed. Though human, he began to move like a creature born to survive in a world where predators stalked both the seen and unseen. He learned to read the language of the forest—the bent leaves, the faint scent trails, the silence of birds signaling danger. I taught him what I knew, but he added his own layer: intuition, bravery, an unyielding determination that had nothing to do with wolves.
He may not have been a wolf, but in spirit, he was no less wild.
The real test came near the end of autumn.
A rogue wolf from the Western Pack had slipped into our territory—a scout or perhaps a wanderer looking to stir chaos. Luna had left the warning beneath a pinecone by the stream, her handwriting as cryptic as ever.
"They're getting close," I said to Bri, standing at the edge of the tree line. "Stay hidden. I'll handle this."
"No."
I turned, surprised by the firmness of his voice.
"I'm not hiding," he said. "Not anymore."
There was no pride, no bravado. Only a quiet, steadfast resolve.
"You're human," I reminded him, though my words felt weak against the fire in his eyes.
He lifted his chin, his jaw set. "Then I'll fight like one."
I couldn't argue. Not with that determination burning in him.
We moved together through the forest, silent as shadows, following the rogue. When we found him, he circled near the ruins, fur as dark as coal, eyes sharp and gleaming like oil in the moonlight.
No words passed between us. He lunged.
I shifted mid-run, intercepting him before he reached Bri. Teeth snapped. Claws raked bark and earth. I snarled, the forest echoing back at me. Bri didn't flinch. He picked up a stone, threw it with precision, striking the rogue's eye and buying me a second to pin him down.
The battle was brief. The rogue fled, limping, tail tucked, leaving the night trembling in its wake.
I shifted back, panting, fur bristled. Bri stood, pale but unbroken.
"You're insane," I said, voice rough from exertion.
"So are you," he replied, grinning despite the scrape along his arm.
For the first time in a long while, we laughed—not from relief, not from fear, but from victory.
Later, by the fire, Zita handed Bri a bandage, muttering over her glasses.
"You're lucky," she said. "Rogues don't usually miss."
"I had him," Bri said with a shrug.
I watched the exchange silently, feeling the pride swell quietly in my chest. Zita looked at me, suspicion in her eyes.
"You've made him reckless," she muttered.
"No," I said softly. "He's just becoming who he was meant to be."
Bri didn't speak. But I saw it—the way his shoulders straightened, the subtle, unspoken acknowledgment of the path he was walking.
Days passed, and winter crept back over the land, dusting the forest in white. But the snow no longer brought the same biting loneliness it once did. We hunted together, trained together, argued and laughed beneath the stars. Sometimes, we spoke of dreams—mine of reclaiming the pack I had lost, his of a home where no one could cast him aside.
And then there were the small things that mattered most.
He stopped calling me Zach.
Now it was always kuya.
And each time, I answered—not because I had to, but because I wanted to.
In the hidden corners of this wild world, where wolves howled and the earth held secrets beneath snow and soil, a bond had taken root.
We were not brothers by blood.
But we were brothers all the same.
The forest, once a cage, had become a sanctuary. And within it, two souls—one wolf, one human—had learned to walk side by side. Together, we were stronger. Together, we were unbroken. And together, we would face whatever the shadows of the wild dared to throw at us next.