POV: Luna Silver
The poison spider creeps another finger-width toward Finn's sleeping paw.
My voice is stuck behind a wall of fear.
I jerk my hand—slow, slow—trying to reach Finn without shaking the bed.
My fingers brush his wrist.
He doesn't wake.
The black thread is gone, but our hearts are still tied; I feel his drug-heavy sleep pulling me under too.
A soft clink sounds near the door—metal on metal, quiet as a mouse sneeze.
The handle turns a hair, stops, turns back.
Someone outside is picking the lock.
The human at the window keeps whispering, "Got you, got you," unaware we're not alone inside.
I need noise—loud, sudden.
I suck air, ready to scream, but the poison lifts its tiny head again, like it hears me thinking.
A drop peels off and hangs mid-air, ready to splash.
One yell and it might leap.
Clink.
The door lock clicks open an inch.
A narrow black nose pokes through—striped face, masked eyes.
Milo.
His gaze finds mine first, then the dripping poison, then Finn's paw in the line of fire.
His tail bush doubles in size, but he doesn't panic.
He slips inside, shutting the door soft behind him, and holds up one paw: five fingers—wait.
In his other paw he grips a granola bar—plain, foil-wrapped, nothing special.
But Milo's eyes gleam the way they do when he sees a perfect tool.
He peels the wrapper one centimeter at a time, silent as falling snow.
The crinkle is so faint only I hear it.
Chocolate scent drifts.
My stomach growls; the babies kick at the smell.
Milo points at the poison, then at the window, then at the bar.
Plan flashes in my head like a picture: bait the human hand away, make it grab the bar instead of the vial, drop the vial outside, problem gone.
Simple.
If the timing is perfect.
He creeps forward, toes barely pressing the floorboards.
The poison spider keeps crawling, now a finger from Finn's fur.
Milo crouches, pulls the granola fully open, and holds it behind his back.
With his tail he taps the windowsill—tap, tap.
The gloved hand freezes.
The whisper stops.
Curious, the human leans closer.
I see a sliver of orange goggles in the moonlight.
Milo waits until the goggles are right at the gap, then whips the open granola bar past the window like a brown flash.
Chocolate smell whooshes outside.
The gloved hand snatches after it instinctively—humans love sweets more than safety.
Fingers release the vial.
Glass falls.
Milo kicks the sill hard.
The window slams shut.
Vial hits outside stone—sharp tinkle, splash, hiss.
The poisoned spider on the wall loses shape instantly, turning to harmless gray steam that drifts up and vanishes.
Finn jolts awake at the bang, half rising.
"What—"
I clamp a hand over his mouth, pointing at the door.
Milo already has his ear pressed there.
Outside, muffled cursing: the human licking chocolate off gloved fingers, realizing the trap.
Boots scrape, running away—probably to fetch backup.
We have minutes, maybe less.
Finn's eyes clear.
He squeezes my paw in thanks, then looks at Milo.
"Nice catch."
Milo bows, tearing into the rescued granola bar for himself.
"Breakfast of champions," he mumbles through crumbs.
I swing my legs off the moss bed.
The babies protest the quick move, rolling like tiny whales.
Healer Mora stirs on the far side, but I wave her back.
We can't wait for grown-ups to decide.
Finn pulls on his boots.
"We grab the crystal chip, get to the law vault, change the rules before more humans come."
I nod, heart thumping.
The cracked chip with the crown-paw symbol sits on the stone dish where Healer Mora left it.
I tuck it into my pocket; it feels warm, pulsing faint but alive.
Milo licks the last chocolate and stuffs the wrapper into his pouch.
"Back exit?" he asks.
Healer Mora points to a narrow door behind herb shelves.
"Leads to the ridge path.
Pack guards are circling, but humans keep testing the edges."
Finn shoulders a small pack—bandages, water, the leaf medicine for his dart wound.
He hands me a thick cloak that smells of cedar.
I wrap it around me and the babies, grateful for the warmth.
We slip out the back door into sharp night air.
Snow has stopped; clouds part like torn curtains, showing a thin moon.
The ridge path is narrow, one wrong step and we slide into the valley where human lights still blink.
We walk quiet, paws crunching crusty snow.
Finn leads me behind, Milo tailing to erase prints with his raccoon tail.
Every few minutes Finn pauses, sniffs wind, listens.
Once he raises a hand—stop.
We freeze.
Below, two white-coats creep along the tree line, scanning with night goggles.
They haven't seen us, but they're heading straight for the healer's den.
My heart sinks.
If they find the others, they'll learn our plan.
We need a distraction.
Milo grins, already unwrapping a second granola bar he swiped from the healer's shelf.
He breaks it in half, stuffs one piece under a rock near the path, then hurls the other half down the slope toward the humans.
It lands with a soft thud.
Chocolate scent wafts.
The white-coats freeze, sniff, then creep toward the smell—right under the rock.
Milo yanks a hidden string he'd tied while walking—an old ranger trap.
The rock tips, releasing a pile of pinecones soaked in sweet oil.
They roll downhill, clacking, leaving a yummy trail.
The humans follow, goggles aimed down, away from us.
We slip past unseen.
I mouth "thank you" to Milo; he salutes with chocolate fingers.
We reach the top of the ridge.
From here we can see the school roof on the far side of the valley, pale under the moon.
The law vault is beneath it, waiting for the crystal chip key.
Between us and the school stretch dark woods and one frozen creek.
A straight run, maybe an hour.
Finn studies the sky.
"The moon sets in forty minutes.
We move with the shadows."
He shifts to wolf—black fur, silver paw glowing faint.
I stay human; shifting jostles the babies too much.
I climb onto his back, legs astride, cloak tucked.
Milo hops onto Finn's rump, clinging to fur like a backpack.
Finn leaps forward, paws silent on snow.
Wind stings my cheeks but the babies stay warm against his moving heat.
We fly downhill, past boulders, across the iced creek—crack but no break—into the woods beyond.
Halfway through the pines, Finn skids to a stop.
A low rumble ahead—engines, idling.
We creep closer and peek: three snow-mobiles, human scouts, blocking the only path to the school.
They're checking radios, maps glowing.
One points straight at the school drawing.
My stomach knots.
We can't fight three machines.
We can't go around without losing too much time.
We need another Milo trick.
He already digs in his pouch, pulling the empty granola wrapper, a coil of fine wire he took from the healer's tools, and the last piece—Healer Mora's tiny lantern candle, still warm.
He whispers his plan fast.
Finn and I nod.
We backtrack a dozen steps.
Milo wedges the candle into a snowbank, lights it with a flick of claw, covers it with the foil wrapper shaped into a bowl.
The foil reflects the flame upward, making a flickering light visible through the trees.
Finn howls—soft, mournful, like a lost pup.
The humans' heads snap up.
They kill their lights, creep toward the sound.
When they spot the flickering bowl, they think it's a campfire.
They whisper, "Wolves gathered," and move closer, guns ready.
Milo stretches the wire between two trees at ankle height, hides it under fresh snow.
He sprinkles granola crumbs leading to the trap.
Finn howls again, then we three melt back into shadows.
Humans reach the fake fire, find only candle and foil.
They curse, confused.
One turns back—his boot catches the wire.
He trips, gun flies, lands face-first in snow.
The other two spin, flashlights waving, slipping on hidden pinecones Milo scattered.
In the chaos, Finn bolts—straight past them, silent as smoke.
I cling to his fur, heart in my throat.
Snow-mobiles block the path, but their drivers are distracted.
Finn leaps over a seat, lands on the far side, keeps running.
No one fires; they're too busy untangling.
We burst from the woods behind the school.
The back door hangs half open—janitor's entrance.
Finn shifts to the boy, breathing hard.
We slip inside, lock the door, push a metal shelf across it.
The hallway smells of chalk and old lunches.
Emergency lights glow dim.
We creep past classrooms, following Healer Mora's hand-drawn map toward the basement vault.
My boots squeak; I stop, pull them off, carry them.
Milo's paws make no sound.
We reach a stairwell.
Down we go, deeper under the school.
The air turns cool and wet.
At the bottom waits a heavy iron door, round like a safe.
In the center is a paw-shaped hole exactly the size of the crystal chip.
I pull the chip from my pocket.
It flickers, cracked but alive.
I raise it toward the hole.
Behind us, the stairwell door bangs open.
Heavy boots pound down—more than one set.
A human voice barks, "Check the vault—they're after the law scroll!"
Flashlight beams sweep the walls.
Finn shoves my hand toward the hole.
"Now, Luna!"
I shove the chip in.
Click.
Iron door grinds, opening inch by slow inch.
We dive inside.
The door is still closing when a boot jams the gap.
A white-sleeved arm snakes through, trying to push inside.
Milo snarls, bites the sleeve; fabric tears, arm pulls back.
But the boot stays, wedging the door open a finger-width.
Finn and I throw our weight against the metal, but it won't budge.
Through the gap, orange-goggle eyes stare at me—Ponytail Lady from the woods.
She smiles, cold as the vault air.
"Thank you for unlocking it, little wolf.
Now step aside."
Behind her, more boots clatter down the stairs—lots more.
We're trapped between the closing door and an army of white-coats.
The chip is stuck in the lock; pulling it out might seal us forever—or kill the crystal and the babies' last protection.
Inside the vault, rows of scrolls wait in moonlit silence, holding laws older than any of us.
I came to change the rules, but the humans came to steal them.
The door creaks, opening wider under their push, not closing.
Ponytail Lady's fingers reach for the chip, aiming to yank it free.
One tug, and everything could shatter—crystal, law, maybe the babies' heartbeat.
I press both hands over the chip, protecting it.
Finn braces beside me, growling.
Milo bares tiny teeth.
Boots keep coming.
And then I feel it—the chip pulse once, twice, then speak inside my head with my mother's voice I haven't heard since winter:
"Choose, little moon.
Save the law, save your cubs, but not both at once."
The door is inches wider.
White-coats' breath clouds the gap.
Ponytail Lady's glove closes around my wrist, pulling my hand away from the chip.
Her finger is on the edge, ready to rip it out.
I have three heartbeats to decide which future breaks.