Chapter Twenty-Seven – Echoes of What We Were
The forest did not resist Blake's will.
That was the first thing that unsettled him.
Mist parted at his passing. Roots shifted subtly beneath his feet. Even the air seemed to wait, suspended, as if the storm within him had begun to command more than just the pack—it commanded the land itself. Blake stood in the center of a wide clearing carved by ancient trees, his massive black-furred form rigid, amber eyes fixed on the wolves gathered before him.
They stood ready. Loyal. Trusting.
And that trust weighed heavier than any battle ever had.
"We go further today," Blake said, his voice low, steady, thunder restrained behind iron control. "But not blindly. I need to understand something first."
Ryn tilted his head. "Alpha?"
Blake exhaled slowly. "Before the storm. Before the transformations. Before me." He paused. "I want to know who you were."
The pack shifted uneasily.
This was not a command they were used to. This was not strategy or training or battle. This was memory.
Lyra broke the silence first. She stepped forward, her shadowed form sleek and powerful, eyes softer than usual. "You've never asked us that."
"I should have," Blake replied. "Power changes us. If I'm to push you further… I need to know what I might erase."
A heavy silence settled over the clearing.
Ryn sat back on his haunches, gaze drifting toward the trees. "I was human once," he said quietly. "A runner. Street courier. Fast enough to outrun trouble—until I wasn't. Hunters caught me. Experimented. I escaped… but I never went back. Didn't feel like I belonged anymore."
Blake's claws flexed unconsciously.
Lyra spoke next. "I had a sister. She didn't survive her first change. I did. I ran. Lived alone for years before finding the pack." Her voice tightened. "I stopped letting myself remember her face."
Others followed.
A former soldier who couldn't live with what he'd done.
A woman who had lost her child to hunters.
A boy who had begged the forest to make him strong enough to never be afraid again.
Each story struck Blake like a quiet blow to the chest.
Sam had not been alone.
"I remember my mother's voice," one wolf said softly. "But it's fading."
That did it.
The storm inside Blake surged violently, lightning coiling through his veins. He clenched his fists, breathing deep, forcing control.
"That," Blake said slowly, "is what terrifies me."
The pack watched him intently.
"I can push your bodies further," he continued. "Make you stronger. Faster. Sharper. I can reshape instinct, amplify survival, even alter how the storm bonds to you." His amber eyes burned. "But if I'm not careful… I might strip away the very things that make you you."
Ryn frowned. "Alpha… you've only helped us."
"So far," Blake said. "But power doesn't ask permission when it takes."
He stepped into the center of the circle, lowering himself to one knee so he was closer to their level—not towering, not distant.
"I was a boy once," he said quietly. "Named Sam. I remember my mother's hand. My father's voice. The way the forest sounded before it became my prison." His jaw tightened. "Every transformation I endure pulls me further from that boy."
The pack listened, silent, reverent.
"And yet," Blake continued, "that boy is the reason I still show restraint. He's why I don't slaughter every threat. Why I hesitate. Why I ask these questions."
Lyra stepped closer. "You're afraid of losing him."
"Yes," Blake admitted. "And I'm afraid of making you lose yourselves."
Despite that fear, Blake still pushed forward.
He always did.
"Prepare," he commanded gently. "This will be different."
The pack formed a circle, seated, grounded. Blake stood at the center, raising his arms slowly. The storm answered immediately—low thunder rolling beneath the earth, energy coiling outward in controlled waves.
"This time," Blake said, "I'm not strengthening muscle or instinct. I'm touching memory."
The energy flowed.
Too well.
Ryn gasped, clutching his head. Images flooded his mind—streets, sirens, running feet, fear sharp and raw. Lyra cried out softly, collapsing to her knees as her sister's face slammed back into clarity, grief overwhelming.
Blake froze.
"Stop," he commanded—but the storm hesitated.
For the first time, it did not obey instantly.
"No," Blake growled, forcing dominance, slamming his will into the storm. The energy recoiled violently, snapping back into him like a lash.
Blake staggered.
The pack cried out, some collapsing, others gasping as memories surged and then abruptly vanished—cut off mid-thought.
Silence crashed down like a fallen tree.
Blake dropped to both knees, breathing hard, claws digging into the soil. His chest burned—not from power, but from guilt.
"I'm sorry," he said hoarsely. "I didn't mean—"
Ryn forced himself upright, shaking. "Alpha… I remembered things I'd buried. It hurt." He paused. "But it also reminded me why I fight."
Lyra wiped tears from her face. "I heard my sister laugh again," she said softly. "Just for a second."
Blake looked up, shaken. "I almost broke you."
"But you stopped," Lyra replied. "That matters."
Blake stared at his hands—these monstrous hands capable of reshaping bodies, minds, memories.
"I don't want to be a god," he said quietly. "I don't want to decide what you keep and what you lose."
Ryn stepped closer. "Then don't decide alone."
The pack murmured in agreement.
"You're not just our Alpha because you're strong," another said. "You're our Alpha because you question yourself."
That struck deeper than any wound.
Blake rose slowly to his feet. "Then hear me," he said. "From this moment on, I will not transform you further without consent. Without discussion. Without remembering who you were."
The storm within him settled, almost… approving.
"And if the day comes," Blake added, voice rough, "that I must choose between power and humanity—between being a weapon or being Sam—" He clenched his fists. "I need you to remind me of this moment."
Ryn nodded. "We will."
Lyra met his gaze. "And if you ever forget who you were… we'll remind you too."
Blake looked around at them—not as soldiers, not as weapons, but as survivors.
Family.
For the first time since the forest had claimed him, Blake felt something shift—not power, not fury, but clarity.
The storm was not his enemy.
But it was not his identity either.
And as the pack settled into the quiet of the forest, Blake knew a turning point had been reached. Not in battle. Not in blood.
But in memory.
In choice.
And in the fragile, dangerous hope that Sam Black still had a voice within the monster the world feared.