Morning came reluctantly.
The forest did not greet the sun with birdsong or wind through leaves. Instead, it stirred like a wounded animal—alert, tense, remembering. Blake felt it the moment his eyes opened. The air pressed against his skin differently, as if the land itself had been listening all night.
Alder Rowan sat across the dying embers of the fire, unmoving.
He had not slept.
Neither had Blake.
The pack lingered nearby in uneasy clusters, pretending to rest while watching the old man from the corners of their eyes. They had felt the weight of his arrival. They could smell history on him—old magic, old guilt, and something else beneath it all.
Fear.
Blake rose slowly, stretching his shoulders. His towering frame cast a long shadow across the clearing as he approached Alder.
"You said you came to help," Blake said. "That means there's more you haven't told me."
Alder nodded once. "Yes."
The simplicity of the answer made Blake's jaw tighten.
"Then start talking," Blake said. "Before I lose patience."
Alder's single clear eye flicked briefly to the pack.
"This concerns them too," Alder said.
Blake turned and raised his voice. "All of you. Come closer."
The wolves hesitated—then obeyed.
They formed a loose semicircle around the fire, eyes sharp, ears forward. Ryn sat at Blake's right. Lyr at his left. Younger wolves lingered behind, anxious but curious.
Blake remained standing.
Alder stayed seated.
"I didn't just know your parents," Alder began quietly. "I was one of the elders who advised them."
A low growl rippled through the pack.
Blake said nothing.
"When you were born," Alder continued, "it was immediately clear you were different. Not cursed. Not broken. Layered."
Blake's fingers flexed.
"You carried more than one bloodline," Alder said. "Dragon fire from your mother. Something older—feral, primal—from your father. And beneath that… something else."
The forest seemed to lean closer.
"What?" Blake asked.
Alder hesitated.
Blake's voice dropped. "What."
Alder exhaled slowly. "A third inheritance. One that was not meant to manifest naturally."
Ryn's ears flattened. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," Alder said, "that someone interfered."
Silence shattered into snarls.
Blake felt his chest tighten, rage coiling sharp and fast.
"You're saying I was made," Blake said.
"No," Alder corrected quickly. "You were guided—before birth."
Blake took a step forward. The ground cracked faintly beneath his weight.
"Who," Blake growled, "touched my life before I ever had a choice?"
Alder closed his eyes.
"The Continuum."
The name hit the clearing like a blade.
Lyr snarled openly now. "They did this to him before he was even born?"
"Yes," Alder said. "Your mother was approached while pregnant. They offered protection. Knowledge. Control."
Blake's laugh was hollow and dangerous. "And she believed them."
"She was afraid," Alder said. "They showed her visions—of you losing control, of villages burning, of you killing your own family."
The pack murmured angrily.
"So they convinced her I was a threat," Blake said. "Before I even took my first breath."
"Yes."
Blake turned away, staring into the trees.
"For years," he said quietly, "I thought they abandoned me because I was weak."
He looked back.
"They abandoned me because they were cowards."
Alder did not argue.
"What did you hide from me?" Blake demanded.
Alder reached into his coat again. This time, he pulled out a small, dark object wrapped in cloth.
"My shame," Alder said.
He unwrapped it.
It was a collar.
Old. Broken. Inscribed with runes Blake recognized instantly.
Continuum control sigils.
The pack recoiled.
"They made this for you," Alder said. "To bind your transformations. To limit your power. To command you."
Blake stared at it.
"They planned to retrieve you once you stabilized," Alder continued. "Once you were tame."
Blake's claws extended involuntarily.
"And you," Blake said slowly. "You helped them."
Alder bowed his head. "I did."
The pack erupted.
Growls, snarls, voices overlapping.
"You sold him!"
"You let them hunt him!"
"You let him suffer!"
Blake raised one hand.
The noise died instantly.
He stepped closer to Alder, looming over him like judgment itself.
"Why are you still alive?" Blake asked softly.
Alder met his gaze. "Because I broke the final order."
Blake frowned. "Explain."
"They ordered me to track you after your first full transformation," Alder said. "To report your location."
Blake remembered that night—blood, pain, screams tearing from his throat.
"I found you," Alder said. "Barely alive. Alone."
Blake's breath caught despite himself.
"You didn't take me," Blake said.
"No," Alder replied. "I burned the report. Lied to the council. And vanished."
Blake stared at him.
"You could have helped me," Blake said. "You could have stayed."
Alder's voice broke. "I was a coward."
The honesty cut deeper than excuses ever could.
The pack was silent now.
Ryn spoke carefully. "Alpha… what does this mean for you?"
Blake didn't answer right away.
Instead, he knelt.
Not in submission.
In grounding.
"I spent my life believing my existence was a mistake," Blake said quietly. "That I was something the world didn't want."
He looked at Alder.
"But now I know the truth."
The pack leaned closer.
"They feared what I could become," Blake said. "Not because I was evil—but because I couldn't be owned."
A low murmur of agreement rippled through the wolves.
Lyr stepped forward. "You protected us without chains," she said. "That matters."
Blake nodded slowly.
Alder watched him with something like awe.
"You've surpassed everything they feared," Alder said. "And everything they hoped."
Blake stood again.
"But you didn't tell me everything," Blake said. "There's still something you're holding back."
Alder's shoulders sagged.
"Yes."
Blake's eyes narrowed. "Say it."
Alder swallowed. "Your parents are alive."
The world stopped.
Blake did not breathe.
The pack froze.
"What," Blake whispered.
"They didn't abandon you to die," Alder said quickly. "They were forced to leave you."
Blake's voice shook. "You said they walked away."
"They did," Alder said. "Because the Continuum promised to kill you if they stayed."
Rage exploded outward—trees shuddered, the ground cracked.
"Where," Blake roared, "ARE THEY?"
Alder raised his hands. "Hidden. Watched. Broken."
Blake turned away, fists clenched, chest heaving.
All these years.
All that hate.
Alder spoke softly behind him. "They've lived every day believing you died hating them."
Blake laughed—raw, fractured.
"Good," he said. "Now they know how it feels."
The pack shifted uncertainly.
Ryn spoke gently. "Alpha… what will you do?"
Blake closed his eyes.
Images flashed—Sam crying in the snow, Blake tearing hunters apart, the pack huddled together in warmth and loyalty.
"I don't know," Blake said honestly. "But I know this—"
He opened his eyes.
"The past doesn't own me anymore."
He looked at the pack.
"You know who I was," Blake said. "You know what I became. If that changes how you see me—"
Ryn stepped forward immediately. "It doesn't."
Lyr nodded. "You survived what should have killed you."
Others voiced agreement.
"You're ours."
"You chose us."
Blake's throat tightened.
Alder watched, tears streaking his weathered face.
"This," Alder whispered, "is what they feared most."
Blake turned back to him.
"You don't get forgiveness yet," Blake said. "But you'll help me dismantle the Continuum."
Alder bowed deeply. "Gladly."
Blake looked toward the forest horizon.
The truth had come.
And it hadn't broken him.
It had sharpened him.