Night wrapped the forest in silence so complete it felt deliberate.
Blake sat at the edge of the cliff, his massive form unmoving as the stars slowly emerged above him. Below, the city glimmered faintly, distant and fragile. He watched it the way one watches a memory—present, but unreachable.
Behind him, the pack slept.
They trusted him enough to rest.
That knowledge weighed heavier than any crown.
Alder Rowan approached without announcing himself. His footsteps were soft, careful, respectful. He stopped several paces away and did not sit until Blake spoke.
"You're still awake," Blake said.
Alder nodded. "So are you."
Blake exhaled slowly. "I always am."
They sat in silence for a long time, the fire between them reduced to embers. The forest breathed around them—leaves rustling, insects humming, the deep, old pulse of something that had existed long before either of them.
Blake finally spoke.
"Earlier," he said, voice low, steady, "when I asked you if I could turn back into a human… you didn't say everything."
Alder did not deny it.
"No," Alder said quietly. "I didn't."
Blake turned his head slightly, one amber eye catching the starlight.
"Then say it now."
Alder's hands folded together in his lap. He looked older in the firelight than he had before—older, and smaller somehow.
"There may be a way," Alder said carefully.
Blake's breath caught despite himself.
"You already said that," Blake replied. "You also said it would tear me apart."
"Yes," Alder said. "If done blindly."
Blake turned fully now, towering even while seated.
"I don't do blind anymore," Blake said. "I do truth."
Alder nodded slowly.
"The Continuum," Alder began, "did not invent transformation. They studied it. Catalogued it. Twisted it."
Blake listened, unmoving.
"But long before them," Alder continued, "there were Keepers. Scribes. Beings whose sole purpose was to preserve balance between form and identity."
Blake frowned. "Balance."
"Yes," Alder said. "Not dominance. Not suppression. Balance."
Alder reached into his coat.
The pack stirred faintly at the movement, but Blake lifted a hand without looking back. They settled instantly.
Alder withdrew nothing at first—only air.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached deeper, into a hidden inner pocket, and pulled free a wrapped bundle bound in faded leather straps.
The object felt heavy even from where Blake sat.
"What is that?" Blake asked.
Alder did not answer immediately.
He unwrapped the leather carefully, reverently, as one might uncover a sleeping thing.
Inside was a book.
Not large. Not ornate.
But old.
Its cover was dark, not from dye but from age, etched with faint symbols that shifted when Blake tried to focus on them. The leather seemed to breathe—not visibly, but felt, as though it remembered being alive.
Blake felt it before Alder spoke.
The book recognized him.
"What is that?" Blake repeated, more quietly.
Alder swallowed. "It is called The Codex of Returning Paths."
The name echoed.
Blake's claws flexed involuntarily.
"This book," Alder said, "was written for beings who exist between states. Not cursed ones. Chosen ones."
Blake laughed once, bitter. "I wasn't chosen."
Alder met his gaze. "You survived. That counts."
Blake stared at the book.
"You said I became what I am permanently," Blake said. "That my form was foundational."
"It is," Alder agreed. "But foundation does not mean prison."
Blake's voice dropped. "Explain."
Alder placed the book gently between them.
"This codex does not change the body," Alder said. "It teaches the mind to remember itself."
Blake frowned. "Remember what?"
"What it was before it learned fear," Alder said softly.
Blake went still.
"By reading this book," Alder continued, "by understanding and speaking its passages—not aloud, but internally—you could learn to call your human form back."
Blake's heart thundered.
"And return to this?" Blake gestured to his towering body.
"Yes," Alder said. "At will."
Silence exploded in Blake's mind.
"You're saying," Blake said slowly, carefully, "that I could choose."
"Yes."
Blake stood abruptly, pacing in a tight circle.
"That's not possible," Blake said. "If it were, the Continuum—"
"They couldn't use it," Alder interrupted. "The book does not obey control. Only consent."
Blake stopped pacing.
"Consent," Blake repeated.
Alder nodded. "You cannot force the transformation. You must accept both forms fully."
Blake laughed harshly. "That's the problem. I hate this form."
Alder shook his head. "No. You hate what the world did to you through this form."
Blake said nothing.
"The codex does not erase what you are," Alder continued. "It allows you to step between."
Blake's voice was hoarse. "What's the cost?"
Alder did not hesitate this time.
"Memory."
Blake's eyes narrowed. "Meaning."
"Each time you shift using the codex," Alder said, "you will feel everything more clearly. Human emotion will not be dulled by strength. Wolf instinct will not be softened by reason."
Blake absorbed this.
"You will not forget pain," Alder said. "You will not forget kindness. You will not forget rage."
Blake let out a slow breath. "That's not a cost. That's my life."
Alder smiled sadly. "Exactly."
Blake stared at the book again.
"Why didn't you give this to me sooner?" Blake asked quietly.
Alder's shoulders sagged.
"Because it was forbidden," Alder said. "Because the elders feared what you would become if you learned to choose."
Blake's voice hardened. "They feared losing control."
"Yes."
Blake knelt and reached toward the book—but stopped inches away.
"If I read it," Blake said, "what happens to the pack?"
Alder shook his head. "Nothing changes unless you change."
Blake closed his eyes.
"What if I choose wrong?" Blake asked. "What if I become human and decide I don't want this life anymore?"
Alder's voice was gentle. "Then you will still be responsible for it."
Blake laughed softly. "Figures."
He opened his eyes.
"I don't want to abandon them," Blake said. "I won't."
Alder nodded. "Then don't."
Blake stared at the forest.
"All my life," Blake said quietly, "I wanted to belong somewhere. And now I do."
He looked back at Alder.
"And now you're telling me I could walk away."
"No," Alder said. "I'm telling you that you could visit the other side—and return stronger."
Blake was silent for a long time.
Finally, he asked, "Why are you giving me this now?"
Alder met his gaze. "Because the world is about to test you in ways brute strength cannot answer."
Blake nodded slowly.
"The Continuum," Blake murmured.
"Yes."
Blake picked up the book.
The moment his fingers touched it, the symbols on the cover stilled.
Recognized.
Accepted.
Blake's breath shuddered.
"It's warm," he said.
Alder smiled faintly. "It always is, to those who belong between."
Blake closed the book and held it against his chest.
"For the first time," Blake said quietly, "I don't feel trapped."
Alder's eyes shone.
"But I'm afraid," Blake admitted.
"Good," Alder replied. "Fear keeps choice honest."
Blake stood and looked out over the cliff again.
"If I learn this," Blake said, "I won't use it to hide."
Alder nodded. "Then you're worthy of it."
Blake turned back.
"Stay," Blake said. "Teach me how to read it."
Alder bowed his head deeply. "With my life."
The fire flared softly as if in agreement.
Behind them, the forest listened.
And somewhere deep within Blake Black, the boy named Sam stirred—not in pain, but in possibility.