Night settles slowly, the forest beyond the cave mouth dissolving into shadow. Firelight flickers low and steady, painting the stone walls in amber and gold. I sit curled beneath the furs, knees drawn close, watching the flames rise and fall as if they breathe.

  My body feels quieter tonight. Not calm, exactly. But held. Like something inside me has chosen to listen instead of claw.

  Across the fire, Azrael sits with his back against the stone. The book rests beside him, just within reach. I have tried not to look at it. Tonight, I fail.

  Something about it pulls at me. Not curiosity alone. Recognition.

  “You’re quiet,” he says at last.

  “I’m thinking.”

  “That can be dangerous.”

  I huff softly. “So I’ve been told.”

  Silence settles again, not awkward, not strained. Comfortable in a way that makes me restless. Before I can lose my nerve, I speak.

  “You once said there are stories about wolves like me.”

  He stills.

  “Stories,” I continue, voice careful. “The kind meant to frighten pups. Or justify things that shouldn’t be justified.”

  His gaze lifts to mine, unreadable. “Yes.”

  “What else do these stories say?”

  He leans back slightly, shoulders touching stone. “They’re told by those who fear what they cannot control.”

  I wait.

  “They claim wolves like you are weak,” he goes on. “Too emotional. Ruled by instinct rather than reason.”

  “That’s generous of them,” I mutter.

  “No,” he agrees quietly. “It never is.”

  “They say such wolves exist to serve,” he continues. “To strengthen bloodlines. To be claimed. Traded. Used as leverage between packs.”

  My stomach twists. “That’s barbaric.”

  “It’s convenient,” he corrects calmly. “And convenience has a way of dressing itself up as tradition.”

  My gaze drifts to the book at his side. “Are those stories in there?”

  He follows my look and exhales. “That is a collection of folklore. Old legends. Things most believe no longer matter.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  A faint smile touches his mouth. “You’re observant.”

  “When I touched it before,” I say slowly, “it felt… familiar. Like the words were pressing back.”

  His eyes sharpen. “You shouldn’t assign meaning to ink and parchment.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” I insist. “It just happened.”

  He studies me for a long moment before looking away. “Legends survive because people want them to be true. That does not make them so.”

  “But they don’t come from nothing.”

  “No,” he admits. “They come from fear.”

  “You read it often.”

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  “Sometimes.”

  I hesitate. Then, “May I see it?”

  The pause is brief, but it’s there. Long enough for my pulse to quicken.

  Azrael rises and crosses the space between us. Instead of handing the book to me immediately, he sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that I feel the warmth of him through the furs. He places the book in my hands carefully, like something that might wake if handled poorly.

  The leather is worn smooth, warm beneath my fingers. Old. Loved. I open it slowly, breathing in the scent of age and ink.

  The script is intricate, elegant. Margins filled with notes in his hand. I turn pages carefully until something stops me.

  “This page,” I murmur.

  A soft buzzing stirs beneath my skin, crawling up my arms.

  Azrael leans closer despite himself.

  “The bookmark is gone,” I whisper. “You had this page marked.”

  “Not anymore,” he says quietly.

  “There’s something about it,” I breathe. The words feel like a half-remembered song, humming just beneath understanding.

  I mouth the text silently at first. My lips form shapes before my mind catches up.

  “Lirian.”

  “I’m just reading,” I say, though my voice sounds distant even to me.

  I reach the final line.

  The translation beside it is missing.

  “What does this one say?” I ask softly.

  He looks down. Then away. “I don’t know.”

  My breath catches.

  I study the symbols again. They seem to shift, the meaning unfolding behind my eyes like something waking.

  And then I speak.

  “If bound by force, she will burn the land.

  If left untamed, none shall stand.”

  The cave goes utterly still.

  Azrael turns sharply toward me. “You shouldn’t be able to read that.”

  “I didn’t know I could.”

  Something sharp and wary flickers in his gaze. “Legends reveal themselves when they sense readiness.”

  “The last time I touched this book,” I say quietly, “something happened. I wasn’t sick. I wasn’t hurt. I just felt… uneasy. Like I was standing too close to something vast.”

  He listens.

  “There are truths,” he says finally, “that resist being understood all at once. Legends like this pull at those who stand adjacent to them.”

  “Could it help?” I ask. “With my control?”

  “Maybe,” he answers honestly. “But not yet.”

  Disappointment and relief tangle in my chest.

  “For now,” he adds gently, “small steps.”

  I close the book and hand it back.

  He takes it. Does not move away.

  The air feels tight. Aware.

  “I’m going to bathe,” I say abruptly.

  Steam curls thick in the bathing chamber as I slip into the water, letting heat ease the ache still lingering in my bones.

  If my scent can unsettle a pack, then it isn’t just instinct.

  It’s influence. Compulsion, as he called it.

  When I rise, I wrap a fur around myself loosely. Intentionally.

  “Azrael?” I call out in a distressful tone.

  Footsteps answer too quickly.

  I pass him slowly, letting my shoulder brush close enough to test the air.

  His breath catches.

  Just once.

  Confirmation.

  His hands curl into fists. He turns away sharply.

  “What are you doing?” he snaps. “Get dressed.”

  “You said it doesn’t affect you.”

  “It doesn’t,” he answers too fast. “Not the way it affects others.”

  “But it does something.”

  Silence.

  “That is enough for tonight,” he says finally.

  I retreat to the bed, heart pounding.

  I did not cross the line.

  But I touched it.

  And as sleep pulls me under, one truth settles deep and undeniable.

  Whatever I am becoming is no longer contained within me.

  It reaches outward.

  And for the first time, that does not frighten me.

  It makes me feel…powerful.