Kaelith stared at him, caught completely off guard by the sudden command, by the raw authority vibrating in Lunrik's voice – a tone so unlike the quiet, often troubled young man she'd grown up beside. Tal, the young scout, shuffled his feet nervously, eyes wide, clearly sensing the unexpected shift in dynamic. The request itself was madness. Leave the pack? Travel south, towards the Ashfang and the chaos? Towards a hunted, marked heir who was likely doomed? It defied every tenet of Dravenwolf survival.
"South?" Kaelith questioned, her voice sharp with disbelief, recovering quickly. "Lunrik, have you lost your senses? Ronan would never permit—"
"Ronan doesn't need to permit it," Lunrik cut her off, the flinty edge in his tone unmistakably Alaric, though Kaelith wouldn't place it as such. She just knew it wasn't Lunrik. "This isn't about permission. It's about necessity. Think, Kaelith! Kaedor just wiped out a Frostmane outpost. Now he hunts Eryndor. Who's next? Sylvra Darkwood? Vaelith Howlshade? Anyone with the Stigma who didn't bend the knee fast enough? He'll purge them all to secure his bloody throne."
He paced the small confines of the hovel, the contained energy radiating from him making the space feel even smaller. The usual omega caution was gone, replaced by a restless, almost predatory fire. Alaric's mind, freed by the jolt of purpose, was assessing, planning, seeing the strategic implications Kaedor consolidating power unopposed would have, not just for the cursed heirs, but for the entire kingdom, including the isolated northern clans eventually.
"We know Kaedor's brutality," Kaelith countered, trying to inject reason into his sudden fervor. "We know the curse drives them to slaughter. That is why we stay clear! It is not our fight, Lunrik. It never has been."
"Isn't it?" Lunrik rounded on her, his eyes blazing with an intensity that made her instinctively take half a step back. "Were those Ashfang patrols respecting our borders last moon? Is the smoke we smelled this morning from a friendly campfire? Kaedor's fire is spreading. Sooner or later, hiding won't be an option. They'll demand fealty, resources, or they'll simply roll over us because we represent a pocket of resistance, however passive." He lowered his voice slightly, leaning closer, the intensity undiminished. "And Eryndor… he's marked, yes, but he's running. Maybe he saw something at White River. Maybe he knows something about Kaedor's forces, his plans. Finding him isn't just saving one weakling; it's gathering intelligence. It's understanding the enemy."
He was spinning it tactically, Alaric's logic finding Dravenwolf hooks for Kaelith to grasp. It wasn't entirely manipulation; he did believe gathering information was crucial. But the deeper drive, the need to intervene, the visceral reaction against Kaedor's triumph built on Velryn's betrayal… that was something he couldn't articulate, something Kaelith wouldn't understand.
She watched him, her brow furrowed in troubled concentration. The change in him was profound, almost alarming. The haunted quietness had been replaced by a focused, dangerous energy. He spoke of strategy, of intelligence gathering, using logic that resonated with Dravenwolf pragmatism, yet his demeanor felt… foreign. Possessed, almost. The "two spirits fighting" she'd sensed before seemed to have reached a decision, and one of them was pulling him towards the fire, not away from it.
Was this the curse mark flaring up, pushing him towards irrational risk? Or was it something else? Something tied to the forgotten trauma she suspected lay buried beneath his fragmented memories? Her grandfather, Faelan, had taught her to trust her instincts, to read the subtle signs in the wild and within the pack. Her instincts now screamed that Lunrik was walking into mortal danger, dragging her with him based on reasoning that felt both logical and somehow… incomplete. Like a predator using familiar calls to lure prey into an unfamiliar trap.
Yet… she looked at his face, truly looked. Saw the fierce conviction burning through the usual guardedness, the desperation barely banked beneath the authoritative tone. Saw the Stigma pulsing faintly on the back of the hand he kept clenching and unclenching. Saw the friend she had tracked through forests with, shared first hunts with, sat in comfortable silence with for years, now seemingly tearing himself apart from the inside out. If she refused, if she let him walk south alone… could she live with that? If he was consumed by the curse's whispers or cut down by Ashfang patrols, would staying safe hold any meaning?
Her Dravenwolf loyalty warred with Dravenwolf caution. Her ingrained practicality wrestled with a deeper, fiercer protectiveness she couldn't easily name. She thought of her grandfather's lessons – sometimes the straight path is a trap, sometimes the detour into danger is the only route to survival, sometimes balance required leaning into the storm, not just weathering it.
She met Lunrik's intense gaze, her own resolving into decision. Doubt lingered, a cold knot in her gut, but loyalty won. Her faith, perhaps inexplicably, held. If this was the path he felt compelled to take, she wouldn't let him walk it alone. She had protected him since he was a child grappling with the Stigma's first confusing manifestations; she wouldn't abandon him now, even if he seemed possessed by a dangerous new spirit.
"Alright, Lunrik," she said, her voice quiet but firm, cutting through his restless energy. He stopped pacing, surprised by her swift capitulation. "You want to hunt shadows in the south? Fine." A flicker of her usual dry humor surfaced. "But you aren't doing it alone. Someone needs to make sure you don't get yourself killed in the first valley."
She straightened up, already shifting into practical planning mode. "We'll need proper winter gear, climbing ropes if we head near the foothills, double the rations, water purification herbs. Tal," she glanced at the still-startled scout, "tell Elder Ronan… tell him Lunrik's Stigma flares badly with the news. Tell him we track south to assess the Ashfang threat directly, gather intel near White River. Frame it as an extended, necessary scout mission. Emphasize the danger to the pack if Kaedor pushes further." She knew Ronan would resist, but presenting it as a reconnaissance vital for pack safety, rather than Lunrik's personal quest, offered the best chance of gaining his reluctant approval, or at least preventing him from actively forbidding it.
Tal nodded dumbly and scurried off to find the Elder.
Lunrik watched Kaelith, a complex wave of emotions washing over him – immense relief, stark terror at the responsibility he now bore for her safety, guilt over the deception, and a fierce surge of something akin to Alaric's grudging respect for competence. She hadn't just agreed; she had immediately taken practical command of the logistics, translating his impulsive declaration into a plausible mission. Her faith wasn't passive; it was active, protective, dangerously enabling.
"We leave at dawn tomorrow," Kaelith stated, already mentally cataloging their supplies. "Gives us time to pack properly, let Ronan fume, and perhaps glean more details from the trackers." She looked back at Lunrik, her gaze serious again. "Get some rest, Lunrik. Real rest. You'll need all your strength, and all your wits, where we're going."
He nodded, the Alaric command receding slightly, replaced by the quiet understanding that passed between them. She trusted him, despite everything. Her unshaken faith was both his shield and his heaviest burden as they prepared to step out of the grey dawn of their Dravenwolf life and into the blood-red sunrise of Kaedor's war-torn Lykandra.