The rest of the day passed in a blur of tense preparation and palpable unease. True to Kaelith's strategy, Tal delivered the message to Elder Ronan, carefully framing their departure as a necessary reconnaissance mission spurred by the Ashfang incursion near White River and Lunrik's 'agitation' linked to his Stigma reacting to the southern turmoil. As expected, Ronan was deeply displeased. His gruff voice could be heard rumbling from the council fire circle later that afternoon, likely expressing his disapproval of two pack members venturing into such known danger, especially the marked omega whose stability seemed increasingly precarious.
But Kaelith had judged correctly. Ronan, pragmatic despite his traditionalism, understood the threat Kaedor represented. Reliable intelligence on Ashfang strength and movements was valuable, even if the impetus came from an unexpected source. Kaelith's standing as a top hunter and Faelan's granddaughter likely tipped the balance. While no formal blessing was given, no active prohibition was issued either. They were allowed to proceed, effectively on their own recognizance, their survival now their own responsibility beyond the immediate pack's protection.
Lunrik kept mostly to the dwelling he shared with Kaelith, avoiding the questioning or pitying glances of the other Dravenwolfs. He felt like an imposter, accepting nods of grim encouragement meant for a troubled packmate undertaking a dangerous but necessary task, while Alaric's ghost seethed with impatience and plotted strategies far beyond simple scouting. He sharpened his knife until the edge gleamed, checked the simple bindings on his furs, and tried to focus Lunrik's Dravenwolf memories of survival skills – knot tying, spoor identification, navigating by stars – pushing down Alaric's ingrained knowledge of siege tactics and royal genealogies.
Kaelith worked with relentless efficiency. She gathered the promised supplies: densely packed rations, flint and steel wrapped in waterproof hide, potent herbal mixtures for wound dressing and pain relief prepared by Elder Maeve (who likely tutted disapprovingly but provided them anyway out of concern for Kaelith), climbing rope braided from tough mountain goat sinew, extra arrowheads, and thick winter cloaks lined with rabbit fur. She moved with purpose, her actions betraying none of the inner conflict Lunrik suspected she might feel. Her faith, once given, was apparently absolute in its practical application.
As dusk fell, she sat across the small hearth from him, meticulously applying a waterproofing grease to their boots. The flickering firelight cast dancing shadows on her focused face, highlighting the strong line of her jaw, the determined set of her mouth. An awkward silence stretched between them, different from their usual comfortable quiet. The decision made, the die cast, left unspoken questions hanging in the smoky air.
"You're sure about this, Lunrik?" Kaelith asked suddenly, her voice soft, not breaking the rhythm of her work. It wasn't a question challenging his decision, more a quiet probing of his resolve, perhaps seeking reassurance.
He met her gaze across the flickering flames. "I have to be," he answered truthfully. Staying felt like slow suffocation, letting the ghost win through apathy. Going south felt like leaping into fire, but at least it was action. "Kaedor… someone needs to see what he's truly doing. Someone needs to know if others with the Stigma… if they're safe." He carefully omitted any mention of Velryn or personal vengeance.
Kaelith nodded slowly, accepting his stated reasons, though her eyes held a lingering depth, suggesting she sensed the currents running beneath his words. "The Frostmane lands are harsh this time of year," she said, shifting to practicalities. "Snow will be deep in the passes leading south from White River. If Eryndor survived the attack and the elements…" She let the thought hang.
"If he survived, he'll need help," Lunrik finished grimly. "And if he didn't… finding out what happened is still important."
"And if the Ashfang find us?" she countered reasonably.
"Then we use Faelan's teachings," Lunrik replied, tapping into the Dravenwolf skills his grandfather – her grandfather – had drilled into both of them during their shared youth. "We become shadows. We observe. We only engage if absolutely necessary." It sounded convincing, even to himself, though Alaric's ghost chafed at the thought of mere evasion.
Kaelith finished the boots and set them aside. She looked at him again, a long, searching look. Then, she seemed to arrive at some internal decision. She reached into a pouch at her belt and drew out something small, wrapped in soft deerhide.
"My grandfather gave me this when I first took the hunter's oath," she said, carefully unwrapping it. Nestled in the hide was a small, smooth amulet carved from dark, petrified wood, shaped like a stylized wolf head, its eyes inlaid with tiny chips of what looked like amber. It felt… old. Ancient. "Faelan said it holds a whisper of the old pack spirit, a focus for clarity and protection when the path is dark." She held it out to him. "You should carry it."
Lunrik stared at the amulet, then at her outstretched hand. It was a deeply personal totem, likely one of her most treasured possessions, imbued with ancestral significance and the connection to their shared mentor. Offering it to him… it was a profound gesture of faith, far exceeding simple pack loyalty. It acknowledged the danger he faced, the darkness she sensed in him, and offered protection nonetheless.
He hesitated, feeling unworthy. Alaric's pride warred with Lunrik's burgeoning humility. But refusing would wound her deeply, invalidate the trust she was placing in him. Slowly, carefully, he took the amulet. The wood felt strangely warm, almost alive, humming with a faint, resonant energy that seemed to soothe the jagged edges of Alaric's ghost within him for a brief moment.
"Thank you, Kaelith," he said, his voice thick with unexpected emotion. He secured the amulet beneath his tunic, feeling its smooth surface rest against his skin, a different kind of warmth than the phantom echo of the lost Hearthseed Locket. This felt like borrowed strength, freely given.
She simply nodded, then rose. "Get some sleep. We leave before the true dawn."
Sleep, when it came, was restless, filled with fragmented dreams – Kaedor's laughing face, Velryn's cunning smile, the cold darkness of the void, contrasted with flashes of running through sun-dappled forests beside a younger Kaelith, the scent of pine sharp and clean, Faelan's quiet voice explaining the language of tracks in the mud. He woke long before the first hint of light touched the eastern sky, the echoes of both lives swirling within him.
Kaelith was already awake, her pack secured, her bow slung across her back. She handed him his pack wordlessly. They moved out of the hovel into the pre-dawn chill. The camp was utterly silent, dark shapes huddled around dying embers. No one watched them leave.
They slipped past the outer perimeter like ghosts, melting into the dark, silent woods. The air was bitingly cold, carrying the promise of snow. Behind them lay the only home Lunrik consciously remembered, the flawed sanctuary that couldn't hold him. Ahead lay the vast, dangerous expanse of Lykandra under Kaedor's rule, fraught with enemies known and unknown, haunted by the specter of Alaric's past and the uncertainty of Lunrik's future.
As the first, pale grey light began to filter through the dense canopy, marking the true Dravenwolf dawn, Lunrik touched the amulet beneath his tunic. Kaelith walked silently beside him, her presence a steady anchor. He didn't know if they were walking towards salvation, information, or merely a different kind of doom. He only knew they were walking together, into the heart of the storm, guided by Kaelith's unshaken faith and the dangerous, fractured resolve of a ghost king wearing an omega's skin. The journey south had truly begun.