Chapter 214

The wolf girls wanted to go outside.

They had shifted only days ago, and the novelty of their new human forms had not yet worn off. They wanted to run in the yard, to play in the grass, to chase their brothers and sisters and feel the sun on their faces. They wanted the world, and they wanted it now.

"Mama," Vaeshira pleaded, tugging at my tunic with her small hand. "Mama, we go outside. Please."

"Outside," Nyselle echoed, her silver eyes bright, the blue specks within them glittering with hope.

"Outside," I agreed. "But only if you promise me something."

"Promise?" Vaeshira asked, her brow furrowing.

"Yes. A promise. A very important one." I knelt down to their level, taking each of their little hands in mine. "You must promise never to shift unless you are around family. And never, ever to go outside in your man form."

The girls did not understand. They frowned, their little brows drawn, their mouths set in stubborn lines. They had seen their older siblings play outside all day in their man forms, had watched them run and race and laugh in the sun, and they wanted the same. They did not see why they should be any different.

"Why?" Vaeshira demanded.

"Because it is dangerous," I said. "You are special, my loves. You and your sisters. Your eyes, your hair, the light in your blood. There are bad people in this world who would covet you. Who would take you if they could. And if they see you in your man form, if they see how beautiful you are and how abnormally fast you shifted, they might try."

The girls looked at each other, wide-eyed.

So I called for help.

Levy came first, then Seraya, Nyssara, and Elira, the four of them gathering around their little sisters with the patient authority of older siblings who had lived this very lesson themselves. Levy knelt down, taking Vaeshira’s hands in hers.

"It is true," she said gently. "I remember when we first shifted. We were not allowed outside either. Not in our man form. Mama was so scared, so anxious, because she knew we could be seen. And if we were seen, we could be in danger."

"We had to stay inside," Seraya added, her voice soft and musical. "Or only shift when we were with family. And outside, we stayed in our animal forms, where no one would look twice at us."

Nyssara and Elira nodded, their green hair swaying, their emerald eyes kind. "It is not forever," Elira said. "Only until we are older. Until the time when we were supposed to shift naturally. Until we are strong enough to protect ourselves."

"But if we do not listen," Nyssara said, "Mama will worry herself sick. She will not sleep. She will be scared every moment we are out of her sight. Because she loves us. And because we could end up with an enemy and be in danger."

The wolf girls looked at each other, considering. Then they looked at me, then at their sisters, then back at the door. They wanted to argue. They wanted to run. But something in the older girls’ patient certainty, in the weight of the promise, convinced them.

"We promise," Vaeshira said solemnly.

"We promise," Nyselle echoed.

And then, reluctantly, they shifted back.

Their little bodies blurred, the human forms melting away, the silver fur returning, the tails sprouting. Within moments, two silver pups stood where two little girls had been, their eyes still holding those blue specks, their tails wagging despite their disappointment. And with a happy yelp, they bounded over to their brothers, who was already waiting in the yard, and the all of them tumbled into the grass together, wrestling and rolling, playing in the way that only pups could.

And then Levy started to sing.

It was a simple song, one of the ones I had taught her, a melody about the sea and the stars and coming home. She sang it softly at first, almost to herself, her black hair falling across her face, her voice rising and falling like the tide. And the yard fell silent around her.

The wolf pups stopped their wrestling. The serpent girls stopped their dancing. The cheetah cubs froze mid-chase. And from the edge of the yard, where the fence met the forest path, heads began to appear.

Theo appeared first.

He had been out helping the islanders again, his hands dirty, his tunic streaked with mud, and he had been walking past on his way home when the song caught him. He stopped dead in the path, his eyes widening, his whole body going still. He had never heard her sing. Not properly. Not like this. When she had practiced before, he had always been away, always busy, always somewhere else. Now, for the first time, he heard her, and he was utterly, completely transfixed.

And he was not alone.

Lark appeared next, drawn from his own path by the same sound. Then Jisep, a boy from the village who had been following Levy with his eyes for weeks. Then Finn, the freckled red-haired boy who had once walked into a tree watching the serpent girls. Then more. A small crowd of children and young males, all of them gathered at the fence, all of them staring, all of them silent, all of them mesmerized.

Levy, oblivious as ever, sang on.

And my daughter, my fierce, stubborn, impossible daughter, had done it again. She had mesmerized them all, without trying, without knowing, without a single thought for the effect she had. She simply sang, and the world stopped to listen.

I watched it happen, my heart swelling, and thought, not for the first time, that my daughters were going to be an absolute menace to the males of the world.

Theo stood closest, his eyes fixed on her, his mouth slightly open. Lark stood just behind him, his expression soft and wistful. And behind them, Jisep and Finn and half a dozen others, all wearing the same dazed, enchanted look.

Levy finished the song, and the yard erupted in applause.

She jumped, startled, looking around as though she had forgotten anyone else existed. Then her cheeks flushed, and she ducked her head, suddenly shy.

"I did not know you were there," she mumbled.

"We know," Theo said, his voice warm.

"You are very good," Lark added.

Levy looked at him, then at Theo, then at the crowd of boys at the fence, and her face went redder.

"You should sing more often," Jisep called out.

"Yes," Finn agreed. "Much more often."

And Levy, my fierce, confident daughter, looked at the ground and smiled, and did not say a word. The boys would remember this moment. All of them. The day they heard her sing. My daughter, for all her brilliance, had no idea what she had just done.

And as if drawn by some invisible pull, they shuffled, murmured, glanced at one another, and then, one by one, they drifted closer, hoping, praying, that she might sing again. Jisep found a spot by the fence. Finn perched on the low wall. Lark hovered at the edge, pretending to be casual. And Theo, just went back inside the house to help clear some clutter while eyeing Levy.

And then Leon intervened.

"Enough," he announced, striding across the yard, his black eyes narrowing at the gathering of young males. "You have heard her sing. She is tired. Now go home."

"She does not look tired," Jisep protested.

"She is tired," Leon repeated, and the tone of his voice left no room for argument.

The boys grumbled, but they obeyed, shuffling off down the path, casting longing glances over their shoulders. And Leon stood in the middle of the yard like a sentinel, arms crossed, watching them go.

"You are a menace," I told him.

"I am a father," he corrected.

Outside, I watched Veylan gather the wolf boys for a hunt.

"Come," he said, his voice firm but warm. "You are old enough now. You will learn to provide. You will learn to protect."

The three wolf boys, Zhaevren, Kyrveth, and Orsael, bounded after him with eager yelps, their tails high, their chests puffed with importance. Eryx joined them, laughing at their antics, and the five of them disappeared into the trees, the boys trying desperately to imitate their fathers’ strides, to match their steps, to look big and strong and dangerous.

They looked ridiculous. They looked adorable. And I watched them until the trees swallowed them whole, my heart full, my eyes a little wet.

And then there was Atlas.

He emerged from the house wearing the new winter fur I had made him, and my heart actually stopped.

Gods above, my son was handsome. The fur was dark and thick, the collar high, the cut broad across his shoulders, and it suited him perfectly, making him look like the warrior prince he was becoming. His golden hair fell across his amber eyes, his jaw was sharp, his body tall and strong, and he stood there in the doorway with an easy confidence that made my chest ache.

"It is very warm, Mama," he said, smiling.

"I finished yours with your brothers," I said, my voice a little thick. "And your fathers. I still need to work on your siblings. But I am glad you like it."

"Mama," he said, and his smile softened, "I love everything you make us."

My sweet hearted boy.

I reached up and cupped his face, my thumb brushing his cheek. He let me, even leaned into it, and for a moment, he was not a nearly grown warrior. He was my firstborn, my Atlas, the tiny cub who had fit in the crook of my arm, the one who had taught me how to be a mother.

"You are so handsome," I said. "Do you know that? You are going to break hearts."

He groaned. "Mama."

"You are."

"Everyone says that. It is exhausting."

"Get used to it."

He sighed, long-suffering, and I laughed and pulled him into a hug. He hugged me back, hard, the way he always did, as though he was still small enough to need me. And I held him, my beautiful boy, and thanked the gods for every single day I had with him.