Chapter 116 – What Comes After
The battlefield smelled of blood and ash. The air was thick with smoke and sorrow, every breeze carrying with it the echo of lives lost and bonds severed. Rowan held Charlie against his chest, her breathing finally beginning to even out, though the occasional tremble still rippled through her frame. Giselle stayed pressed at his side, one of her hands gripping his tightly as if letting go might unravel the world all over again. Liam and Luther stood behind Charlie like shadows, ever watchful, ever steady.
A crunch of boots on stone and grass broke the stillness.
Rowan turned his head as Kalen approached, his face drawn, blood spattered across one side of his jaw. Dirt smeared his neck, and there was a gash above his right eye that looked hastily bandaged, but the way he moved—the tight focus in his steps—was pure warrior.
Kalen’s sharp gaze swept over Rowan, pausing briefly on Charlie in his arms, Giselle leaning into him, and the two silent males behind them. His shoulders loosened slightly when he saw Rowan alive and conscious.
He gave a short nod. “Alpha.”
Rowan nodded back, though the word felt heavy now. He didn’t feel like much of an Alpha in this moment—just a man holding on to what he almost lost.
“Glad to see you breathing,” Kalen added gruffly.
“Barely,” Rowan rasped with a ghost of a smirk. “But I’ll take it.”
Kalen’s expression didn’t shift much, but his eyes flickered with quiet relief. Then his voice turned all business. “What are your orders?”
Rowan looked around the valley—at the broken bodies scattered through the battlefield, at the warriors moving in slow, shocked movements, waiting, lost in the silence that followed chaos. He felt each gap in his chest like an open wound—packmates whose links had gone cold, whose voices had gone quiet.
His jaw clenched, the pain in his ribs flaring as he straightened just enough to project his voice.
“We find our dead,” he said, voice low but firm. “We bring them home. Their families deserve to bury them.”
Kalen’s eyes darkened, but he nodded without hesitation. “Understood.”
He turned immediately and began barking orders to the warriors gathering nearby, his voice cutting through the silence with the strength of a blade.
“Fan out in pairs! Mark the fallen—both ours and theirs. No one gets left behind!”
A few heads jerked up at the sound of his command, warriors blinking themselves out of the haze as they rushed to obey. Rowan watched them scatter, his heart heavy but steady. The worst was over.
The healing… would take longer.
He glanced down at Charlie, who had pulled back just enough to wipe her eyes, her hand still clenched in his shirt.
“Think you can stand?” he asked her gently.
Charlie nodded, though her bottom lip quivered. “Not far.”
“I’ve got you,” Liam murmured as he leaned forward to scoop her into his arms with practiced care. She didn’t resist, resting her head against his shoulder with a sigh.
Giselle didn’t speak, but her gaze met his—strong, steady, and full of pain that matched his own. Her thumb brushed over the back of his hand, grounding him.
He drew in a shaky breath and leaned into her just a little more.
The ache in Rowan’s body had settled into something sharp and insistent, biting deeper with every breath. His ribs screamed, his back throbbed, and every limb felt like it was made of fractured stone, but none of it mattered. He was alive. Giselle was alive. Charlie. The pack.
That had to be enough for now.
Footsteps approached again, heavy and measured. Rowan didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Luther.
Without a word, the male knelt at his side, extending a hand. Rowan hesitated only a second before grasping it, gritting his teeth as Luther helped pull him to his feet. Pain roared up his spine like fire licking bone, his vision going momentarily black around the edges, but he didn’t falter. Not here. Not in front of the pack that had bled for him.
As he found his balance, a wooden cart rolled into view, creaking under the strain of its wheels. Two warriors brought it to a stop nearby, clearly expecting him to climb in. The sight of it nearly sent Rowan to his knees again—it would have been so easy, so tempting to just collapse into it and let someone else carry the weight for a while.
But he couldn’t.
“No,” Rowan rasped, shaking his head. “Use it for the dead. They’ve earned the ride home more than I have.”
One of the warriors opened his mouth to protest, but Rowan cut him off with a firm, Alpha look. The warrior swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, Alpha.”
Giselle stepped closer, her eyes wide and full of worry, clearly about to argue. “Rowan—” she started, her voice tight.
But something in his expression must have silenced her. Her mouth closed, lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t like it. He could feel her frustration like sparks brushing his skin. But she respected it.
She would walk with him instead.
Luther moved to Rowan’s left, slipping an arm around his back, careful of the wounds that still bled sluggishly through the dried paste Avella had smeared over them. Giselle shifted to his right, sliding under his arm and wrapping an arm around his waist.
Together, they bore his weight, step by agonizing step, guiding him across the blood-soaked earth and the torn bodies of wolves that had fought, killed, and died for something greater than themselves.
Rowan didn’t look away from them. He forced himself to witness every face, every fallen warrior, imprinting them into memory. He owed them that much.
As the valley faded behind them and the tree line drew closer, Rowan could feel the gravity of it all pressing into his bones—the battle, the death, the sacrifice.
But he could also feel the strength at his sides.
One, his mate. The other, the mate of his sister. Both refusing to let him fall.
And for the first time since waking up in that battlefield haze, Rowan let himself hope.
They would survive this.
They would rebuild.
And they would rise stronger than before.
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