Chapter 120 – At the Gates
The path to the northern gate was eerily quiet. Rowan’s feet pressed into the well-worn trail, each step resonating with the dull ache of half-healed injuries and the sharper sting of responsibility. His wolf stirred beneath the surface, restless but steady, like a sentry at his post.
Luther walked on Rowan’s left, a looming presence of muscle and stormy silence, while Giselle clung to his right, her arm gently braced around his waist, offering more support than Rowan would admit he needed.
They didn’t speak. The air was too thick for words, the weight of what awaited them anchoring every breath.
But as the tall gateposts crested into view beyond the trees, Rowan’s steps slowed.
“Enough,” he murmured, gently pulling himself from Giselle’s grasp. “Both of you—step back.”
Giselle’s head snapped toward him, confusion creasing her brow. “Rowan, you can barely—”
“I’ll walk the rest alone,” he said, voice firm. Not cruel. Not cold. Just resolute.
Luther didn’t argue. He simply nodded once and peeled away, falling back like the warrior he was. He understood the unspoken truth. The Alpha couldn’t approach the gate limping, leaning, held up by others. He had to walk—no, stand—as the symbol of his people. Unyielding. Alive. In control.
But Giselle… Giselle hesitated. Her hand lingered at his back, fingers twitching as if to grasp him again. Her beautiful eyes shimmered with the worry she didn’t voice, and every few paces, she shot him a look that made his heart twist.
Rowan didn’t meet her gaze. If he did, he might crumble.
He pushed through the ache, kept his spine straight, his chin high, even as pain licked up his side and across his ribs with every step. His skin itched under the stiff crust of dried blood and poultice, his muscles weak with exertion, but still—he walked.
A flicker of movement caught his eye just ahead. Elder Malric stood near the edge of the inner perimeter, his robes fluttering slightly in the breeze, a scowl set deep into his weathered face.
The old man stepped forward to meet him. “Rowan,” he greeted curtly, eyes scanning Rowan’s condition. “What is this about?”
Rowan didn’t slow. “Merek is at the gate.”
That stopped Malric in his tracks. His scowl faltered, brows knitting. “Merek?” he echoed, quiet and uncertain now.
“Yes,” Rowan said, the word like a hammer dropping.
Elder Malric went silent, the air around him stilling as if the very trees were listening. Whatever snide remark or skeptical challenge he had loaded on his tongue died right there. The name alone was enough to freeze him.
The gate loomed ahead, just beyond the trees. Kalen stood just inside it, watchful and waiting, the tension in his stance visible even from this distance. And somewhere beyond that wood and iron… Merek waited.
Rowan squared his shoulders and pushed forward.
The wind carried the scent of ash and damp earth as Rowan stepped through the trees and onto the gravel path leading to the pack’s northern gate. The steady crunch of footsteps behind him marked the return of his entourage.
Luther fell in behind him like a shadow, silent and watchful. Giselle remained at his side, closer than before despite his earlier request for distance—her hand hovered at his elbow, ready to steady him if needed, though she did not touch him again. And then there was Elder Malric, his expression unreadable, his eyes sharp and calculating as he walked with stiff shoulders and silent purpose.
Kalen spotted them and opened the gate slowly with a nod, stepping aside as Rowan moved through. On the other side stood Merek.
He looked worse than Rowan expected. His usually sharp features were dulled by fatigue, and blood clung to his shirt and down the side of his face. One arm hung limply at his side, his knuckles raw and swollen. The instant Merek saw them—really saw them—he straightened his back, trying to muster some semblance of composure. But it didn’t last.
His eyes landed on Elder Malric.
The color drained from his face like water down a sink. “Father,” he breathed, the word catching in his throat.
Malric said nothing. He didn’t blink, didn’t move. His gaze remained cold and unyielding, as though he were staring at a ghost rather than a flesh-and-blood son. The air thickened with the weight of everything that had gone unsaid between them—years of disappointment, betrayal, silence.
It was Merek who finally broke the suffocating quiet. He didn’t look at Rowan. He didn’t even acknowledge Luther or Giselle. His attention was solely locked on the man who had once tried to raise him.
“I—I’m sorry,” Merek said hoarsely, his voice shaking. “For all of it. The things I’ve done… abandoning Elia… turning on the pack. I didn’t want to, I swear to the goddess I didn’t. But the Bonecaster—she and her witches had a hold on me. I couldn’t break free. I tried, but it was like being buried alive inside my own mind.”
He took a step forward, his broken posture a mix of desperation and shame. “I’m not asking for much,” he continued. “Just… let me come back. Let me be part of the pack I should’ve grown up in. I can prove myself. I will, if you give me the chance.”
Silence.
Giselle’s voice broke it like a blade through brittle ice. “You can’t be trusted.”
Her tone was frigid—colder than Rowan had ever heard from her. Even when she'd been facing down enemies, even when she had fought with fire in her soul, her voice had never sounded like this. Not deadened. Not disgusted.
Merek turned to her slowly, taken aback. “Giselle—”
She held up a hand, her lip curled in a faint sneer. “You left your daughter in the hands of those monsters. You turned on your own. You helped them destroy families. You brought war to these lands.”
She took a step forward, her expression unreadable except for the deep fury glowing in her eyes. “You can blame the Bonecaster all you want, but you still did it. You still watched it happen.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“But you did,” she snapped, cutting him off. “You did, and people are dead because of it. Children are without fathers. Mates without their other halves.”
Rowan glanced at her, seeing the tremble in her jaw. This wasn’t just about Elia. This was about all of it. The grief, the weight of what she’d almost lost—him—and the pain of knowing others hadn’t been so lucky.
Merek looked from Giselle to Rowan, desperation creeping back in. “Please. Alpha. Let me prove that I’m not lost.”
But Rowan remained silent.
The decision had already been made. His Luna had spoken.
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