179
The days blurred.
The pack moved like fog after the war—slow, unsteady, but breathing. Healers whispered between tents. Scouts brought back quiet reports. Warriors trained out of habit more than purpose. No one dared speak loudly near the infirmary, because she still hadn’t woken up.
Avynna.
Bavanda stood at the window of the eastern wing of the packhouse, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. Outside, the trees were dripping with the dew of early morning. Inside, the silence was cruel.
It had been nearly two weeks since her mother had fallen into the coma. Nearly two weeks since Bavanda had led the charge that saved them all.
The sun was barely rising, casting thin gold across the scorched courtyard where once there had been a statue of the Moon Goddess, now reduced to rubble and twisted iron. The pack was slowly coming alive: smiths inspecting what remained of the forge, warriors stacking stones for new barracks, healers repurposing tents into safe infirmaries.
Bavanda stood in the center of it all, arms dusted with dried earth, giving quiet instructions to two scouts.
“We’ll need to clear the northern ridge. We don’t know if more survivors are hiding there…”
She stopped mid-sentence.
Her breath left her body like she’d been punched, because through the gates of the pack’s newly repaired perimeter, a single figure was approaching.
It was a woman. Her hair was tied in a heavy braid, dust covered her traveling robes. Her arms cradled a bundle.
No! Not a bundle. A child.
Baron stepped out from the watchtower, his senses sharp even without seeing what Bavanda saw. It was Serra, and the child was Alexander.
Serra walked slowly, carefully, as if the world might fall apart if she took the wrong step.
Bavanda couldn’t breathe. She dropped the parchment in her hand, her boots barely moving as she stumbled forward. Baron appeared beside her, his eyes locked ahead, his entire body stiff as stone.
Serra stopped ten feet away. She bowed deeply, respectfully, her arms still curled protectively around the small boy.
“My Alpha. My Luna,” she said, her voice hoarse with exhaustion. “I’ve brought him home.”
Baron stepped forward first—slowly—like his legs were made of stone.
“Serra,” he breathed. “You… you made it.”
“I stayed in the safe village, beyond the eastern border, just as Avynna ordered. We heard rumors of war. I kept him hidden and safe.” She lifted her eyes, and for the first time, Bavanda saw how raw they were. “I didn’t let him hear the screams.”
She turned, her gaze locking on Bavanda. The moment it did, Alexander looked up.
He was bigger now. No longer the tiny thing Bavanda remembered. Curly-haired, moon-eyed, sleepy in the way only children could be.
He stared at her. His eyes were blank, yet curious. His eyes didn't waver from her face. He stared at her with a seriousness she didn't understand, not like he knew her, but like he recognized something in her face.
Bavanda’s breath caught again. A trembling hand covered her mouth.
Baron gently stepped beside Serra and placed a careful, shaking hand on the boy’s head. “Hello, my son…”
Alexander blinked once. Then reached up and pressed a tiny palm to Baron’s cheek.
Baron crumpled. Not all at once, but you could see it in his jaw, in the way his shoulders sagged like the weight of a thousand unsaid things crushed him in a heartbeat.
Bavanda didn’t move.
“He asked for his mama,” the woman said softly, glancing not toward Avynna’s room… but toward Bavanda.
That was when the knot in her chest began to burn. Serra turned and carefully shifted Alexander into her arms, offering him to her.
“I… I thought maybe you’d want to hold him,” Serra said softly.
Bavanda shook her head. Her feet backed away slightly, face pale. “I… I can’t.”
“Why?” Serra asked gently.
Bavanda’s voice cracked. “Because I don’t deserve to.”
Baron turned sharply. “Bavanda.”
She wasn't listening. She was locked in the sight of Alexander now nestled back into Serra’s arms. The child who should have had lullabies. Who should have had a mother. A father and a sister.
All he had were ghosts.
“Where was I?” Bavanda whispered. “Where was I when he needed us?”
“You were saving us,” Baron said, stepping forward.
“That’s not the same.”
Serra looked between them. “He doesn’t know what he lost, not fully. But he knows when someone cares for him. And… he reached for you, Bavanda. That was not by mistake.”
Baron moved beside her and placed a firm hand on her back. “You’re not failing him now. You’re here. That’s all that matters.”
Slowly… painfully… Bavanda nodded. She held out her arms. Serra smiled and gently handed Alexander into them.
The baby was warm. He made a soft noise and curled instinctively against her chest like he belonged there. Like he’d never left.
Bavanda broke.
She pressed her cheek to his hair, eyes squeezed shut, and let the first silent tears fall. Baron laid his hand on both of them—father, daughter, son.
They stood in silence for a long while, surrounded by the sounds of rebuilding hammers, barked orders, laughter from distant pups, and the faint rustling of wind.
Hope didn’t return with a bang.
It returned in the small arms of a boy too young to understand what he meant to a pack still learning how to live again.
The moment was everything, yet the guilt made it hard to breathe. She hadn’t even remembered at first.
He was just a baby when everything fell apart. She’d barely looked at him since. She had barely been there for him. Last she remembered, she was envious of the attention he got from their mother. It was all her fault. If she hadn't dragged all the attention to herself maybe her little brother would not have to face all that he did at such a young age.
He was just a baby.
Her heart ached, a sort of deep borne shame overwhelmed her. Because what kind of sister forgets her own brother?
At first, Bavanda avoided little Alexander, her guilt taking over. She made sure he was fed, that Serra had everything she needed, but she didn’t let herself hold him properly. She had no right to want to find comfort in him now.
This she thought, until the third night. Serra asked if she could rest and Alexander reached for Bavanda instead of the nanny.
His fingers were small and unsure, clutching the hem of her tunic like he was scared she’d vanish. In that moment… something cracked.
Minutes later, she was sitting beside his crib, eyes ringed with exhaustion, one hand curled around his.
He didn't sleep easily. He kept jerking up with a cry every now and then, as if he was having nightmares even though he was way too young for that. Bavanda, on instinct, carried him, let him curl against her chest, and whispered the lullabies she half-remembered from their mother.
When she tucked him under the blanket, she lingered.
“Does he even know her?” she whispered to the empty room. “Does he remember her voice?”
He stirred slightly in his sleep, the corners of his lips twitching.
She couldn’t stop the thought: He didn’t get to have his mother. Not like she did and now he might never.
Tears came this time. Silent, streaking down her face, each one a reminder of what she’d failed to be—for him, for Avynna, for herself.
Then came the moment that would ruin her.
He shifted closer, nestled his forehead against her arm, and mumbled through half-sleep,
“Mama…”
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