The hounds stopped at the treeline.
It was not fear that kept them still, but the strange, invisible border that all mystical beings could feel—thin as silk, sharp as a blade.
No magic passed into Hollowmere.
Not elflight. Not blood-binding. Not even the Alpha's dominion over his own shifting bones.
Fenris stood at the edge, eyes narrowing as he scanned the rooftops of the quiet village below. It was unremarkable at first glance—no towers, no banners, no scent of enchantment or threat.
But his gut twisted like it did before battle.
Sayori was here. He could feel it.
And she had been hurt.
"Wait here," he growled to the guards behind him. "If you cross the line, you'll lose your forms."
Thalen, mounted beside him, frowned. "And you, my lord?"
Fenris gave a tight, humorless smile. "I'm not here to fight."
Then he stepped across.
His power left him at once—like breath punched from the lungs. The world dulled. No enhanced senses. No strength beyond what his body could hold. His eyes, still red, felt dimmer in this place.
But it didn't matter.
His instincts had never lied to him before.
And they screamed only one name now.
Sayori.
---
The villagers saw him long before he reached the square.
Some fled indoors. Others watched from windows. A few brave ones—older, armed with pitchforks or farming blades—stood at the edges of the street. They didn't speak. Didn't challenge.
Just stared.
Alder was waiting by the well when Fenris approached.
"You look like a wolf without fangs," the healer said, voice flat.
"I didn't come to threaten your people."
Alder crossed his arms. "Then why did you come, Alpha?"
Fenris met his gaze. "To bring someone home."
A long pause.
"She isn't ready."
"She's mine."
The words were out before he could stop them.
Alder narrowed his eyes. "She's not property."
"No," Fenris agreed, jaw tight. "She's my mate."
Another pause.
Then the healer stepped aside.
"She's in the last cottage on the east hill. But don't expect her to follow just because you call."
---
The door creaked open.
Sayori looked up from her chair by the hearth, blanket drawn around her shoulders. The moment their eyes met, the world narrowed.
She stood slowly. Her bandages were fresh. Her cheeks a little less hollow.
But her expression—unsure, wide, guarded—hit him like a blade to the gut.
He had crossed a border for her.
And suddenly, he wasn't sure if she wanted him to.
"Sayori," he said softly.
No titles. No commands.
She blinked. "You… you came here."
"I had to."
"Why?"
He took one step inside.
"I sent you into danger and you paid the price. I let others decide your worth, and you nearly died for it. I will never make that mistake again."
Her lips parted. But no words came.
"I should have known," he said. "From the moment I gave you a name."
Sayori took a breath.
"You said I was quiet. Easy to overlook."
"I was wrong."
Silence stretched.
Finally, she whispered, "And now?"
He stepped closer. Not touching. Just close enough that she could feel the heat of him.
"Now I hear nothing but your absence."
The words sat between them.
And then slowly—hesitantly—Sayori reached out.
Her fingers brushed his sleeve.
And Fenris let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.