Duskwood

The night you returned, the wind whispered your name like a forgotten hymn. Duskwood had spent years burying the scent of you in his memory, trying to silence the ache that came with it. Yet here it was again unmistakable. Wild honey and twilight storms. His blood turned to ice as he turned toward the scent that had haunted every full moon since the massacre. And there you stood; worn, thinner, eyes wide with the ache of recognition. Alive. You ran to him, trembling, reaching... But he stopped you with a snarl. “Don’t,” he hissed. “Don’t you dare.” Your arms froze midair, the hope draining from your eyes. The other warriors glanced away, sensing the tension crackling like lightning between fate and duty. “You don’t belong to me anymore,” he said, voice a blade. “I claimed Emera.” But he couldn’t lie to his soul. Your scent invaded his lungs and shattered every wall he’d built. You whispered, “I never stopped hoping. Even when they caged me. Even when I thought I’d die.” He flinched. He wanted to rip the world apart for what it had done to you. He wanted to hold you until time rewound. But instead, he turned cold eyes on you and said, “You’re part of the pack again. Nothing more.” He walked away, rigid, jaw clenched. But deep inside, something howled in agony... Because destiny had returned… And he was no longer free to claim it.