Chapter 234
The drive takes longer than it should, even though I leave before the sun fully clears the trees.
The road is narrow and poorly maintained, the kind of stretch that never shows up on official maps but still carries more history than most borders. The engine hums steadily beneath my hands, a low vibration that settles into my bones. I keep both hands tight on the wheel, knuckles pale, posture rigid. Not because I’m nervous.
Because staying loose gets people killed.
The forest blurs past in streaks of green and shadow. I track distance by instinct, by the way the air changes when you get close to contested ground. I don’t turn on the radio. Noise distracts. Thoughts are quieter when the only sound is the road and the steady rhythm of the engine.
By the time I reach the mediation site, the sun is up enough to cast long shadows across the clearing.
I arrive early. I always do.
The meeting is set at an abandoned ranger station just inside neutral territory. One building. One clearing. Too many trees. I park where I can leave fast if I have to, nose angled toward the road, keys already out of the ignition. I step out and let the quiet settle over me.
First thing I do is walk the perimeter.
It isn’t a conscious choice. My body just does it, moving before my mind finishes registering that I’ve arrived. I circle the clearing at an even pace, boots crunching softly over gravel and pine needles. I note the slope of the land, the way the ground dips toward the treeline on the east side where water would collect after rain. Mud there would slow vehicles. Wolves less so. I clock the direction of the wind, the way it shifts when I step closer to the tree line, how sound would carry if someone raised their voice or if something broke suddenly.
I count exits. One obvious road, wide enough for trucks. Two paths narrow enough to slow movement but wide enough for wolves to pass side by side if they had to. I measure the distance between trees without looking like I’m measuring. I note the cover they provide, the way shadows settle unevenly at the edges of the clearing. Blind spots form where people assume safety and stop paying attention. Those are the places things go wrong.
Nothing feels immediately wrong.
That doesn’t mean anything.
When the packs arrive, they come separately, spaced just far enough apart to avoid looking coordinated No shared approach, no overlapping patrols Each Alpha arrives with enough escorts to signal strength, without tipping into provocation. Both groups are mid-sized, strong enough to be dangerous, not strong enough to dominate without consequences. That balance tells me exactly why I’m here. Neither side can win cleanly, and neither is willing to back down alone.
Inside the ranger station, the air is stale. Old wood. Dust that’s been disturbed but not cleared. The table in the center has been wiped down but. otwell, streaks visible if visible if you know where to look. I take the seat that puts my back to the wall and my eyes on the door, habit settling in like a second spine.
The first Alpha doesn’t bother hiding his resentment.
He’s older than the other one, broader through the shoulders, carrying himself like the world owes him something it forgot to pay. His jaw tightens every time reforme comes up like the word itself tastes wrong.
“These rules stripped authority from leadership,” he says, voice sharp. “You can dress it up however you want, Savannah, but we both know what it is. Weakening.”
The second Alpha smiles like that’s reasonable.
He’s younger. Cleaner. His words slide out smooth, rehearsed. “Reform isn’t about weakness. It’s about accountability. Transparency. Shared responsibility.”
I watch them both while they talk.
One misses control. The other misses advantage.
Neither of them is innocent.