Do You Have Any Words?
Dear Luna Elowen,
Camp has been an unexpected joy for our yearlings. They have thrown themselves into the sparring circles, learned the border protocols with open minds, and even managed to keep their tempers during the joint pack drills. I was thoroughly content to spend my days in the quiet of the healers' pavilion, trading root-cures and salves with practitioners from the other holds, counting myself fortunate to serve our bloodline in peace.
I had made my peace with walking the stone alone, Elowen. You know this of me. A healer's hands belong to the wounded; not every wolf is granted a thread by the Mother, and after all these turns of light, I believed my craft was my entire life.
Then the wind shifted.
It did not creep into my senses—it struck like an open-handed blow across the jaw. Ripe blackcurrants crushed on stone, late blackberries, and the sharp, heady scent of night-blooming jasmine. Rich, sweet, and intoxicating enough to lock the breath in my throat and send a shudder straight down my spine.
My inner wolf reared so violently under my ribs I nearly shattered a crock of fresh yarrow salve against the floorboards. I followed the draft through the gathering half-crazed, terrified of losing the thread before I reached the source.
The trail led directly to the Lore-keeper's hearth.
At first, there was only a solitary male seated by the coals, scraping an ash-stave. It is not unheard of for the Mother to braid two spears together, but it is rare enough that my mind spent three frantic heartbeats trying to comprehend thirty winters of silence.
Then the canvas flap of the adjoining tent parted.
The scent hit me in a suffocating, euphoric wave. Every tendon in my body snapped rigid. My wolf was at the surface, snarling a single, deafening command: Mate. Mine. Now.
My clinical mind, stubborn to the last, tried to argue: On any ordinary day, you would pass her in the commons without turning your chin. Just an unbonded female.
Yet the thought turned to ash the moment she cleared the smoke. She looked as though she had walked straight out of the Goddess's pale light—forged of living pearl, shaped entirely for me. Soft, rounded face, pale eyes of a shade I couldn't name, small lips.
She lifted her gaze. The skin at the corners of her eyes crinkled in an easy, unhurried smile, and she spoke three quiet words across the embers:
"Oh. It's you."
I was done, Elowen. The ground fell away beneath my boots.
I cannot give you an honest accounting of the days since. The Blood-Pull and the Scent-Fever took the reins entirely, drowning out the camp, the yearlings, the clinic, and every ounce of discipline you drilled into me. I have spent my life dedicated to the quiet study of medicine, yet I feel completely unmoored—in terrifying danger of losing the healer to the beast.
Forgive the frantic dispatch. You are my mentor, my teacher, and my friend.
Do you have any words for me, Luna?
— Your obedient healer, Eldric 🐺🌿
