Echoes Of War

CHAPTER XIV | THE WEIGHT OF DUTY

Laying curled in the safety of his hollow, Rodwen's amber eyes never stray from the den's entrance. Even when Ishka settles close, her tongue rasping steady strokes through his damp fur, he cannot bring himself to look away. It's as if the darkness beyond the tunnel holds the river itself, waiting to drag him under again.

When at last his lids grow heavy, he dares to let them fall, willing sleep to come-yet the moment he does, the river surges back. Cold and merciless. He feels it again, the current clawing at his chest, the pull of water forcing its way into his lungs. The taste of silt still lingers on his tongue, bitter and choking, his body convulsing with phantom coughs.

He remembers the way panic gnawed at his mind, shredding every rational thought until nothing was left but desperation. The world had shrunk to the roar of the river and the searing ache of breath slipping away. Even now, warm and dry beneath Ishka's grooming, his body flinches at the memory, claws flexing into the earth as though bracing against the phantom tide.
But worse than the river's grip is the memory of Lunis.

Her pale body vanishing beneath the waves.
His paws thrashing for hers-too far. Too slow.

A growl stirs in his throat, low and guttural, startling Ishka into a pause. She doesn't ask, doesn't pry, merely presses closer, her warmth an anchor against the storm inside him. Still, Rodwen's gaze drifts back to the tunnel, wide awake once more. For no matter how much he fights, the river waits for him there, patient and unrelenting, eager to swallow him again.

A shiver slithers down Rodwen's spine, cold and unwelcome. How had everything unraveled so quickly-so horribly? The question coils in his chest like a serpent, offering no answers, only the bitter taste of regret.

He clenches his jaw, claws digging into the packed earth of his hollow. He should have stopped the chase sooner. He should have read the terrain better, should have realized what the rogue was doing before it was too late. He should have-

A growl rumbles low in his throat, born of self-loathing, not anger. He knows the truth: he failed. He failed as a Beta. He failed as a protector.

"Rodwen?!"

The sharp cry cleaves through his thoughts, familiar and terrified. His ears snap forward just as the sound of paws thunders toward him.

In the next heartbeat, a weight collides with him. Warm fur envelops his trembling frame, a body pressing hard against his chest, wrapping him in an embrace that knocks the air from his lungs.

Ishka stumbles aside at the sudden impact. She doesn't speak, doesn't protest. Her green eyes flicker once with something unreadable before she turns away, slipping quietly into the shadows of the den.

Rodwen barely notices her leaving. His muscles sag, and for the first time since the river, he lets himself give way. He melts into the embrace, burying his face against the pelt he knows better than his own.
His sister.

Her heartbeat thrums against his chest, strong and steady, grounding him in a way his own strength can't. She clings to him fiercely, as though anchoring him to the earth, as though she too has just pulled him from the jaws of the river.

But the moment of tenderness vanishes as swiftly as it came. A sharp smack cuffs his snout, the sound cracking through the air like a whip.

"What were you thinking, scaring me like that!?" Senna snarls, her green eyes blazing. "You could've drowned, bone-head!"
The growl cuts through the air like a claw through bark, drawing every gaze in the clearing. Wolves still tending to others or murmuring in hushed tones now turn, ears pricked at the sudden commotion.

Rodwen doesn't so much as flinch. The sting on his muzzle is nothing compared to the storm in her eyes. His smile fades, ears flattening against his skull, but beneath the rebuke he can't shake the warmth of her presence-the relief in knowing he's here, alive, still fighting-still around to protect her.