Chapter 1

Some say being a logistics mage is the safest job in the pack.

Whoever said that had probably never been woken before dawn by a beta's footsteps.

My name is Kyle. Logistics mage of the Darkmoon Pack, specializing in rune forging. I picked up potion mixing while assisting Marcus, and armor repair came naturally because it involved runes. The scope of this role was vague—essentially, anything no one wanted to do at three in the morning fell to me.

Today was no exception. The sound of Raine's boots on the stone corridor grew closer, the rhythm more urgent than usual.

The door swung open.

"Kyle. The commander needs the rune arrows delivered to the training ground today."

Beta Raine stood in the doorway, a tall wolf clansman with close-cropped gray hair, wearing the kind of expression that said "I'm talking to a human." He never used my name—usually just "you" or "that mage." Three years in, I wasn't sure he even knew my name was Kyle.

"Understood." I tied on my forging leather apron and reached for the furnace door. Flames licked up from the ashes, heat hitting my face and dispelling the chill of the early morning.

Raine turned and left, his footsteps swallowed by the stone corridor.

A dozen unfinished arrows lay on the workbench—half-etched runes from where I'd stopped at two in the morning. My knuckles still ached; my hand trembled slightly when gripping the graver. Marcus said it was because I held the tool too tight, always trying to make each stroke more precise than the last. He was right. But I couldn't help it.

The rules of the Darkmoon Pack were simple. Wolf clans fought; humans served. The coexistence pact signed centuries ago was still in effect—human craftsmen, farmers, and merchants received wolf protection in exchange for providing what the wolves lacked.

I could accept this arrangement. The wolves were the ones holding back the things that crept in from the forest border. Someone had to keep their armor in shape.

I just wished, sometimes, they'd remember my name.

Before noon, I delivered the rune arrows to the training ground. Purity at ninety-three percent—half a point higher than the last batch. Raine didn't even flip through the quiver when he took it; just glanced at the fletching and said, "Put it there." Then added: "The commander wants you to fix her chest plate clasp. It's loose."

"When?"

"Now."

The training ground was on the eastern edge of the pack—a stretch of packed yellow earth. Wolf warriors sparred across the field; their roars and collisions rattled the air. I carried my tool kit around the perimeter and spotted her from a distance.

Vera. War Commander of the Darkmoon Pack. Wolf clan's female war goddess. Half a head taller than me, silver-gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, every movement sharp and clean. She was sparring with a warrior nearly twice her size—within ten seconds, his back hit the ground, dust kicking up half a man's height. She reached down and pulled him up, a smile at the corner of her mouth. The warriors surrounded her with cheers; her voice carried from the center of the crowd, the words lost to distance, but her laughter was clear.

No one on the training ground noticed a human mage carrying a tool kit.

I found the chest plate, crouched down, and began inspecting it. The metal clasp had warped; the soft leather lining on the inside of the plate had worn through—I had replaced that lining three months ago with lambskin, stitched in three rows of fine linen thread. She'd probably never even noticed that lining existed. No one notices what's stitched on the inside—until one day it's gone.

I replaced the lining and repaired the metal clasp. Then I paused for a second.

In the inner pocket of my belt was a moonstone amulet—an oval stone two fingers wide, fine as hair with a fire rune etched into it. It had taken me three months to learn fire rune forging. The backs of my hands and my fingers were covered in burn scars. One on my right index finger was especially deep—left by a red-hot rune knife, now a white line across the skin.

When infused with magic, the stone's surface would glow faintly blue.

I'd heard from Marcus that Vera's armor had an inner pocket for emergency hemostatic agents. That pocket was rarely opened, but it was always there. I slipped the amulet into the pocket and secured the flap.

Then I stood up, picked up my tool kit, and walked back to the workshop.

As I passed the training ground, Vera had just finished her session. She walked past me about twenty paces ahead, talking to Raine about tomorrow's patrol schedule. She didn't look at me—but halfway through, she paused for a second and glanced down at the hilt of the longsword at her waist. The leather grip was new; the old one had frayed and I'd replaced it last week.

"What is it?" Raine asked.

"Nothing." She kept walking.

Maybe she'd noticed the new leather. Maybe she just touched it and felt the difference. I wasn't sure.

Six months ago, she'd sprained her wrist during training. Swollen for three days. The medic gave her an ointment, but it wasn't very effective. I brewed a special bruise-healing tincture and asked Raine to pass it along—didn't deliver it myself, afraid she wouldn't accept it. The next day, Raine mentioned it in passing when ordering the next batch of arrows: "The commander said your tincture works better than the medic's." Just that one sentence. I still remembered it.

Marcus, the pharmacist, was the only one in the Darkmoon Pack who actually used my name. A graying old human pharmacist who'd been in the pack for nearly four decades, having seen at least three generations of wolf commanders. He said he stayed because he was too lazy to move, but I knew he'd saved more wolves in the pack hospital than any military medic.

"Kyle." He stood at the workshop door, holding a lantern. "That calming tincture you made last time—can I have the recipe? Three more sleepless warriors this week."

"Right shelf, blue label."

"I knew you'd have it." He smiled, a trace of resigned wisdom in his expression. "You've been here almost three years now, haven't you? Don't wear yourself out, kid. Not every fire is meant to light someone else's way."

I nodded. He didn't say more. Old pharmacists never wasted words, but every one was worth pondering.

That night, I lay in the small room adjacent to the workshop. Moonlight streamed through the narrow window, falling on the tool kit. At the very bottom of the kit, wrapped in velvet, was a rune ring—a pale gold band, with her name and my mark carved on the inside, a protection rune I'd spent an entire summer designing.

Summer had ended nearly a month ago. The ring was still at the bottom of the tool kit.

A night bird called outside the window. I turned over, clutching the ring in my palm, the metal quickly warming to my body heat. I lay awake in the dark, replaying that single pause in my mind—the way she'd glanced at the new leather grip. Just one look.

Maybe she just wasn't comfortable showing gratitude in front of others.

I'd been looking for the right moment to open up to her.

Those "thoughts" had carried me through an entire year.