We make our way back to the cave in silence.

  The forest gives way to stone once more, and with it comes that familiar, suffocating sense of enclosure. The cave mouth yawns ahead of us, swallowing light, swallowing sound, swallowing the day as if it never existed at all.

  I hesitate at the threshold.

  Azrael notices immediately.

  “Are you alright?”

  The question startles me. I blink, then nod too quickly, as if speed alone can make it true. “Yes. I’m fine.”

  He gestures toward the entrance, a quiet invitation rather than a command. “After you.”

  We cross into the darkness together.

  “There’s something I can’t get out of my mind,” I say at last. My voice echoes faintly against stone. “Something written in that book of yours.”

  He exhales softly before answering. “You remember I said those were just stories. Folklore.”

  “That’s the thing,” I reply, turning to face him. Curiosity hums beneath my skin, sharp and insistent. “Is it actually just a story?”

  “Lirian,” he says quietly, a note of warning threading his voice.

  “When I touched the page,” I continue, pacing now, unable to remain still, “when I read the words, they came alive to me. I could feel them in my bones. They meant something.”

  “Lirian,” he tries again. “Don’t…”

  I cut him off. “Something about it… I think the story is about me.”

  “That’s…” He starts, but I don’t stop.

  “The wolf adorned in flame,” I press, my breath coming faster. “My wolf is red. That’s rare. What if it’s talking about me?”

  “Or,” he says firmly, “it could be about a wolf consumed by fire and chaos.”

  “I don’t think so…” The certainty drains from my voice even as I cling to it.

  He exhales slowly, choosing his next words with care. “This story was written hundreds of years ago. It could be about anyone.”

  The words land heavier than I expect.

  “Being a red wolf is rare,” he continues gently, “but you are not the only red wolf ever born.”

  “I know,” I murmur. “It’s just…”

  “And if you remember the rest,” he says, carefully now, “she burns the land. None shall stand.” His gaze softens. “Do you really want that to be about you?”

  “No,” I admit immediately. “But you’re always telling me I’m a danger. To myself. To others.”

  The desperation in my voice surprises me. I don’t try to hide it.

  “I know you want answers,” he says softly. “But this isn’t going to give you what you’re looking for.”

  “Couldn’t it help?” I ask. “If we finished the translation? Even a little?”

  “The answers you seek aren’t in that story,” he replies, resting a hand on my shoulder. Steady. Grounding. “They’re in you. What you need right now is control.”

  “I just thought…” My voice drops. “Maybe it could show me how.”

  “I know,” he says gently, but firmly. “You’ll get there. We just have to be diligent.”

  The words settle heavily in my chest, and for now, I accept the version he offers me.

  Maybe it really is just a story.

  But I can’t shake the feeling that it’s about me.

  Wolf adorned in flame.

  He’s right. There are records of red wolves scattered throughout history. Rare, yes. But not unheard of. Not singular. That alone shouldn’t mean anything.

  And yet.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He keeps saying I’m a danger. To myself. To others.

  Why?

  Is that what being a red wolf means? Volatile? Unstable? A creature too close to the edge?

  At the thought, my wolf grumbles and huffs, clearly offended.

  Then there’s the pack.

  The way conversations stopped when I entered a room. The way unfamiliar wolves were kept at a careful distance. The way elders positioned themselves between me and visitors without explanation.

  They knew something was different.

  Maybe they always had.

  And then there is the truth that cuts deepest of all.

  The people I called my parents are not my real parents.

  I was taken from my own.

  Taken for a reason no one will name.

  There is something different about me.

  I wish I knew about other red wolves. Wish I knew someone who could tell me what this really means. Someone who wouldn’t soften the truth or turn away from it.

  Because this story… it feels like it’s calling to me. Like something in it recognizes me.

  So why would Azrael hide it from me?

  Is he protecting me?

  Or is he protecting the rest of the world from whatever I might become?

  And that brings me back to him.

  What is Azrael’s part in all of this? Why is he helping me at all? What does he stand to gain? I barely know him. He barely knows me.

  Is he my protector… or my keeper?

  Suspicion coils quietly in the back of my mind.

  I look up and find him watching me.

  Not staring.

  Studying.

  He says nothing, only sits in silence, his soft eyes tracking every shift of my expression as if I am a language he has learned to read.

  He is supposed to be dangerous. A rage-filled rogue. A monster whispered about in cautionary tales.

  And yet I have not seen even a flicker of it.

  The pack told me terrible things about him.

  But they also hid the truth about my past. About my parents. About me.

  Who do I believe. Who is lying.

  And who is more dangerous?

  The people I trusted my whole life but lied…

  Or the stranger who took everything from me and is somehow the only one offering answers at all, even if they come in careful fragments?

  I will get the full truth out of him eventually.

  For now, I will play his game.

  I don’t think my wolf would allow anything else.

  “Azrael,” I say finally, breaking the silence. “Tell me something about you. I hardly know you.”

  “What’s there to tell?” he replies plainly.

  “If you want me to trust you,” I say, holding his gaze, “to trust that what you’re telling me is true, then I need to know who you are. What kind of person shares a cave with me every night.”

  He considers that, then nods. “Alright. What do you want to know?”

  I pause, then ask, “Well to start…how old are you?”

  He lets out a short laugh. “You want to know my age?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of all the questions you could ask,” he says, amusement flickering across his face, “that’s the one you choose?”

  “I’m just getting started,” I reply. “Call it a warm-up.”

  He lifts a brow. “Very well. I am seventy-seven years old.”

  I glare at him. “Lying won’t help me trust you.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “You cannot be older than thirty-five,” I snap. “And even that’s a harsh assessment.”

  “Well,” he smirks faintly, “that’s quite the compliment.”

  “So?” I press.

  “As I said,” he replies calmly, “I am seventy-seven. To be specific, I turn seventy-seven on the full moon next month.”

  “You cannot be serious.”

  He nods once.

  “How is that even possible?”

  “It’s my curse,” he says simply. “It grants me an unnaturally long life.”

  “Well,” I offer weakly, forcing a smile, “that sounds like a nice perk.”

  “In other circumstances, it might be.” His expression sobers. “But it only prolongs the suffering.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Doomed to wander alone,” he says quietly. “No one to love. No one to love me. No family. No friends. Just solitude stretched across decades that refuse to end.”

  My chest tightens. Tears sting my eyes. “That’s… awful.”

  “It is what it is,” he replies, like stating a fact rather than his own sentence.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I wish I could help.”

  He shrugs. “Don’t concern yourself with me. I’ve endured this long. I’ll endure longer.”

  “You won’t,” I say softly. “Ever find a mate?”

  “Who would have me?” he replies, his voice empty of self-pity.

  “Well,” I say gently, trying for lightness, “you’re not exactly unbearable.”

  A faint smile touches his mouth, then fades.

  “It isn’t about that,” he says. “It’s about fear. People fear what they don’t understand. Just like the stories in that book. They were written out of fear.”

  He meets my eyes. “Tell me. Has some great and terrible death befallen you because you’ve been near me?”

  I shake my head.

  “Then the danger exists only in legend.”

  “Surely someone knows the truth,” I say. “Someone would be willing to take the risk. Like your mother did.” My voice fades out softly in fear that the mention of his mother might bring him sadness.

  “If such a person exists,” he replies quietly, “I have not found them in seventy-seven years.”

  Something in my chest sinks.

  He clears his throat and turns away. “Well…that’s enough questions for tonight.”