The Poison of Words
One evening, as warriors sharpened their weapons near the training grounds, Malrik lingered at the edge of their circle, his pale form leaning casually against a post. His gray eyes gleamed with interest as he watched them work.
“Draven’s strength is impressive,” he said thoughtfully, his tone conversational. “It always has been. But you know, sometimes the greatest strength can also be the greatest burden. Imagine the weight he carries every day. If he were ever to falter… well.” He offered a faint smile. “This pack would have to be very resilient.”
The warriors exchanged glances, uncertain whether his words were a harmless observation or something more ominous. Malrik’s voice was gentle, almost comforting, and yet it left an itch of unease that none of them could quite place.
From a distance, Susan watched the exchange with narrowed eyes. Later that evening, she intercepted Isla in the courtyard, her posture tense, her voice a low murmur meant to avoid prying ears.
“He’s weaving something,” Susan said bluntly. “I don’t know what yet, but he’s dangerous.”
Isla arched an eyebrow, brushing back her silver hair as she regarded her friend. “You think I haven’t noticed? He hasn’t crossed any lines, Susan. He’s playing nice—for now.”
“That’s what makes it worse,” Susan said, stepping closer. “It’s not about crossing lines—it’s about the small steps that lead others to follow him before they even realize it.” Her eyes glinted with frustration. “He doesn’t need strength, Isla. His words are sharper than claws.”
Later, as the sun dipped low on the horizon, Isla found herself near the training grounds, watching a group of young wolves tumbling over one another in play. Their laughter rang out, a rare melody amidst the tension gripping the pack. Isla smiled faintly, the sight soothing her frayed nerves.
“You have a gift, Luna.”
Isla turned at the familiar voice, her expression cooling as she found Malrik standing a short distance away. He approached slowly, his steps unhurried, his face lit by the warm glow of the sunset.
“You’re remarkable with them,” he said, his voice softer than usual, almost admiring. “The way they look at you—with such trust. It’s not something that can be commanded. It has to be earned.”
Her silver eyes sharpened. “What are you doing here, Malrik?” she asked, her tone clipped but calm.
He placed a hand over his chest, a small smile playing on his lips. “You wound me, truly. Can’t a man offer a compliment without suspicion?”
“I doubt you ever do anything without a reason,” Isla replied, her voice unwavering.
Malrik chuckled, the sound light and unthreatening. “Perhaps you’re right,” he admitted, his gaze drifting to the young wolves before returning to her. “But this time, I promise I only wanted to see the Luna who balances the mighty Draven. You’re… not what I expected.”
She folded her arms, her eyes narrowing slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re not just his strength,” Malrik said, his voice thoughtful. “You’re this pack’s heart. You’re connected to them in ways Draven never will be. You don’t just protect the future—you inspire it.”
His tone lacked the sharpness Isla had come to expect from him. If anything, he sounded genuine, which unsettled her more than his usual quips. Before she could respond, a low growl cut through the air.
Draven approached, his towering form casting a long shadow over the scene. His amber eyes locked onto Malrik with the intensity of a storm about to break.
“Isla,” Draven said, his voice a command wrapped in concern. “A word.”
The young wolves scattered, sensing the tension that crackled in the air. Isla’s gaze shifted between Draven’s hardened expression and Malrik’s calm smile, her frustration mounting.
As she followed Draven toward the packhouse, she glanced back at Malrik, who stood unmoving, his smile fading into something more subdued. His gray eyes lingered on her retreating form, his hands slipping into his pockets as he turned away.
