The sunrise filtered through Hearthwild like a soft exhale, brushing golden light across the rooftops and stone paths. The world was still yawning, but Kalen wasn’t.

  He stood on the edge of the training field, barefoot in the dew-wet grass, watching Milo move.

  The monkey wasn’t doing his usual cartwheels or branch-swinging. There was no hooting, no taunting Daisy into a flustered chase. This was different.

  Milo was sparring. Alone.

  He stepped in wide circles, fists curled, shoulders hunched, mimicking movements that didn’t belong to him. Or rather—didn’t originate from him. The stomps. The low sways. The head-tilts. The occasional slow, looming step forward.

  He was copying Threx.

  Kalen leaned against the gatepost and folded his arms. “You’re not as tall as him now — not since he hit Bronze and started walking like a kaiju with posture.”

  Milo startled just slightly, then grunted and returned to his stance. He raised both arms, chest puffed. Shadowboxed with his own memory. His short tail flicked behind him, almost in frustration.

  “You’re also punching like you’ve got noodles for arms,” Kalen added helpfully.

  Milo threw a punch that overextended his balance and stumbled forward, nearly landing face-first in the grass. He lay there for a second. Then slowly turned his head and gave Kalen the most unimpressed look he could muster.

  “Alright, fair,” Kalen chuckled.

  Milo huffed and sat up, brushing off his arms dramatically. When he tried to grab his tail in a show of defiance, he missed. Twice. It was shorter than he remembered.

  He grumbled and stalked toward Kalen, then flopped beside him in the grass, breathing hard. His bulk had grown again. It wasn’t just the muscle — there was weight to him now, like the air around his body knew to make space.

  Kalen crouched and offered a hand.

  Milo took it and yanked — perhaps a bit too hard.

  “Ugh, you’re so heavy now,” Kalen groaned as he staggered to his feet. “You used to weigh what, a sack of potatoes? Now you’re half a mountain.”

  Milo puffed out his chest at the comment, pride clearly battling fatigue.

  “You’re worried about him,” Kalen murmured.

  Milo didn’t respond. But his breathing steadied.

  “You don’t have to be him,” Kalen said. “Or beat him. That’s not what this place is about.”

  Milo’s ear twitched.

  “But... if you do want to be better — not stronger, not scarier — just... more — I’ll help you.”

  Milo made a low, soft sound in his throat. Somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. He didn’t move for a long moment, then got to his feet and offered a hand.

  Kalen took it again, and this time managed to stay upright with only a minor wobble.

  Across the field, the others were starting to stir.

  Daisy waddled out of the den and fluffed herself dry, her feathers catching the morning sun in soft yellows and creams. She blinked once, honked twice, and waddled straight over to Milo, pecking him gently on the hip before curling up beside him.

  Webber followed a few seconds later, moving with precise clicks of his legs. He carried a leaf balanced like a tray — two small stones and a curled scrap of bark resting carefully atop it.

  He stopped in front of Milo, lowered the leaf gently to the grass, and backed away with a small, formal nod.

  Milo blinked at it.

  Then he looked at Kalen.

  Kalen tilted his head. “Huh. That’s… new.”

  Webber gave him a long, slow look. Not irritated — just correcting. This wasn’t weird. This was important.

  Kalen cleared his throat. “Right. Formal spider recognition. Obviously.”

  Milo scooped up the offering with the care of someone accepting a medal. He didn’t speak — couldn’t — but the way he stood just a little straighter made Kalen’s chest warm.

  The day had only just begun, but already, it felt like the quiet before something loud.

  Kalen didn’t know if it would be thunder or applause.

  He just knew Milo wasn’t going to avoid it.

  The Hearthwild gate clacked open with its usual stubborn creak.

  Talia stepped through, arms full of supplies — dried moss for bedding, fresh cloth bundles of medicinals, and what smelled suspiciously like honey-nutroot pastries Jace had been begging for all week.

  Kalen glanced up from where he’d been sorting mana threads into healing satchels. “You bribed the baker again.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I negotiated.”

  “You smiled and offered to reinforce her delivery route with Webber.”

  “Which is still technically negotiation,” Talia said, setting the supplies down.

  Webber emerged from the shadows behind her like a proud second shadow. He clicked once and vanished again, likely to check on the silk-drying posts.

  Talia looked around. “Where’s Jace?”

  “Chasing Pippin,” Kalen said. “Again.”

  They paused as a distant “MEEP MEEP” echoed across the yard, followed by a string of Jace’s loud, unprintable muttering.

  Talia smirked, but it didn’t last.

  She turned back to Kalen and lowered her voice. “Hey… I heard something in town.”

  Kalen’s hands stilled. “Bad?”

  “Not yet,” she said carefully. “But people are talking. About Hearthwild.”

  He leaned back, lips tightening.

  Talia continued, “Most of it’s curiosity. Some wonder if you’re using a unique beast diet. A few are joking you’ve found some relic to boost evolution. But one guy at the Guildhall said—” she paused, voice dipping lower, “—‘No one grows that fast without help they didn’t earn.’”

  Kalen felt that land heavy in his chest. Not the words, but the weight behind them.

  “Let them talk,” he said eventually, trying for casual. “It’s not like we’re hiding anything.”

  Talia gave him a look — not harsh, not scolding, just… honest.

  “You are hiding things,” she said gently. “Not lying. But… not explaining either.”

  He didn’t have a response to that.

  Later that day, the tension shifted again.

  Ashen arrived.

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  He didn’t announce himself. No grand entrance. Just walked through the gate like he still belonged — which, in a way, he did.

  Threx padded beside him, his silhouette stockier now. His scales shimmered faintly with internal mana channels. Bronze had clearly settled into him — and unlike Kip or Dozer, Threx wore it like armor.

  Kalen stepped forward to greet them.

  “Wasn’t sure if you’d come back.”

  Ashen gave a small shrug. “He wanted to visit. I didn’t stop him.”

  Threx flicked his tail once and sniffed the air, eyes narrowing toward the training yard. Milo, crouched near a tree, returned the stare.

  Kalen gestured toward the kitchen. “We’ve got food. You’re welcome to stay.”

  Ashen hesitated. “Just for a bit.”

  He left Threx near the den and walked with Kalen as Daisy and Dozer started a slow game of push-the-barrel toward the west wall. The other cubs milled about in pairs and trios. Webber, ever the sentry, kept to the shade.

  Ashen didn’t say much — until they passed a section of training stones, and he gestured to a narrow groove gouged into one from Dozer’s last sparring dash.

  “You’ve been pushing them hard.”

  “They’ve been pushing themselves,” Kalen said.

  Ashen nodded. “That’s worse.”

  Kalen blinked. “Excuse me?”

  Ashen didn’t repeat himself. He just looked toward Threx and Milo, now both summoned and slowly circling each other under the tree.

  There was no official spar. No call to begin. They didn’t touch. But they moved — pacing the same invisible path.

  Milo’s arms were loose at his sides, his chest rising steadily.Threx’s posture was tighter, coiled. Smoke puffed once from his nostrils.

  The space between them shrank, and Kalen felt it — a pressure like the moment before a spark hits dry grass.

  Webber, from the edge of the yard, spun a single strand of silk between two stones — a threadline no one could cross.

  Kalen stepped forward. “Milo—”

  But Milo didn’t move.

  Not until Threx stopped and raised his head slightly — not as a challenge. Not a threat. Just acknowledgment.

  Milo, finally, relaxed. He turned. Walked away.

  Kalen released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  Ashen said nothing. Just watched.

  Then he finally spoke. “He’s growing fast too.”

  “Yeah,” Kalen said. “They all are.”

  Ashen nodded again, and this time, there was something quieter behind it.

  Before he left, he paused beside Kalen and said, “When they fight… it’s going to shake more than just trees.”

  Then he walked through the gate without another word.

  The air in Hearthwild didn’t settle after Ashen left the training yard. It tightened.

  Even the wind moved quieter, like the sanctuary itself was holding its breath.

  Kalen stayed where he was for a long moment, eyes still on the silk thread Webber had anchored between the stones.It fluttered once… then snapped itself loose with a soft twist, dissolving into shimmerdust.

  A ritual complete.

  He returned to the courtyard to find Milo sitting near the grooming stump, letting Daisy pick something out of his fur while pretending not to enjoy it. Jace was back, mud-streaked and exhausted, grumbling about “feathered speed demons with no mercy.”

  And Cinder?

  Cinder was sunning herself on the smooth rock nearest the central fire pit, tail curled elegantly around her feet, fur blazing in the light. Except... it wasn’t just blazing red anymore.

  Where once she had been the color of pure flame, now hints of bluish-purple shimmered under her coat, like embers turning to dusk. And her tail — Kalen noticed it with a flicker of surprise — was beginning to split at the tip, not quite in two yet, but clearly dividing.

  Ashen re-entered the yard alone.

  Their eyes met.

  Ashen didn’t blink.

  Neither did she.

  Kalen was halfway through helping Webber untangle a snagged line of silk when he noticed them — predator and fire-princess, locked in a silent appraisal.

  Ashen stepped toward the sunrock. Not hurried. Not hesitant.

  Cinder, to her credit, didn’t move a muscle. Her tail tip twitched, but otherwise she stayed regal and still — chin lifted, golden eyes gleaming like polished amber.

  When Ashen was close enough to speak, he said nothing.

  Cinder narrowed her eyes slightly.

  And then — without sound or warning — she hopped down from the rock and sauntered past him with a dismissive flick of her tail.

  Ashen turned.

  Followed.

  Jace leaned over to Kalen, whispering, “Should we... stop that?”

  Kalen shook his head. “Nope. This is diplomacy now. Dangerous, silent diplomacy.”

  Ashen eventually found Cinder near the back fence, where the sanctuary overlooked the slope down into the tree-groves. She was perched on a rail, tail hanging over the edge, not looking at him.

  “You don’t take orders, do you,” he said at last.

  Cinder yawned — slow, smug, expressive. She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. But didn’t need to.

  “I don’t like loud beasts,” he muttered.

  Cinder flicked an ear. Agreed.

  “But I like ones who don’t flinch.”

  That made her glance at him sideways, finally acknowledging his presence with something other than disdain.

  He reached out slowly, offering a closed fist.

  Cinder stared at it. Then at him. Then back at the woods.

  Then — and only then — did she gently press her forehead to his knuckles.

  Kalen was finishing cleanup duty with Wisp and Pippin when Ashen returned, walking slowly. Cinder padded at his side, not in a hurry — but not resisting either.

  She moved with the ease of someone who had just chosen.

  Up close, the color shift in her fur was even more noticeable.The dark red had become streaked with twilight tones, not quite glowing, but clearly not mundane.The split at her tail was more pronounced now — a soft parting down the middle, a symbol of transition in progress.

  Ashen stopped in front of Kalen.

  “I want to take her,” he said simply.

  Kalen hesitated.

  “She’s still Bronze,” he said. “Still growing. Still a handful.”

  “She’s more than that,” Ashen said. “And she knows it.”

  He crouched slightly and glanced back at the cat, who was now grooming one paw with very deliberate disinterest.

  “I don’t know if she likes me. But she respects me. That’s enough to start.”

  Kalen looked at Cinder. She didn’t react.

  Then she flicked her tail once and rested it against Ashen’s boot.

  Kalen nodded. “Alright. She’s yours.”

  The bonding was quiet — not like Kip or Milo’s explosive, story-born links. This one was like a forge sealing a blade.

  Ashen reached down. Cinder stepped forward and pressed her head to his chest, over his heart.

  A soft ripple of mana flared around them — a reddish glow with a violet shimmer beneath, proud and controlled. When it cleared, the sigil had marked her just above her left shoulder: a torch held backward, elegantly stylized.

  Cinder flicked an ear once, turned in a slow circle, then resumed sunning herself on the same rock she'd abandoned earlier.

  Ashen said nothing, but his jaw relaxed — just slightly.

  Kalen let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

  Jace looked between them all. “Okay, is it just me, or does it feel like we just accidentally introduced two alpha predators to the same hunting grounds?”

  “Not accidentally,” Kalen said. “And not just predators.”

  He looked toward Threx, now dozing near the back steps.

  Then to Milo, perched higher in the tree than before, watching the world with sharper eyes.

  The lines were starting to form.

  They weren’t enemies.

  But they weren’t cubs anymore either.

  And whatever was coming next — the world was starting to notice.

  The stars above Hearthwild blinked like distant fireflies, cold and beautiful.

  Kalen sat alone near the fence overlooking the forest slope, journal resting on his knee. A half-scribbled entry sat forgotten on the page, ink dried at the edge of an unfinished word.

  Milo was up in the tree above him, just barely visible in the moonlight. Not sleeping — watching. Always watching now.

  The others were tucked into dens or curled together near the embers of the fire pit. Even Jace had passed out with a pastry still clutched in one hand, Pippin roosted in the crook of his elbow like a smug, feathered bookmark.

  Cinder slept on her sunrock, though “slept” didn’t feel like the right word. She lay coiled like a fire waiting for an excuse to burn again, tail tip twitching softly in her sleep.

  Kalen stared at the page.

  When they fight, it’s going to shake more than just trees.

  Ashen’s words wouldn’t leave him.

  Neither would the look in Milo’s eyes.

  Or the threadline Webber had spun.

  Or the crack in that training stone from Dozer’s latest charge.

  He glanced down at his journal again, then back out at the moonlit yard.

  They were still cubs.

  Weren’t they?

  But part of him — some deep, dream-layered sliver of instinct — whispered otherwise.

  He could still see the shadow of Maximus in Kip’s movements.Still hear the echo of a frying pan duel when Vex dodged.Still feel the silent weight of Cinder’s fire, stretching its tail into twin trails of magic and dusk.

  It wasn’t just coincidence.

  But he didn’t want to say the word for what it was yet. Not even to himself.

  Instead, he flipped to a fresh page and wrote:

  They’re growing fast. That’s not a problem… it’s just…

  The pen hovered there.

  He didn’t finish it.

  He couldn’t.

  There was something forming in Hearthwild.

  Something he didn’t understand yet. Something no one had taught him how to manage.

  They were supposed to be training cubs, not weaving legends.

  But then again… hadn’t that been the dream all along?

  To raise the ones no one else would. To give them stories when the world only gave them fear.

  And now…

  Now the stories were answering.

  A breeze stirred the branches above him. Milo shifted once, adjusting his perch. A few leaves fell.

  Kalen let the page remain unfinished.

  He closed the journal slowly and leaned back on his elbows, gazing up at the stars.

  “Maybe I’m not making monsters,” he whispered to the night.

  “Maybe I’m just waking them up.”