I stared at him unamused "Your concern is inspiring."
He smiled broadly "I'm a very compassionate person."
"You're opening a secret cellar." I nearly screamed.
"I'm doing it compassionately."
Before I could stop him, Jordan lifted the trapdoor.
The hinges groaned.
Dust spiraled upward.
A rush of cold air struck my face.
Not ordinary cold.
Old cold.
The kind that had been trapped underground for years.
Stone steps disappeared into darkness.
I felt my stomach twist.
The vision.
The cellar.
The chains.
Every instinct screamed at me to leave.
Naturally, Jordan was already descending.
"Jordan."
"What?"
"Have you considered caution?"
"No."
"Try harder."
"I considered it for a moment."
He continued downward. Stubborn ass.
I hated him.
I followed.
The stairs spiraled deeper beneath the house.
The air grew colder with every step.
A faint amber light flickered below.
Candlelight.
And beneath it—
Clink.
The chain sounded again.
Closer this time.
The cellar emerged slowly from the darkness.
Stone walls.
Ancient brick.
Dust.
Bookshelves.
My breath caught.
Bookshelves.
Even here.
Of course Viviette had books in her secret underground prison.
Some habits transcended reason.
The room itself was surprisingly clean.
Painfully clean.
Nothing about it resembled a dungeon.
A thick rug covered part of the floor.
A wooden table sat beside a fireplace.
There were blankets.
A chair.
Fresh water.
Food.
The strange domesticity of it somehow made everything worse.
Then I saw him.
And froze.
The man from the vision.
Exactly as I remembered.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Dark hair streaked with silver.
A face that looked carved from something ancient and stubborn.
He wasn't dirty.
Wasn't starved.
Wasn't broken.
At least not visibly.
But exhaustion clung to him like a second skin.
His cheeks were slightly hollow.
His skin unnaturally pale.
His shoulders slumped beneath a weariness that felt centuries deep.
Heavy iron chains circled both wrists.
The links disappeared into the stone wall behind him.
His breathing looked difficult.
Every inhale seemed deliberate.
As though his body had forgotten how to do it naturally.
Slowly, his eyes lifted.
And found mine.
Recognition flashed across his face.
Immediate.
Absolute.
"You." His voice cracked.
Jordan moved subtly in front of me.
Protective.
Automatic.
The stranger noticed.
A faint smile touched his mouth. "Wolf."
Jordan's eyes narrowed but the stranger laughed.
"Werewolf." His voice felt wane.
The man's smile widened slightly.
"Alpha."
Not a question.
An observation.
Jordan immediately became suspicious.
Which, admittedly, was his default setting.
"Who are you?"
The man's gaze drifted upward toward the ceiling.
Toward the house above.
Something impossibly soft entered his expression.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Something soft.
The kind that survives long after wisdom has packed its bags and left.
"My name," he said quietly, "is Frodo Peppins."
The name hit like a physical blow. My eyes sat round and shocked.
Even Jordan stiffened.
Because everybody knew that name.
Frodo Peppins.
Explorer.
Scholar.
Pack diplomat. He had singlehandedly written the second Volume of Wolf Lore and had somehow disappeared into oblivion.
Missing for nearly two decades.
Presumed dead.
I swallowed. "You're supposed to be dead."
A weak laugh escaped him.
"I know."
The sound dissolved into coughing.
Violent.
Painful.
His entire body shook.
Instinctively Jordan stepped forward.
The wolf in him suddenly alert.
Studying.
Assessing.
Something dark flickered across his face.
Concern.
"Your scent is wrong."
Frodo looked amused. "Very observant."
Jordan ignored him.
His eyes tracked the chains.
The walls.
The tiny cellar window positioned high above.
Then realization slowly dawned.
I watched it happen.
Watched an Alpha wolf understand something terrible.
"Wolves aren't meant to live like this," Jordan said quietly.
Frodo's smile faded.
For the first time, genuine exhaustion entered his eyes.
"Wolves need moonlight."
Silence.
"Wolves need sky."
More silence.
"Wolves need distance."
The words sounded older than Jordan.
Older than both of us.
"Wolves heal beneath open heavens," Frodo whispered.
His gaze drifted toward the tiny window.
Toward the sliver of daylight beyond it.
"I haven't seen a full moon in fourteen years."
The room became very still.
Because suddenly the chains weren't the worst thing here.
It was the absence.
The missing sky.
The missing forests.
The missing world.
And somehow, despite all that—
Despite the chains.
Despite the years.
Despite the exhaustion slowly killing him—
When Frodo looked upward toward the house again...
he smiled.
Softly.
Tenderly.
Like a man thinking of someone he loved.
And that frightened me far more than the chains ever could.