I knew before anyone told me.
There's a shift in the air when an Alpha starts hunting like the world itself leans in to listen. The rogues felt it first. They always do.
Conversations stopped when I entered the camp. Eyes followed me. Not with suspicion but warning.
"He's stirring things up," someone muttered.
I kept sharpening my blade.
Steel against stone. Steady. Controlled. If I stopped, the truth might catch up with me too fast.
By nightfall, the confirmation came.
"He spoke your name."
The words landed quietly, but they shattered something I hadn't realized was still intact.
I looked up at the man standing across the fire from me. The rogue leader. He never wasted breath on drama.
"In his council," he continued. "Not as a ghost. Not as a rumor. As a problem."
Of course.
I exhaled slowly, forcing my pulse to slow. Three months of survival had taught me one rule above all others panic is a luxury for the dead.
"So," I said, voice even. "He finally believes I lived."
The leader studied me. "You expected this."
"Yes."
No.
"He's sending scouts," the leader added. "Quiet ones. He wants confirmation before he moves."
A humorless smile curved my lips.
Still cautious. Still choosing control over instinct.
Some things never changed.
"Then we move first," I said.
The fire cracked between us, sparks lifting into the dark like fleeing secrets. Around us, the camp listened without pretending not to.
"Running?" he asked.
I shook my head. "No. Repositioning."
Because running meant fear.
And I was done giving him that.
That night, I lay awake beneath unfamiliar stars, one hand resting on the scar that pulled when the memories came too close. I thought of the council chamber of him standing tall, saying my name like it belonged to him again.
It didn't.
He had chosen a world without me once.
Now he would learn what it meant to chase someone who no longer wanted to be found.
And when we met because we would
I wouldn't be the one kneeling.