A Place to Come Back.

The moon hung heavy and silver over the ancient clearing, low enough to feel like it was watching rather than simply shining. It drew the nineteen together the way it always did quietly, inevitably, without command. No call was sent. No message was needed. When the night reached its deepest stillness and the forest slowed its breathing to a near pause, they returned.

Footsteps emerged one by one between the trees, soundless against moss and soil worn smooth by generations. Firelight bloomed in the clearing, catching on eyes, teeth, and the faint white lines of scars that carried stories no one needed to repeat anymore.

The elders settled first, naturally, like stones finding their place in a riverbed. The younger ones lingered at the edges close enough to belong, far enough to observe learning the language of silence, the weight of presence, the difference between rest and readiness.

The fire cracked, asking for attention.

Uncle Cassius spoke, but briefly.

“…that,” he said, voice low and steady, “is where the blood chose us back.”

No one rushed to fill the quiet. The words were old. The meaning older.

Sparks lifted into the dark like unfinished thoughts.

Uncle Davion leaned back on his palms, eyes tracking the moon through the canopy. “You always stop there,” he said. “Right before it turns ugly.”

Cassius shrugged slightly. “Because it already was.”

Van clapped his hands once, sharp and loud. “Alright, history hour’s done. Anyone else want nightmares, form a line.”

A ripple of low laughter moved through the circle.

“You love the story,” Kiran said, nudging him.

“I love that it’s over,” Van replied, grin sharp but thin.

Czar shifted, the earth beneath him responding with a subtle tremor. “It matters,” he said. “We weren’t always… this.”

David nodded, eyes fixed on the fire. “Everything we are stands on choices that could’ve gone wrong.”

“That’s not comforting,” Jorge muttered.

“It’s grounding,” David answered.

Galih stretched his arms toward the heat. “I like this version of us. Strong. Fast. Alive.”

“You like not being dead,” Giordan said dryly. “Same thing.”

Micayune lifted his hand, and a cool breeze curled around his fingers, brushing the fire without dimming it. “The forest’s calm tonight.”

“Calm never lasts,” Perseus said.

Cassius glanced at him, saying nothing.

Perseus lifted a hand. “Just stating patterns.”

Wren lay on his back, hands folded behind his head, eyes lost in stars. “The night’s listening,” he murmured. “But it doesn’t feel hostile.”

“Good,” Kenzo said, poking the fire with a stick. “I’m tired of fighting.”

“You?” Davion scoffed. “Liar.”

Kenzo grinned. “Not killing, then.”

The word settled heavier than the rest.

Hyvitus tilted his head, eyes catching firelight. “Humans still hunt us.”

“They fear what they don’t understand,” Esrae said quietly, appearing beside him like a half-formed thought. “And fear makes noise.”

“Animals don’t,” Kishy added, hugging her knees. “They run honest.”

“That’s why we hunt them instead,” Max said softly.

Cassius finally spoke again. “Restraint is why we’re still here.”

No one argued.

Sylraine’s fingers pressed into the soil, eyes unfocused. “Movement,” he said. “West ridge. Deer.”

Kenzo was already standing. “About time.”

“Last one there cleans!” Van shouted, vanishing into shadow mid-sentence.

“That’s cheating,” Max called.

“That’s tradition,” Davion replied, already moving.

🐺 Hunting Time.

They didn’t rush. Hunger without discipline was how monsters were made.

They spread out instead, silent and deliberate, the forest opening beneath steps it recognized. Moonlight silvered fur and leaf alike as senses sharpened, layered, and shared until the world hummed with clarity.

“Five,” Kenzo sent through the bond. “Young. Fast.”

“Enough,” Perseus replied. “No chase past the stream.”

Davion ignored that and surged ahead anyway, laughter threading through the link.

The hunt was swift. Clean. Merciful. Balance restored, not broken.

They regrouped with steady breaths and quiet hearts.

“The hunger fades when it’s respected,” David said.

Giordan moved among them, hands glowing faintly as he checked for injuries. “Everyone intact?”

“I tripped,” Galih admitted.

“You always do,” Kiran said.

“And survived,” Galih shot back.

On the way back, Davion bumped Cassius’ shoulder. “You worry like it’s a hobby.”

Cassius exhaled. “Someone has to.”

Keiko walked beside them. “You don’t carry it alone,” she said gently.

Cassius paused but nodded.

They lingered by the fire long after the shift faded, until only warmth and balance remained.

“The pull’s gone,” David said. “The hunger’s quiet.”

“Because we listened,” Micayune replied.

“The forest’s settling,” Sylraine added.

“It’s letting us go,” Wren said as the moon thinned.

As dawn brushed the treetops, they rose not to scatter, but to continue.

Because family was never about staying in one place.

It was about knowing where to return.

Somewhere beyond the clearing, a branch snapped.

They all stopped.

The forest held its breath.

And for the first time that night, the silence didn't feel friendly.