Page 1 of Fated Wolf's Redemption

PROLOGUE

SOPHIA

The wind carries the scent of damp earth and pine as we descend into the valley, our paws pressing into the rain-softened ground. Mist clings to the air, swirling between towering evergreens, thick enough to veil the path ahead. I keep moving, ears alert, muscles coiled, listening for the sounds of my pack. We travel silently, wolves blending into the twilight, paws gliding over rock and moss with the ease of those who have never known the meaning of settled land.

This migration is different—I can feel it in my bones, an ache not of exhaustion but of change. We’ve roamed the wild places of the mountain ranges along the Pacific Coast for generations, following the seasons, never calling one stretch of land home. The Windrider Pack belongs to no territory, bows to no alpha beyond our own. We are the storm on the horizon, a force moving where the land calls us, unchained.

But something has been calling us here.

We move as one, a line of wolves threading through the dense undergrowth. Our leader, my father, keeps a steady pace at the front, his silver fur catching the last streaks of fading sunlight. He has always trusted the whispers of the land, reading its unspoken messages in the way the wind shifts or how the riverscarve their paths. And for the first time in my life, he has broken from our traditions.

We should have left the Cascades by now.

We don’t stay anywhere long. The Windrider Pack doesn’t linger in another’s domain unless forced to do so. And yet, something has anchored us here, something he refuses to explain.

I push forward, slipping through the trees until I reach his side. He doesn’t slow his pace, but his ears flick toward me in acknowledgment.

"We should move on,"I say through the Windwoven , the unique bond that flows through our pack, woven by the winds, unbreakable and ever-flowing, our connection humming like the wind through the peaks.

"Not yet."His response is firm, final.

"Why?"

He doesn’t answer, but I see it in his eyes when he finally glances at me. The tension pulling at his shoulders, the way his gaze flickers toward the towering ridges in the distance, the way his paws slow as if waiting for something unseen to reveal itself.

My father is afraid. I don’t remember a time when I’ve ever thought of him that way. He is the kind of leader who has never known uncertainty, never let doubt take root. For him, the world has always consisted of open roads and endless sky.

But here, in the Cascades, something is different—a distant rumble rolls across the peaks. Thunder, low and guttural, vibrates through the trees. A storm is building.

We reach a break in the forest where the land opens to a sweeping cliff side, overlooking the valley below. The wind rushes past, curling through my fur, carrying with it the scent of distant wolves. Not Windriders.

Pack wolves. Settlers. Bound to one place, tied to their borders like roots that refuse to give way to the storm.

My father exhales, a slow, heavy sound, before his form dissolves in a crackling swirl of lightning-threaded mist. The air hums, thick with the energy of his shift, before the mist peels away, leaving him standing in human form—barefoot, naked, wild-haired, a warrior carved from the untamed world itself.

I follow. The shift wraps around me, swallowing my form in a haze of storm-lit color, and when it clears, I rise on two feet, the cool night air brushing my bare skin. I kneel to where I dropped my duffel bag, tossing him his clothes, while I pull on a loose sweater, leggings and warm boots before stepping beside him.

My father stares at the valley, his face unreadable.

"Tell me why we’re still here." My voice is quiet, barely above the wind.

For a long moment, he doesn’t respond. Then, he lifts his gaze to the stars beginning to emerge through the dissipating mist.

"Something is broken."

The words send a ripple of unease through me.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

“We hear the land’s call differently now,” he answers looking to the horizon. “Something beneath the surface has been broken. I don’t know if anyone can mend it.”

The weight of his words settles in my chest. The Windrider Pack has always had a connection to the land, something deeper than simple instinct. We can feel the rhythm of the wild, the heartbeat of untouched places. We sense when an imbalance is near. But this is the first time my father has admitted that something might be beyond repair.

I cross my arms, watching as the trees below sway in the rising wind. "And you think we’re meant to fix it?"

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze shifts toward the west, where the outlines of the settled packs’ territories stretch in unseen lines across the land.

"I think we’re meant to find the ones who can."

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