The blood was finally gone from his alabaster fur and part of him hated that it was no longer there. He had used the river to rid himself of the tacky maroon stains, and watched the tumbling water take the remnants of Kisla downstream, away from the heart of the Kingswood. Grief still consumed him. He had not returned to his den, or Lilya’s, for he did not want to fill the places he adored with the stench of death. Sleep evaded him; his mindless, zombie-like body dragged through the trees, no destination in mind.
Lachesis knew he had to get it together. To compose himself. Hearthwood had survived two major losses the year prior; they could do so again this year. They had to. The thought of moving the pack had tumbled into his mind more times than he would have liked to admit, but it was not feasible. The former king and queen were buried here, as was his son—XIX could not leave them. He could not disappoint them. No matter how hollow his chest felt, he could not run. What would it do? He was no coward, and the river wolves? They were resilient. The loss of the matriarch was a hard one to carry, but they would preserver. It was what she would have wanted; what Maksim would have wanted. There were only a few Baranski’s left, and Lachesis would be sure to see them succeed and move past this loss with their heads held high.
Just as Lachesis would.
He hovered by the river’s edge, his chartreuse gaze following the lazy flow over water. The ghost did not want to be strong, for it was much easier to be riddled by grief, but he could not succumb to the sorrow that filled his heart. It would do nothing but harm the pack.
A sigh escaped him as he lowered his hindquarters to the river’s edge, a frown cutting deep into his dark lips. He would have preferred a visit to the lake, but he could not leave Hearthwood. Not yet. Not while the wounds will still open and the wolves were still hurting.
stick with those who stick with you