Kylar: Old Prophet's Passing

KYLAR

Packing up and moving takes less than a day, even for a group as large as ours.

The scent of desperation hangs heavy in the air. I move through the camp, my eyes scanning the haggard faces of my pack. Hollow cheeks and sunken eyes meet my gaze, a stark reminder of the fate that awaits us if we remain.

"Tighten that knot. It won't hold otherwise."

I grasp the rope, demonstrating the proper technique to a young she-wolf. Her pup clings to her leg, eyes wide with fear and uncertainty. The sight stirs something within me, a feeling I quickly suppress. Sentiment has no place in survival.

"There. Now it won't come loose during the journey."

She nods, gratitude evident in her trembling smile. I move on, my hands itching for action, for something to fight against. But our enemy now is intangible—starvation, desolation, the very air we breathe growing thinner with each passing day.

A group of adolescents struggle with their packs, arguing over the distribution of weight. I approach, my presence silencing their squabbles.

"You." I point to the largest. "Take more. The others need their strength for the journey ahead."

He opens his mouth to protest, but my glare silences him. Hierarchy exists for a reason, and I've long since learned that sometimes, kindness comes in the form of harsh words and firm decisions.

As I continue my rounds, my beta, Zirris, approaches. His face is grim, matching the mood that permeates our camp.

"Alpha. The old man requests your presence."

I nod, suppressing a sigh. The prophet's visions have guided us this far, but faith is a luxury I can ill afford. Still, I follow Zirris to the outskirts of our encampment, where a weathered tent stands apart from the others.

The smell hits me first. Age. Illness. Decay.

He's dying.

I duck inside, my eyes adjusting to the dim interior.

He lies there, a frail figure swathed in blankets, white hair a stark contrast against his sallow skin. A cloth covers his eyes, but I know the milky blindness that lies beneath. His chest rises and falls with rattling breaths, each one a struggle against the inevitable.

"You called for me, old one?"

His head turns towards my voice, a smile creasing his wizened face. "Kylar. The Moon Goddess has blessed me with one final vision."

I kneel beside him, careful to keep my voice neutral. "What have you seen?"

"The new world, Kylar. It's not what we expected." His voice is barely a whisper, forcing me to lean closer. "We are not alone in our journey. Other realms seek this sanctuary as well."

"I understand." Competition means conflict, and we are already stretched thin. But beggars have little choice but to move forward.

"But there is hope." His hand reaches out, grasping my arm with surprising strength. "The prophet we seek—the one who will guide us in this new land—they are there. They, too, dream of the future."

A spark of something dangerously close to hope flares in my chest. "You've seen them? Who are they?"

The old man's grip tightens. "A human, Kylar. The prophet is human."

The word hits me right in the gut. "Human? That's impossible. They've been extinct for years now."

"Not in this new realm. They thrive there, unaware of the changes coming."

My mind reels. Humans. Weak, fragile creatures, yet capable of incredible adaptability. A world full of them...

It has to be an easy world of abundance, for such a weak people to survive. My pulse skyrockets with dreams of the future. Of full bellies. Of pups who survive to become strong adults.

"How will we find this prophet?" I ask, pushing aside my shock to focus on the practical.

The old man's breathing grows more labored. "Trust your instincts, Alpha. The Moon Goddess will guide you."

I bite back a growl of frustration. Vague prophecies and divine guidance have their place, but I prefer concrete plans and actionable intelligence.

"Is there anything else you can tell me? Any sign to look for?"

He shakes his head weakly. "Only that time is short. The barriers between worlds grow thin. You must be ready."

His soul is already on the brink of departure. Reaching out, I rest my hand against his, gratitude in every line of my body. "Thank you, old one. Rest now. We'll need your strength for the journey ahead."

It's a lie, and we both know it. He won't survive the crossing. But some comforts, even false ones, are necessary.

"You are a wise Alpha. Do not blind yourself with prejudice," he whispers.

"I won't," I assure him, even as I don't understand what prejudice he speaks of.

He sighs again, the rattling growing softer as the time between his breaths grows longer.

"Zirris."

"Yes, Alpha."

"Tell Nira it's time."

The tent flap rustles, and Nira's scent washes over me. Her silver hair catches the dim light as she enters, her movements fluid and graceful. Our eyes meet for a brief moment before her gaze locks onto the old man.

I step back, giving her space as she kneels beside him. The air grows thick with unspoken emotions.

"I'm here," Nira whispers, her voice uncharacteristically soft.

The old man's withered hand reaches up, trembling as it finds her face. His milky eyes seem to see right through her. "Daughter, do not covet. You are greater than such dreams."

Nira stiffens, her breath catching. The scent of her distress fills the tent, sharp and acrid. Her jaw clenches, a muscle twitching beneath her skin. When she speaks again, her voice is steady, betraying nothing of the turmoil I can sense roiling beneath the surface.

"I understand, Father."

The prophet's breathing grows more labored, each inhale a raspy struggle. Nira takes his hand in both of hers, pressing it to her forehead in a gesture of reverence and farewell. The scent of salt fills the air—tears she refuses to let fall.

"Rest now," she murmurs. "Your journey is almost complete."

"Take what time you need," I say, my tone softer than intended. "But remember, we cannot linger. The journey ahead demands our full strength and focus."

Nira's shoulders straighten, her posture shifting as she slips back into the role of my third-in-command, though her eyes never leave her father. "Of course, Alpha. I won't delay our departure."

I leave them to their final moments, ducking out of the tent and into the crisp air of our dying world. The camp bustles with activity, my pack preparing for a journey into the unknown.

Zirris approaches, his green eyes sharp with concern. "How is the old man?"

"Fading," I reply, my voice low. "He won't survive the crossing."

My beta nods, accepting the harsh truth without comment. It's one of the things I value most about him—his ability to face reality without flinching.

"And Nira?" he asks, his tone carefully neutral.

I glance back at the tent, considering my words. "She'll do what needs to be done. As always."

Zirris raises an eyebrow but doesn't press further. Instead, he gestures to the organized chaos around us. "We're almost ready. The scouts report the rift is still growing. It isn't quite large enough for us to enter."

I nod, surveying our meager possessions. Everything we own, everything we are, condensed into bundles and packs.

"Good. We move as soon as Nira—"

A keening wail cuts through the air, silencing the camp. It's a sound of raw grief, of loss so profound it transcends words. My pack freezes, heads turning towards the source.

The cry fades into the wind, but its echo lingers in my bones. I close my eyes against the ache of loss, an emotion I can't afford to indulge.

The pack bond stretches thin, unraveling like frayed rope as his soul slips free. It leaves a hollow space, an emptiness where his presence once thrummed with life.

Nira emerges from the tent, her face a mask of composure that doesn't quite hide the redness around her eyes. She meets my gaze and gives a short nod.

It's done. The old man is gone. Our connection with the Goddess is severed without his presence. I draw in a breath, shoving the grief down deep.

Raising my voice, I address the stunned silence. "Our prophet has completed his journey. Now, we begin ours."