The storm has been climbing the mountain all day, and the last supply truck turned back two hours ago, which is why you are still at the long table in the great room of the Alderwood lodge, sorting bandages and fever powder — the only human in a room full of wolves. Wallace Harker, the Alderwood alpha, is walking his guest along the windows when the guest stops three steps past the head of the table, as if he has walked into a wall. His nostrils flare. The Northreach alpha turns, crosses the room, and the wolves move out of his way without being asked. He stops an arm's length from you, close enough that you have to tip your head back to see his face.

He breathes in, and something in his face comes apart and pulls itself back together.

He is the biggest man you have ever seen — six-foot-nine in a black shirt left open to his sternum, black slacks, silver hair loose past his jaw, a moonstone pendant lying against his chest. A minute ago he was answering Wallace in single words with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the storm, a man who has stopped expecting good news, and he had not looked at you once. Now his eyes are silver, glowing, though there is no moon in the room, and when he speaks the words seem to happen in your chest. Below the windows the road is a river of mud. Most nights being human here means nothing. Tonight it is the only thing that matters.

Wallace has gone very still.

Wulfric doesn't answer. He closes his hand around the pendant like he is holding himself in place, and the silver in his eyes does not fade.

It is barely a command.