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The wolves stepped back almost in unison.
Jared's body lay motionless on the ground—unconscious, but alive.
The youngest members of the pack had their fur bristling, eyes wide with terror; they had never witnessed anything like this. The older ones—Sam, Paul, even Leah—felt a primal wave of relief upon realizing Jared was still breathing… though barely.
Jacob watched everything.
Nate stood still, breathing slowly, his gaze locked on them, waiting. Analyzing.
Choosing who would be next.
That tense silence threatened to shatter at any second.
Jacob acted before it was too late.
Get him away from Jared!
The mental order cracked like a whip.
Seth and Leah—however you can, pull him out of there.
Everyone else… keep attacking!
A short, sharp bark marked the start of the next assault.
The wolves launched themselves once more, a breaking wave of fur and muscle. Some of them, trembling inside, feared Nate would use Jared again as a club… but to their surprise, Nate no longer paid him any attention.
He moved like a flash.
A couple of short, almost lazy jumps, dodging bites that collided with each other midair.
Every step carried him farther from Jared's wounded body.
Seth and Leah seized the opportunity.
Both lunged at Jared, sinking their fangs into the loose folds of his wolf hide and dragging him backward. Jared whimpered faintly, but did not wake.
Meanwhile, the others kept attacking with everything they had.
And Nate… changed.
He was no longer a defensive storm.
He no longer dodged as much.
Now he struck, and some would later swear he moved with even greater ease.
He used his fists like war hammers, delivering blows with surgical precision.
Every strike found a skull, muzzle, or jaw.
Every impact is strong enough to snuff out the light in a wolf's eyes briefly.
Embry collapsed unconscious with a single punch to the side of the head.
Quil took a descending blow that left him staggering, rolling across the dirt.
Paul's mind collided with rage and disbelief.
What's happening?! Cold ones aren't supposed to be this strong!
Why can't we beat him?! He's just one!
His breathing turned ragged. Frustration blinded him.
And in that desperate impulse, his gaze slipped.
He looked at Alice.
For a fleeting instant, he considered it.
A hostage.
A trade.
Something—anything—to stop Nate.
But that was his mistake.
Because the very second Paul's eyes left Nate and shifted to the other side of the river—
Nate was already on him.
The kick landed like a tectonic collision.
It didn't sound like the others—this time there was something different in the force behind it, something deeper, darker.
Paul was hurled backwards, rolling over the damp earth as an internal crack tore a strangled grunt from his throat. His ribs gave way like dry branches.
Jacob felt it.
Everyone felt it.
And he reacted immediately.
Ignore the Cullen! Stay focused on Nate!
The command rippled through the shared mind…
But it carried something else.
Not just authority.
Not just urgency.
Fear.
Because it didn't take much thought to understand:
Whoever looked at Alice again…
whoever tried to approach her…
would be struck with even greater force.
Nate had made it painfully clear without saying a single word.
The wolves, summoning the last remnants of their willpower, continued the attack.
But what minutes earlier had been a relatively even fight—perhaps even one where they had numerical and strategic advantage—now felt unrecognizable.
The air had changed.
Nate had changed.
His movements now had no openings.
There were no longer blind spots for the pack's perfect coordination to exploit.
Every turn was a deadly dance.
Every strike, a precise hammer blow.
Every step is almost invisible.
Something in him had aligned:
His rhythm, his predatory instinct, his battlefield clarity.
The speed with which he moved had grown so violent that the wolves barely had time to react before being stunned or thrown across the clearing. What once had been a whirlwind was now a storm at full peak—sharp, calculated, impossible to predict.
The youngest were the first to break.
Just days ago, they had felt invincible.
They had received their tribe's sacred gift, becoming spiritual warriors—protectors of their people.
They believed their strength was monumental, supernatural… and it was.
Within the pack, their differences were minimal: some faster, some stronger, but all formidable.
They dreamed that someday, with time, they might surpass Sam… or maybe even stand equal to Jacob.
But now…
That confidence crumbled.
The cold one they were fighting wasn't just strong.
He was terrifyingly untouchable.
Every second, he grew faster, sharper, more frightening.
Were all cold ones like this?
How were they—children still learning to use their new bodies—supposed to kill something like that?
If even Sam couldn't touch him.
If even Jacob couldn't bring him down.
If every attempt to surround him ended with one of them slamming into a tree or being knocked unconscious…
Doubt slid like poison into the minds of the inexperienced.
And when Nate turned his head mid-leap and his red eyes locked on them—for just a second, a blink—
a brutal certainty pierced their chests:
Any mistake…
any movement…
could mean death.
Slowly, they began to back away.
One, then another.
Breathing ragged.
Bodies trembling.
Claws scraping the wet ground.
The veterans—Jacob, Sam, Quil—kept attacking again and again, roaring to keep morale from collapsing.
But the young ones couldn't help it: every instinct in their bodies screamed to run, to flee from this monster they could not hurt…
Could not stop.
Then, just as their retreat was seconds away from becoming a full panic, a female voice exploded through their minds like a whip:
"HE'S NOT INVINCIBLE!"
Leah.
The power in her thought made even some of the most experienced wolves turn their heads toward her. Fear was still there—palpable—but she was forcing it back through sheer will.
"The Quileutes have never retreated!" she roared mentally, dragging Seth along with her, who was still helping move Jared.
The younger wolves froze, trembling, staring at her.
"No cold one can defeat us! That monster isn't invincible! Look at his back! I was the one who scratched him! If we can wound him, we can kill him!"
There was a moment of mental silence.
A collective inhale.
The young wolves, almost disbelieving, glanced toward the vampire just as Nate turned, sending Sam flying into a tree trunk. And there it was:
The wound.
A thin, gleaming line.
A crack in living marble.
The first real damage they had managed to inflict.
And though it was small, insignificant in appearance…
It existed.
And the hearts of the young wolves — moments ago consumed by panic — slowly began to fill with a new spark:
Hope.
Rage.
Pride.
As if that small crack on Nate's back had ignited a collective flame, the younger ones regained the breath fear had stolen from them. Their mental voices burst at once—a howl that didn't come from wolves, but from something far more primitive, wild, and desperate to survive and prove they were still warriors.
The bond held them.
The bond pushed them.
With renewed determination, they charged forward.
Their movements were clumsy, predictable, barely controlled by emotion; many did nothing more than get kicked into their own packmates. But it didn't matter. Each fall fueled the intensity of the bond. Each failure strengthened their resolve not to retreat. The mental force of the pack encircled them, pushing them forward like an unstoppable wave.
Jacob felt that surge and, for an instant, almost smiled.
That… that was what it meant to be Quileute.
"That's it!" he roared through the collective mind, his mental voice rumbling with authority.
"He's just a leech! One who dared to underestimate us! Even if he gets faster… even if he becomes more lethal… the Quileute will become faster too. We will become stronger!"
The mental shout burst inside every mind like a new heartbeat.
Sam, staggering after crashing into a tree, lifted his head and roared:
"Even if we all fall, we'll drag him down with us! The Quileute will not be humiliated by any bloodsucker!"
As he spoke, his eyes searched for Leah. She was still dragging Jared alongside Seth; her fear was still there, evident, but now it was only a surface layer. Beneath it, something deeper ignited—a fire spreading through the entire pack. Leah, who had been one of the first to falter, was now transmitting strength, transmitting will, and that determination pushed her body to move faster. No one was thinking about running anymore.
Sam shook his head violently to clear the blood dripping over his eyes and charged toward Nate once again with renewed ferocity…
Meanwhile, Nate simply watched them.
The air around him became still, heavy, as if his quietness absorbed all sound. His gaze followed every movement of the pack with a new clarity. What minutes ago had taken him by surprise now unfolded before him like a repeated and obvious pattern.
In his rage, he had fought almost on instinct…
But regaining control allowed him to think with complete precision.
How they turned.
How they attacked.
When they hesitated.
Where they struck.
What they sought to protect.
The pieces aligned one by one, mapping themselves in his mind with the morbid precision of a vampire watching a beating heart.
He understood their rhythms.
He understood their weaknesses.
He understood how to counter them with maximum efficiency.
And now, with that clarity, the doubt that had slowed him earlier disappeared.
He could end this.
If he applied just a little more force, he could close the fight right now.
But then, beneath the roar of the river and the wolves' ragged breaths, a distant sound reached him.
A crack.
A vibration.
An echo belonging to no one present.
Nate reacted instantly.
With a swift leap—almost a blur—he distanced himself from the Quileute, leaving them tense, expectant. He landed just a few meters from Jacob, who had positioned himself at the front of the formation, fur bristling, fangs bared.
All the wolves' eyes locked onto him.
Their breathing, heavy and blood-filled, synchronized into a single rhythm.
It didn't matter that they were injured, exhausted, or trembling—
They looked ready to fight to the end.
And Nate saw it clearly.
In their eyes burned a flame.
A flame untouched by defeat or overwhelming superiority.
A will he had not witnessed even in the wildest newborns.
The Quileute possessed something stronger than their bodies.
Something stronger than their rage.
They possessed what newborns never had:
Purpose.
Nate couldn't help but feel impressed.
Despite the chaos and the fury still pounding in his chest, his respect for the Quileute only grew. A spark of regret shot through his heart, brief but sharp. He didn't like being against them. Not like this. Not over something so stupid, not because of their alpha's poor decisions, nor because of his own stubborn refusal to back down.
If things had been different…
Maybe he would have wanted to be one of them.
They were brave. Noble.
They had a fierce determination that almost no human or vampire possessed.
They were the exact opposite of James, Victoria, Riley, the Volturi…
everyone he had killed or vowed to kill.
The Quileute truly deserved respect.
Calmly, Nate took a few steps back, increasing the distance between himself and the pack. The wolves did not advance. They remained where they were, tense, panting, baring their teeth—but still. They watched him like a wounded predator or an enraged god, awaiting his next move.
Nate held their gaze for a moment, body still poised in defense, before slowly straightening. He brushed off dirt and dust from his torn clothing. Then he spoke, his voice clear, cutting through the cold forest air:
"I think we now understand what both sides are capable of. I see no reason to continue. The treaty will not be broken. Because if we go on… There won't just be injuries. There will be deaths."
Jacob growled fiercely. Even in wolf form, Nate could almost understand him.
Jacob was ready to continue to the end; his pride — and that of his entire pack — would not allow them to accept being underestimated. Nate shook his head slightly, weary of that burning stubbornness.
"I told you, Jacob. I never underestimated you. I just wanted you to understand why turning this into a conflict was a mistake. But now it should be clear… You can barely handle me."
Rage detonated inside Jacob like a brutal heartbeat. He stepped forward, trembling with fury, and the pack moved with him, mirroring his intensity.
But then, they all froze.
A strange, unfamiliar scent hit them like a slash. Their ears perked up simultaneously.
Seconds later, swift, almost inaudible sounds emerged from the opposite side of the river.
The Quileute turned with disbelief.
Alice stood there, facing away from them. Her gaze fixed on the darkness of the forest—eyes too wide, too tense.
Like shadows, dozens of figures emerged from the woods.
Vampires, moving with a speed as terrifying as Nate's… maybe even more chaotic, more raw, more savage.
Newborns.
Panic coursed through the wolves like an electric current. Instinctively, they tightened their formation, shoulder to shoulder, growling, fur bristling.
But it was useless.
Within seconds, more than twenty vampires surrounded them.
From within the newborns, one stepped forward with confident ease—a blonde, somewhat small, dressed fully in black. He positioned himself beside Nate as if that were his natural place, as if the scene before them were nothing but a minor inconvenience.
With an amused smirk, he examined Nate from head to toe: shredded clothing, dirt clinging to him, and only a faint scratch on his back.
"Seems you had your fun, Nathaniel…" he said, tone dripping with irony, as though congratulating a child for an entertaining pastime.
Then he turned his gaze toward the wolves now surrounded by newborns. His red eyes studied them with curious disdain before speaking:
"And what exactly are these little creatures that kept you entertained?"