The first sound was a huff.
Aiden froze mid-movement, one hand hovering over the furs as he stared down at the pile of blankets and tiny bodies. Keal—barely older than his brothers by seconds—had his face scrunched in deep concentration, chest puffing as if he were offended by the very concept of silence.
"Hff."
Aiden blinked. "Was that—"
Ryn answered with a thin, breathy whine, tail twitching once, twice, then curling against his own leg like he was embarrassed by the noise he'd made.
And then Lior—
A sharp, surprised yelp.
It startled all three of them.
Keal let out something that was definitely a growl—small, uneven, more vibration than sound—while Ryn tried to copy it and instead produced something suspiciously close to a bark. Lior followed with a hiccuping human noise, halfway between a gasp and a laugh.
Aiden covered his face with his hand.
"No. Absolutely not," he muttered. "You are not allowed to do this already."
The pups ignored him completely.
They experimented like it was a game—huffs, whines, tiny growls, sharp little yelps, broken barks that ended in squeaks. Every sound was followed by wide eyes and twitching ears, as if they were discovering the world one noise at a time.
Theron watched from the den entrance, arms crossed, tail betraying him with slow, pleased sways.
"They are learning," he said softly.
"They are rushing," Aiden snapped, though there was no real heat behind it. He reached down, gently pressing two fingers to Keal's chest when the growling turned more insistent. "Slow down. You're babies. You're supposed to… cry and sleep and be useless."
Keal growled again.
Aiden sighed. "I hate that you understood that."
Still—despite himself—his mouth curved into a faint smile.
He hated how fast they were growing.
Hated how each day brought something new, something wolfish. Hated how instinct came easier to them than it ever had to him. Every new sound felt like proof they were slipping further from the fragile stage where he could pretend time would wait.
Theron sensed it.
He always did.
He crossed the den and crouched beside Aiden, pressing his forehead briefly to Aiden's temple—grounding, steady. "They are still small," he murmured. "They are still yours."
Aiden swallowed. "I know."
But instinct didn't care about comfort.
Theron smelled it first.
Not pack. Not earth. Not stone.
Metal. Oil. Cold electricity.
He went still.
The air shifted around him—not violently, not yet—but with the sharp tension of a drawn blade. His eyes flicked to the den walls, to the shadows between stones, to places where nothing should be.
There.
A faint blink of red light, barely visible, tucked high between two stones—hidden carefully, deliberately.
A camera.
The world narrowed.
Aiden felt it instantly—the pressure, sudden and crushing, like the moon itself had leaned too close. The pups reacted before either of them could speak.
Keal shrieked.
Ryn snarled—snarled, a thin, furious sound no newborn should make.
Lior whimpered, curling inward, ears flattened tight.
Aiden moved without thinking.
He turned, back to Theron, body curving over the pups as he dragged them all close, arms wrapping tight. His wolf flared—not fully, never fully—but ears pushed through his hair, eyes flashing bright blue, teeth bared in a silent warning.
"Theron," he said sharply. "Not here."
The pressure eased—just a fraction.
Enough for the pups to breathe.
Enough for Aiden not to buckle.
Theron stared at the camera.
The god inside him roared.
Power surged—raw, ancient, furious—but he held it back with clenched fists and bleeding palms. The den trembled anyway, stones humming, shadows writhing as moonlight bled into the space like liquid silver.
"She watched you," Theron said, voice low and deadly calm. "She watched them."
Aiden's lip curled. "I told you she'd try again."
Theron lifted one hand.
The camera didn't just break.
It collapsed—metal twisting inward, glass imploding, the device crushed into nothing by invisible force. The remains fell to the stone floor in a pathetic clatter.
Far away—
Evelyn screamed.
In her house, screens went black all at once.
Evelyn stared at the monitors in disbelief, fingers tightening until her nails bit into her palms. "No—no, no, no—"
The walls around her were still covered in photos. Aiden laughing. Aiden sleeping. Aiden pregnant. Frozen moments stolen and cherished and ruined.
Her breath came fast, wild.
Then the air changed.
Moonlight poured through the windows—not soft, not kind. It pressed down on her like judgment.
She dropped to her knees.
Somewhere, impossibly distant and terrifyingly close, a voice echoed—not spoken, but felt.
Enough.
The screens shattered.
Back in the den, the pups slowly calmed.
Keal let out a soft huff, nestling closer to Aiden's chest. Ryn's tail twitched weakly before going still. Lior sucked in a shaky breath and relaxed.
Aiden didn't move for a long moment.
Then—quiet, fierce—he said, "You don't unleash god-wrath around my children again. I don't care who deserves it."
Theron knelt in front of him, reverent. "You protected them from me."
Aiden met his gaze, unflinching. "I will always protect them. Even from you."
Something in Theron's expression broke—and healed—at the same time.
"Then," he said softly, "they truly have the strongest guardian in any realm."
Aiden snorted faintly. "Damn right."
Behind him, three tiny tails twitched.
Instinct had spoken.