Anya Holloway was six years old when her world quietly changed.
She was crouched near the shoreline of Westbridge, her small fingers clumsy as she tried to stack damp sand into a crooked tower. The ocean stretched endlessly before her, loud and bright, but Anya was focused on making the walls stand just a little higher.
A few steps behind her, Margaret Holloway watched with a fond smile, a straw hat shielding her eyes from the sun. "Careful, sweetheart," Margaret called gently. "That wave looks ambitious."
Anya laughed but did not look back.
That was when she felt it.
A strange tug bloomed deep in her chest, sharp and sudden, and entirely unfamiliar. It made her pause, her hands still buried in the sand. Without knowing why, Anya lifted her head.
Across the beach stood a boy about her age.
Alaric Stone was six years old, and the moment his dark eyes met hers, the world narrowed to a single point.
The breeze off the ocean stilled.
The sound of gulls faded.
Even the steady rush of waves seemed to quiet.
Something inside Alaric woke up.
He stood rigid beside his parents, his small hand slipping free from his mother's grasp.
"Alaric?" Evelyn Stone asked, surprised, turning toward him. She was elegant even in casual clothes, her posture straight, her gaze sharp and observant.
Beside her, Marcus Stone followed his son's line of sight. The instant his eyes landed on the girl by the shoreline, his expression darkened. Not with anger, but with something closer to alarm.
"Alaric," Marcus said carefully. "Stay here."
But Alaric did not hear him.
His feet moved on their own, carrying him across the sand until he stood directly in front of Anya. He stared at her as if she were the answer to a question he had never known how to ask.
His wolf, too young to be understood and too instinctive to be denied, stirred.
Mine.
"I found you," Alaric said, his voice steady in a way no six-year-old's should be.
Anya blinked, startled. "Found me?"
"You're mine."
The certainty in his words cut through the air.
Before any of the adults could intervene, Alaric reached out and wrapped his hand around hers. His grip was not rough. It was desperate and instinctive, as though letting go might cause something inside him to fracture.
Margaret inhaled sharply.
"Anya?" Margaret said, already moving closer.
"Alaric," Evelyn said at the same time, her tone sharp with warning.
Anya did not pull away.
She did not fully understand what the boy meant, but from the moment their eyes had met, she felt an unexpected warmth spread through her chest. There was no fear, only curiosity and an odd sense of comfort, as though standing beside him was the most natural thing in the world.
"I'm Anya," she said instead, her voice soft.
Alaric nodded once. "Alaric."
The adults exchanged glances. They were measured, tense, and filled with unspoken understanding.
Eventually, they moved a short distance away, lowering their voices. None of them missed how Alaric subtly shifted to stand between Anya and the rest of the beach, or how his gaze tracked her every movement.
The rest of the day unfolded under the sun.
Two six-year-olds built sandcastles that collapsed as quickly as they rose. They chased waves, shrieked when cold water soaked their clothes, and laughed until their sides hurt. Whenever Anya wandered, Alaric followed. Whenever another child came too close, his expression sharpened in a way no child would.
A short distance away, Margaret Holloway, Marcus Stone, and Evelyn Stone stood together, pretending to watch the ocean while their attention never truly left the two children.
Margaret broke the silence first.
"He hasn't let go of her once," she said softly. There was no accusation in her voice, only concern and quiet wonder. "Not since they met."
Evelyn folded her arms, her expression carefully composed. "He's never done that before. Not with anyone."
Marcus's gaze remained fixed on his son. "Alaric has always been sensitive to instinct," he said slowly. "More than most children his age."
"He's only six," Margaret said.
"So is Anya," Evelyn replied. "And yet she hasn't pulled away. Not even once."
Margaret watched as Anya laughed and leaned closer to Alaric, sand clinging to her knees. "She looks comfortable with him," she said. "As if she feels safe."
Evelyn exhaled quietly. "Recognition doesn't always wait for maturity. Sometimes it comes early. Too early."
Marcus's jaw tightened. "Bonds like that aren't supposed to form yet. The wolf is barely awake."
"And still," Margaret said, her eyes never leaving the children, "they look like they've known each other for years."
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the sound of waves and distant laughter.
"If this is what we think it is," Margaret said carefully, "what does it mean for them?"
Evelyn answered after a moment. "It means separation would hurt more than staying close."
Marcus nodded once. "It means pretending nothing happened would be a mistake."
Margaret looked at her daughter, then at the boy standing protectively beside her. "Then we protect them," she said simply. "Until they are old enough to understand what they feel."
The three adults fell quiet again.
Below them, Anya burst into laughter as another wave flattened their sandcastle. Alaric immediately dropped to his knees and began rebuilding, determination etched across his young face, as if it were his responsibility alone to make things right.
Marcus watched his son and felt a familiar weight settle in his chest. Some instincts, once awakened, could not be undone.
As the sky began to darken, Margaret checked her watch.
"Anya, it's time to go," she called.
Anya stood, brushing sand from her knees, only for Alaric's hand to tighten around hers.
"No," he said, panic flashing across his young face. "You can't go."
"Alaric," Marcus said, kneeling in front of him, his voice calm but firm. "She has to go home."
"She's mine," Alaric cried, his voice breaking as he clung to her hand. "She's mine."
It took both Marcus and Evelyn to soothe him, murmuring reassurances and promises. This was not goodbye. He would see her again. Anya was not being taken away forever.
Reluctantly and painfully, Alaric let go.
Anya watched him from beside her parents as the Stones comforted their son. Her chest ached in a way she did not yet have words for. She liked being with him. She did not want to leave. But even at six, she understood that some things were beyond her control.
Within weeks, the Stones moved from the central city of Westbridge to live closer to Anya. Alaric also transferred to Anya's school.
Nothing was said aloud, but the decision was clear.
From the moment two six-year-olds met on a stretch of sand in Westbridge, Alaric Stone and Anya Holloway became inseparable, and both families knew there was no undoing what fate had begun.