We Meet At Last

The climb to Moonvale was grueling, frost-glazed rocks jutting out at impossible angles as they made their slow ascent. Luther's warriors moved with practiced silence, their blood-spattered gear and haunted expressions telling stories Ethan wasn't sure he wanted to hear.

Nobody mentioned the earlier fight. There's really no casual way to bring up watching someone tear through hunters like tissue paper.

The bond in Ethan's chest pulled like a compass needle, pointing him toward Moonvale's glow through the trees. His blood still hummed from the fight, definitely not just regular adrenaline anymore. Whatever supernatural upgrade package he'd been born with, it wasn't anything he'd been prepared for.

"You're bleeding," Milly announced, materializing beside him. One hand hovered near her revolver, ready for trouble. "And not in a minor way."

"It's fine," Ethan replied, though it definitely wasn't. The wound would heal. Eventually. Probably.

"Right," Milly drawled. "Because 'fine' is what people look like when they're bleeding out. Just because you've got some premium supernatural juice doesn't mean you're immortal."

"Save the testosterone tournament for later," Luther called from the back, his voice carrying decades of command. "Moonvale's less than a mile out. If anything's still following us, they'll hit before we cross the boundary."

Rogan snorted, adjusting his shotgun. "After watching the kid turn those hunters into confetti? They'd have to be suicidal."

Ethan ignored him, focused on the bond that felt like it was trying to rewrite his DNA with every pulse. Julian was close—so close that the connection burned in his chest like a star going supernova.

The trees finally thinned, revealing Moonvale in all its fortified glory. Steel gates stood guard, flanked by two armed sentries whose expressions suggested they'd seen enough to last several lifetimes.

"Halt!" one called out. "Identify yourselves!"

"Luther Jensen," Luther replied, stepping forward with authority. "Alpha Lenny's expecting us. This is Ethan."

The gates groaned open. Moonvale sprawled before them, a collection of buildings caught between rustic charm and supernatural fortress. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the air carried the heavy scent of wolves, pine, and woodsmoke.

Alpha Lenny and Luna Elsa emerged, their presence commanding immediate attention. They moved with the kind of grace that came from generations of power, though Ethan noticed the slight favor in Lenny's left leg—an old wound that even supernatural healing couldn't fully erase.

"This is him?" Lenny asked, studying Ethan with ancient eyes.

"Serena's son," Luther confirmed, then stepped closer to Lenny. Ethan caught Luther's whispered words with his newly enhanced hearing: "He's a firebug, Lenny. Never seen anything like it. Took out half a dozen rogues with flames that came right from his hands. Like Serena, but stronger."

Lenny's sharp intake of breath was audible even without supernatural hearing. His gaze snapped to Ethan with renewed intensity, like he was trying to see through him to whatever ancient power lurked beneath. One hand unconsciously moved to his own shoulder, where Ethan knew now a similar mark must lie.

Luna Elsa stepped forward, her movements liquid grace. "The birthmark," she said, her voice carrying an edge of urgency. "On your shoulder blade. May I see it?"

Ethan blinked. "How did you—"

"Please," she interrupted. "It's important. Your mother had one just like it. So does Lenny, though his is... different."

Ethan hesitated, then pulled his torn jacket aside, tugging his shirt collar down to reveal his left shoulder blade. The mark there was unmistakable now—a wolf's head formed of intricate, swirling lines that seemed to shift in the dim light, as if the wolf might turn its head at any moment. 

Luna Elsa's fingers traced the air above it, not quite touching. "Just like Serena's," she murmured. "The same size, the same intensity. Lenny's is smaller, more subtle. A whisper where yours is a shout." Her eyes met Lenny's, some unspoken understanding passing between them. "The bloodline runs strong in him."

But Ethan was already moving, following the bond's pull toward a cabin set apart from the others. The birthmark could wait. Julian couldn't.

The cabin's interior hit him with a wall of scents: herbs, wood, and something metallic that made his wolf instincts bristle. An elderly woman—Meemaw—stood by the bed, radiating authority that felt older than the mountains themselves.

"Well, look who finally made it," she drawled. "Get in here, sugar. He's been waiting on you."

And there was Julian, pale as morning frost, his breathing shallow and pained. His hands twitched at his sides, and Ethan's chest tightened with recognition. Four years of volunteering in his high school's Special Ed program had taught him more than just ASL—it had taught him to read pain, to understand the way hands could speak volumes when voices couldn't.

Those afternoons spent helping kids find their voice through sign language felt like a lifetime ago, but his hands remembered. Every gesture, every movement he'd learned trying to make scared kids feel less alone, it had all been preparing him for this moment.

Julian's eyes fluttered open, dark and unfocused. His hands moved in weak signs that Ethan caught instantly: "You're real?"

"Yeah," Ethan replied, both speaking and signing, muscle memory taking over. "I'm real." The familiar movements felt like coming home, even as the bond hummed between them with supernatural energy.

Meemaw's eyes widened with pleasant surprise. "Well, praise all that's holy, you know sign language!" She turned to Milly with a knowing look. "And here we were worried about communication."

"Oh thank god," Milly breathed, slumping against the doorframe. "Another translator. Do you know how hard it is being one of the few who can understand him when he's being particularly... Julian?" She waved her hands in a gesture that somehow perfectly conveyed 'dramatic supernatural teenager with attitude.'

Julian's hands trembled as he signed again: "Thought I dreamed you. Everything hurts."

"I know," Ethan signed back, his movements gentle and clear, just like he'd learned working with kids too tired or overwhelmed to focus on complex signs. "But I'm here now."

"Your signing is beautiful," Meemaw observed, her weathered hands moving in fluid ASL as she spoke. "Clean, precise, but with heart. Where did you learn?"

"High school," Ethan signed and spoke simultaneously, a habit from his volunteering days. "Special Ed program. Four years."

"Ah," Meemaw nodded, understanding lighting her eyes. "That explains the patience in your movements. Most people sign like they're trying to swat flies. You sign like you're telling stories."

Julian's fingers spelled out: "My hero knows my language. Very smooth."

"Careful," Milly signed with a smirk. "His head's big enough already after the whole fire-hands thing."

Julian's eyebrows shot up, his hands moving quickly: "Fire-hands?"

"Later," Ethan signed, catching the slight tremor in Julian's hands, the way his fingers tensed between signs—tells he'd learned to recognize during those long afternoons in the Special Ed classroom. Pain signs, exhaustion markers. His own hands moved smoothly in response: "Rest. I've got you."

Behind them, Luna Elsa and Alpha Lenny continued their hushed discussion about birthmarks and bloodlines. Ethan caught fragments with his enhanced hearing: "...just like Serena's mark..." "...the prophecy spoke of the wolfhead mark..." "...but the fire, Lenny, the fire changes everything..."

The room filled with people and plans, but Ethan maintained his silent conversation with Julian, fingers dancing through words that felt more intimate than speech. Julian's signing style was different from what Ethan was used to—more fluid, more expressive. Where Ethan's ASL was shaped by years of educational settings, Julian's had a poetry to it, a grace that spoke of someone who'd grown up with the language.

"Your signing's good," Julian's fingers commented. "Better than Milly's."

"I heard that," Milly signed from across the room, her movements exaggeratedly offended.

"You were meant to," Julian responded, his signs carrying what would have been a laugh in spoken words.

Meemaw watched their exchange with approval. "It's good," she signed, her own movements carrying decades of practice. "The bond works better with clear communication. And heaven knows we've been struggling to keep up with this one's sass in sign form."

"Whatever's out there," Alpha Lenny rumbled, breaking into their silent conversation, "it won't stop. Not until it gets what it wants—or we end it first." His hand absently rubbed his shoulder where his own birthmark lay, smaller and fainter than Ethan's but carrying the same ancient weight.

Ethan kept one hand linked with Julian's, ready for any sign of distress, while his other hand maintained their silent dialogue: "Let them try."

Julian's fingers squeezed his in response, and then formed one more sign, small but clear: "Together."

The ancient power in Ethan's blood rose to meet that promise, while somewhere behind him, Luna Elsa and Alpha Lenny continued their hushed discussion about prophetic birthmarks, about powers that hadn't been seen in generations, about a mother who had carried the same mark and wielded the same fire. But none of that mattered as much as the quiet conversation happening between two pairs of hands, speaking a language that bridged both their past and their supernatural present.

After all, he hadn't spent four years learning to understand silence just to lose this connection now. The power in his blood might be supernatural, but sometimes the most important strengths were the ones you learned helping others find their voice—even if those voices now spoke of fire and fate and powers that defied explanation.

The wolf's head on his shoulder blade seemed to burn with renewed intensity, a reminder of inheritance and destiny. But right now, the most important inheritance wasn't the mark or the fire—it was the simple ability to understand hands speaking in silence, to bridge the gap between worlds with nothing more than careful movements and patient attention.