A night of unseasonable clarity had settled over southern England—one of those rare, cold evenings where the stars burned sharp, their patterns stark between tatters of cloud. Charlie lay awake, listening to the wind skate over the roof tiles, feeling the pulse of the nine-node lattice like a heartbeat beneath his skin. The world outside the little Cambridge guesthouse was damp and silent, but something in the air kept him from sleep—a pressure, a summons, threaded through the drone of distant traffic and the rustle of the hedgerows.
He rose and padded down the creaking stairs, careful not to wake Sarah and Ben, who'd fallen asleep mid-braindump at the kitchen table, surrounded by open songbooks and a chessboard. He found Angus already in the garden, wrapped in a battered overcoat, mug steaming in his hand, face tilted to the moon.
"You heard it too?" Angus asked, not looking down.
Charlie nodded, shivering. "It's closer now."
They stood in companionable silence, the grass at their feet shining silver, until a distant howl split the night—long, haunting, not the wild dog's yelp but a sound thick with pain and meaning. Charlie's medallion pulsed. He felt a new, wild rhythm—less choir, more heartbeat, untamed and unbound.
By sunrise, all plans had changed. Sarah woke instantly when Charlie whispered "wolf," her eyes bright with a blend of scientific curiosity and childlike wonder. Ben tried to act nonchalant but packed a bag with more snacks and extra quartz pebbles than were strictly necessary.
Angus produced the old car—a battered estate with a dash cluttered by node-lattice monitoring devices and a satnav that occasionally spoke in Gaelic. The family loaded up, war diary tucked under Charlie's arm.
The journey southwest passed in a wash of hedges, rain-streaked fields, and the gentle hum of lattice harmonics from radio towers. Ben, a city boy, pressed his face to the window, scanning for signs of the wolf.
As they drew near Salisbury Plain, Charlie's skin prickled. Ley-lines—once faint, now fierce with awakened energy—crisscrossed the landscape, lighting the world in subtle aurora that only a few could see.
Sarah adjusted the dial on the dashboard's node meter. "It's spiking," she said. "Highest reading since our landing."
Angus grinned. "Stonehenge always sang loudest after a storm. Tonight, she howls."
They parked well off the main road, hiking the last kilometer over muddy sheep-paths and through bramble. The ancient circle reared up against the dusk: grey stones sharp and cold, their shadows reaching east like fingers. The world felt thinner here, the boundary between what was known and what could be imagined flexing with every breath.
As the moon crested the horizon, another howl tore through the dark—closer, urgent. Charlie broke into a run, Sarah and Ben following, Angus bringing up the rear with a muttered curse about reckless children and magic.
Within the standing stones, the air snapped and shimmered. On the far side, at the base of a toppled trilithon, something moved—large, pale-furred, limping. Its breath smoked in the cold air. The creature was unmistakable: an Irish wolfhound, huge even by the breed's standards, one hind leg matted with blood, eyes like lanterns—gold and wild, yet pleading.
Charlie slowed, hands open, heart hammering in sympathy. The medallion's pulse synchronized to the wolf's laboring breath, and a ghostly interface flickered at the edge of his vision: ??: Beast Bond Opportunity – Status Unknown.
Ben fumbled for a pebble, but Charlie shook his head, stepping closer, voice low. "You called. I'm here."
The wolf bared its teeth—not in threat, but warning. Behind it, a shadow detached from the stones—a humanoid figure in scale-stitched cloak, Thorned saboteur insignia faintly glowing.
Angus hissed. "Trouble, lad. Stay close."
The saboteur raised a dart rifle. The wolf snarled and lunged between the intruder and Charlie. The first shot fired—missing both as the wolf's jaws closed on the saboteur's arm. They struggled in a chaos of claws, fur, and flashing runes.
Charlie reached out, medallion burning hot. He shouted, "Lux sillus orm!"—the old spell for revealing hidden truth. Light flared, outlining saboteur and wolf alike. For a split second, the interface crystallized:
LINKED HEART—0%. Initiate Bond?
[Y/N]
Charlie met the wolf's gaze, felt a rush of pain, memory—bombardment, cages, loneliness. He opened his mind: Yes.
A surge of wild energy flashed through his body, dizzying. The wolf yelped, the saboteur staggered, clutching his ruined weapon.
Angus swung his staff. "Out!" The saboteur vanished, cloak shimmering him away into the mist.
Silence crashed back. The wolf, panting, pressed its enormous head into Charlie's shoulder, trembling.
Ben whispered, awe in every syllable, "What just happened?"
Charlie glanced at his medallion—now displaying a ghostly pawprint, a faint bar labeled Bond at zero percent. He didn't understand it all, but he knew: "We have a new ally. And a very old problem."
They camped at the edge of the stones, using Angus's heavy cloak as a bed for the wolf, who slept fitfully, leg bandaged by Leyla's field kit when she arrived at dusk. Sarah brewed tea; Ben set up a low fire, his hands shaking.
Angus told old stories while the wolf rested—of the Mutton line, of wolves who guarded children in the wars, of cryptid animals that vanished when the lattice dimmed. Charlie listened, hand on the wolf's thick fur, watching the new HUD flicker and resolve: Linked Heart 1%—Stabilizing.
That night, as the moon rose full and round, the wolf woke and whined. Charlie stroked its ears, whispering, "I'll find your name."
In the shadows, the saboteur's warning echoed, a reminder that peace would not last. Yet, for one moment, under moon and stone, Charlie's party felt whole—a world between breaths, the waystone set, the next path beckoning.