If there was one thing Michael could confidently say he was good at, it was being a fly on the wall during pack meetings. It was not hard. He listened, but never spoke nor made a sound. His presence was required only to save face in front of the pack, not because his father actually wanted him there, despite forcing Michael into obedience by making him agree to attend.

This meeting was no different.

He found himself tucked away behind the dozens of predominantly male pack members that filled the Throne Room—close enough to the raised platform for his father to peer down and see he was in attendance, yet far enough to ensure he could be the first out the door once the meeting ended. To uphold the promise he had made, he would put in his time, get through the meeting, and then leave.

But they were already an hour in, and Michael was in constant battle with himself not to yawn. As hard as he tried to will himself to be interested in the pack's declining birth rates and lack of legitimate heirs, something more interesting garnered his attention—the fairy.

While his father rambled on about pros and cons of siring pups with omegas and not their mates, Michael, instead, thought about how she, who was someone's child, had been alone in the Woodlands for nearly a year. While pack members vehemently talked over one another, his mind recalled the softness in her voice that made him think it impossible for her to ever raise her voice above a loud whisper.

She puzzled him. Made him second guess if helping her was the correct decision. She had not come right out and verbally agreed with his plan, but Michael felt confident when he left her in the Woodlands two days prior that she was on board. But there was a lack of happiness, excitement or hopefulness he expected her to show after being presented with the opportunity to be reunited with her people.

Does she not believe it possible? Or does she doubt my ability to keep such a promise?

As he pondered between which of the two questions might hurt his pride less, he heard his name being called. He looked up from the floor to see all eyes in the room were on him, and the crowd that had surrounded him cleared a direct path that led from the stairs of the platform towards him—a path for his father to stare down at him from his throne.

The eerie silence in combination with the stares could have only meant a question had been directed at him. One in which every pair of ears in the room was waiting to hear the answer to.

It seemed his plan to get through the meeting unscathed and unnoticed had failed.

Michael looked across the room at his father and dropped his crossed arms to his sides. "I am sorry, father, can you repeat?"

Even with the distance between them, Michael caught the slight look of annoyance that crossed his father's face. "I said perhaps the sooner you are mated, the better. Once you are, you will have a duty to sire an heir and continue our blood line. Would you not agree?"

Michael's hands immediately balled into fists, the only reaction he could allow himself to have.

Of all the directions he might have thought this meeting would go, that had certainly not been one of them. It was obvious his father had called him out because he knew Michael would not—could not—openly reject anything his father—his Alpha—said. He wanted submission, and he wanted it in front of the pack.

"I did not realize we were here to discuss my personal matters, father."

"What you deem as 'personal matters' is detrimental to the wellbeing of the pack. As their future leader, it is your duty to resolve any and all issues."

When did this become my problem, and why is it my problem to fix? He had a long, long way to go before ever becoming the next Alpha. And unless his father—who had decades still left in him to continue as the pack's leader—had intentions of stepping down, then this was very much his father's problem.

"And it is your belief that taking a mate and having a couple of pups will solve this crisis of low birth rates?"

"Is leading by example not the best course of action? Will it not inspire the pack to follow suit?"

One by one, the pack rumbled in agreement with his father, though he was not entirely sure whether they actually agreed, or simply feared disagreeing with their Alpha.

"It seems the pack agrees. What say you, Michael?"

Michael's eyes scanned over the many faces in the room. Some pack members he had never spoken more than a few words to, while others he may have crossed paths with a few times in his entire life. Some had watched him grow up and knew him well. Some he knew very well. These were people whose duty to the crown meant laying their life on the line not just for him but for the Alpha family. People willing to follow, so long as they had someone worthy enough to lead.

A tale as old as time was the notion that someone who has something to lose has something to fight for. Fighters made perfect leaders. Followers needed leaders. Leaders needed something to protect.

In Michael's case, he needed a mate. An heir. A bloodline. Without any of those, he would not have a pack.

He stared down at the floor, half trying to suppress his rising anger, yet half wondering what might happen if he let it spill over.

From the moment he was told he would be appointed a mate, he was adamant he would not be forced into a union he did not want. He had made his thoughts on the matter clear to his mother—who was conveniently missing during this meeting—but had not been brave enough to do the same with his father, especially not after the promise he had made to fall in line. A promise he had made by swearing upon his mother's life, and, therefore, one he could not take lightly nor break.

So, despite every fibre of his being wanting to absolutely reject a mate and every duty and responsibility that came along with having one, the only thing Michael could do was play the part of an obedient, filial son.

He could not afford to be anything less.

His father would not accept anything less.

The pack did not deserve anything less.

With no other choice, Michael forced the anger down into a simmer before lifting his head. He looked at his father, and balled his fists even tighter when he saw the smirk on his face. And if that was not enough, along with the smirk, his father gave him a look.

Challenge me if you dare. It will not end well for you should you choose to.

There was only one way out—not just the situation, but the room—and both he and his father knew that. The sooner he gave his father what he wanted, the sooner the meeting would end and he could leave.

"You are right, father. The sooner the better."

* * *

Off in the distance, the sun was setting as Michael hurriedly fled the castle. When he had awoke that morning, the sun was high and the skies clear, but it was now snowing heavily and looked as though it was going to do so well into the night. Winter was a season that did not particularly bother him, but he found himself getting annoyed with every crunch of snow beneath his boots.

Michael was angry. Seething. But it had nothing to do with the unexpected snowfall, and everything to do with the unexpected trap he found himself caught in moments prior. After being forced to suppress that anger in the Throne Room, the only appropriate place he could go to vent and release all of it was Gabriel's grave.

Because this was all his brother's fault, and he had all intention of letting Gabriel know that.

Because of his hurried pace, he was able to make the ten-minute journey to the burial grounds in half that time. The normal pause he would have made at the gates—when his mind debated with his body whether visiting Gabriel would be a good or bad thing for him—had not happened, as both, for the first time in a long time, seemed to be in agreement with his plan.

As Michael neared Gabriel's grave, he opened his mouth, ready to rant rather than greet the moment he stepped foot in front of the headstone. But when that moment happened, instead of hurling curses and throwing blame towards his brother, he found himself staring down at a tiny finch standing between him and Gabriel's headstone.

He knew it unlikely, but it was as if the bird was purposely blocking his path.

He took a single step forward, expecting it to get startled and fly away, but it stayed right where it was, staring up at him with its beady black eyes. He had no quarrel with the tiny, helpless creature—nature was its home more than it was his—but there was just something about seeing it invading the space of the one place he wanted to keep to himself that bothered him.

Michael took another step towards it, but that time it chirped in response.

He told himself to ignore it. Hoped that if he stayed still and silent, the bird would decide to flee on its own. But when seconds turned into minutes, and the only movements the bird made was shaking off every snowflake that fell on top of its head, he could only sigh in defeat.

Fine. It can stay.

He would just pretend it was not there.

But Michael quickly learned that pretending something did not exist did not actually mean it did not. Every time he turned his head towards Gabriel's headstone and opened his mouth to speak, the bird chirped.

Every. Single. Time.

Whenever he tossed a glance the bird's way, it chirped. If he looked away from it, it chirped. If he stayed still and silent for more than ten seconds, it chirped.

Of course, chirping was what birds did. He knew that, and could not blame it for doing so. But because he was still very much annoyed from the pack meeting and running on very little patience, Michael closed the space between himself and the bird, and hoped its survival instincts kicked in and made it realize the threat he undoubtedly was before he reached it.

As he neared, the bird's response to his approach was to lift its left wing but not its right. That was when he noticed it. The reason why it would not fly away became clear: it had a broken wing.

The annoyance and anger that filled him entirely slowly began to recede upon the realization. He continued to stare down at the bird, and it only continued to stare back up at him.

He could not say he was sad for the bird—part of nature was being forced into its cruel and harsh game of survival of the fittest—but he did feel bad for it. His problems were very much problems, but, for a second, he realized they could have been worse.

The snow began to come down harder, and the sun was nearly set, only a few splashes of orange still stained the sky. Night was very much on its way, and it was undoubtedly going to be a cold one.

Michael did not feel the cold easily, so he could not tell what might be deemed as too cold for other creatures to survive. But if it did indeed snow throughout the night, he was not so sure the injured bird would make it to see the morning light.

Should I put it out of its misery, and save it from having to suffer later? That would be the right thing to do. But does a broken wing truly deserve a death sentence? But what is the alternative? Saving it?

Michael did not know the first thing about mending a broken wing, nor caring for a bird in general. Not to mention, he already had his plate full with the fairy in the Woodlands, and trying to keep her a secret while trying to secretly reunite her with her people was not going to be an easy feat. Where would he even find the time to nurse the bird back to health?

No longer a match against the falling snow, the bird gave up trying to fight the snowflakes off, turned around and slowly walked up to Gabriel's headstone.

Is it giving up? Choosing the place where it wants to die?

His eyes flickered back and forth between the tiny bird and Gabriel's headstone when a sudden thought came to him—that perhaps he was meant to cross paths with the bird. Meant to find it at Gabriel's grave. Then, as quickly as the previous thought came, another crossed his mind—that he was not meant to save Gabriel, but perhaps he could save the bird.

He had gone to Gabriel's grave because he was mad, and felt it unfair to be forced to adopt the life that was meant for his older brother. He wanted to tell him the path he was slowly and cautiously treading along was too much to bear. He wanted someone to blame.

But it was not until that moment, staring down at the helpless, little bird, that Michael realized he did not want someone to blame, just someone to fix his problem. Someone to take the weight off of his shoulders. Someone to tell him it was going to be alright—that he was going to be alright.

Gabriel had always been that someone. His fixer. His protector. He was no longer around to be that someone for Michael, which meant he had to become that someone. Whether it was for himself, his mother, the fairy, or even the bird, it was time for him to become that someone.

But he was not entirely sure if he could. Was not sure if he was ready.

Michael walked up to the headstone. Slowly, he bent down and placed his hand on the ground, palm side up. It took only a second for the tiny bird to step onto his hand. Afterwards, he stood up straight, and carefully held the bird to his chest. With his free hand, he placed it overtop the bird to shield it from the snow.

It was in the burial grounds, quite literally surrounded by death, but its damned incessant chirping had to have been proof it undoubtedly had the will to live, and was simply asking for a chance. So, Michael saw no other choice but to give it one.