The Lycan King’s Mark (Nevara) by Tiffanie L. Campbell novel Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7 – QUIET PROVISIONS

Nevara

Midday light poured through the kitchen window, soft and clear, dusting the counter in pale gold. Outside, the world was still wet from last night’s mist–dew clinging to pine needles, collecting along the edge of the porch railing like beads of glass.

I leaned against the counter with my coffee in hand, watching the light stretch across faded cabinet doors. The chipped paint, the squeaky faucet, the tiny breath of breeze slipping under the door–all of it felt foreign and familiar at once.

I’d done it. I’d actually left.

And no one had come pounding on the door. No warriors. No summons. No Tobias.

Maybe they hadn’t even noticed.

That thought curled something bitter in my chest. Not surprise. Not pain. Just… confirmation.

I drained the last of my coffee, rinsed the mug in the sink, and turned toward the pantry. The door was narrow and half–hidden beside the stove, its knob rusted from time. I gave it a tug and blinked when it opened.

The shelves were stocked. Not overflowing, but enough to matter–rows of canned soup, beans, rice, flour, a dusty jar of honey, even a small bottle of olive oil.

I crouched to take a closer look.

Everything was labeled. Her handwriting. The same looping cursive that used to sign my field trip slips and leave notes in my lunchbox.

“Mom,” I whispered, my lips twitching into a crooked smile I hadn’t felt in days.

Of course she’d stocked it.

I closed the door gently, like I was tucking away a memory, and turned toward the old refrigerator. The compressor hummed when I pulled it open.

Cool air spilled out, followed by a soft mix of dairy and citrus. Inside sat milk, eggs, butter, a block of cheese, a sealed pack of bacon, and a single carton of orange juice. Enough to last a week if I stretched it.

But it was the note that caught my eye.

Pinned to the door with a chipped ceramic wolf paw magnet, folded once. My name written across the front in blue ink.

I pulled it down and opened it slowly.

Nev,

CHAPTER 7–QUIET PROVISIONS

I stocked the kitchen with enough to last you a couple of weeks–maybe longer if you ration.

Pantry has staples. Fridge has a few extras to get you started.

+25 Points

There’s a small town twelve miles west. By car, it’s about 45 minutes on the back roads. If you shift, it’s

closer to 20.

Your father’s old truck is behind the cabin, under the tarp. Keys are in the kitchen drawer. He checked it

over–runs fine. Just remember it guzzles gas.

If you go to town, don’t linger after dark. Locals don’t bother wolves passing through, but it’s better to stay

out of sight.

Take care of yourself, sweetheart.

We’ll check in soon.

Love,

Mom

The edge of the paper trembled slightly in my hands. One corner of the ink was smudged, like she’d

pressed her thumb there too long before folding it.

I pressed the note back under the magnet, smoothing the crease with my palm.

She’d always handled things that mattered without fanfare. My father fixed what was broken. My mother

made sure we never ran out of the quiet, invisible things that held us together.

I inhaled deeply, then turned toward the kitchen.

It wasn’t much, this place. But it was enough. Enough to live. Enough to breathe without someone

watching. Enough to begin again.

I cracked two eggs into the pan, added a slice of bacon, and let the smell fill the cabin. The sizzle echoed in the quiet like a memory coming back to life.

Once it was done, I sat near the window with the plate balanced on my knees and watched the forest sway. A rabbit darted across the clearing, its white tail flicking once before it vanished into the brush. Far

off, an owl hooted despite the sun still hanging high.

It was peaceful. Almost too peaceful.

I knew it wouldn’t last. Nothing ever did. But I let myself enjoy the moment anyway–the weight of real food in my stomach, the warmth of the coffee still lingering in my hands, and the ghost of my mother in

every thoughtful thing she’d left behind.

After the dishes were washed and drying in the rack, I pulled on my boots and stepped outside.

The air was still crisp but warming fast. The kind of autumn morning where every sound felt sharper than usual–pine needles underfoot, the breeze threading through branches, birdsong rising and fading in little

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CHAPTER 7–QUET PROVISIONS

bursts.

I wandered around the side of the cabin, taking in what I hadn’t seen the night before.

+25 Points)

The grass was wild and uneven, patches of clover pushing through last season’s leaves. The cabin itself

stood in a natural clearing, the woods forming a circle around it like silent witnesses.

In daylight, I could see the weathered boards, the moss along the base of the porch, the faint green tint on the window frames. It was old, yes. But solid. Rooted. Like it had been waiting for me to show up and

remember how to live without a spotlight overhead.

Behind the cabin, tucked beneath a sun–bleached tarp, was the truck my mother had mentioned.

The tarp peeled back with a soft crackle, revealing faded red paint dulled to rust–orange. The tires looked sturdy. The windshield was clean. When I opened the door, the familiar scent of engine grease and

cracked leather hit me hard.

I didn’t start it. No reason to draw attention. But knowing it was here–that I had a way out if I needed it-

was comfort enough.

A few yards away, just past a ring of trees, a small shed leaned against the shadows. The padlock hung

unlatched.

I pushed the door open and blinked.

Garden tools lined the walls. A trowel. A rake. A watering can. Everything hung in perfect order.

On the middle shelf, bundled neatly, were several packets of seeds. Beans. Carrots. Lettuce. Wildflowers.

Each tied with twine, each marked in my mother’s handwriting: For spring.

The scent of soil and warm wood filled the air.

I trailed my hand across the small workbench, spotting a jar of nails, a roll of twine, and a box of matches

tucked beside an old oil lamp. Everything had its place. Nothing forgotten.

Outside, beside the shed, a chopping stump sat surrounded by a fresh stack of firewood. The axe leaning against it had been sharpened recently. Its handle smooth and worn, but steady in my grip when I tested it.

“She really thought of everything,” I murmured.

A few paces away, I found a small garden plot–ringed with rough timber and lined with stones. Herbs still clung to life in one corner: rosemary, thyme, the last stubborn stalks of sage. The soil had been turned

recently. Damp and rich.

I knelt by the fence and pressed my palm flat against the dirt. It was cool to the touch. Alive in a way that tugged at something deep in me.

“I can work with this,” I said softly.

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