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SONYA

S onya had never felt the woods so quiet.

Not even in the dead of night.

Not like this.

It was a silence that settled in her bones.

Heavy. Waiting. The kind that came before the kindling caught fire.

Before the strike hit the match.

She stood at the edge of the clearing, just past the ridge overlooking the pack lands—her old home.

Her hands were cold even though the spring air had warmed with the rising sun.

She adjusted her hood, concealing the white-blond hair that had once marked her with pride.

Now it made her a target.

A traitor. A threat.

It had been a week since the ambush.

A week since Landon shifted in a blaze of fury and fire and saved her from bleeding out on that dirt path.

She could still feel the echo of his howl in her chest. Could still see the flash of gold in his eyes when he looked at her like she was his whole world.

He was out there now, gathering the ones left behind.

Rogues. Castoffs. Forgotten bloodlines that hadn’t bent to Roman’s rule.

Landon had stepped into the prophecy like it had been stitched to his bones, and she’d watched him rise.

But this wasn’t his fight alone.

It never had been.

She had a choice to make—and she’d already made it.

Sonya moved down the trail, each step taking her closer to the heart of the compound.

Her compound. The one she was born into.

Trained in. Betrayed by.

The second her boots hit the gravel road leading into the circle of homes, heads turned.

Doors shut quietly. Curtains twitched.

The whispers came in waves—sharp and swift.

“There she is.”

“Marked by treason.”

“She has nerve, coming back here.”

Sonya kept walking.

She didn’t flinch.

She didn’t bow her head.

She walked like the alpha she should’ve been born to be.

The town hall sat squat and ominous on the north end, the old wood beams thick with the scent of tradition and rot.

She pushed through the doors like they didn’t weigh a hundred pounds each.

The room was empty save for the two elders seated in the front—Councilman Varrick and Elder Mira.

They looked up in tandem, surprise breaking across their weathered faces.

Mira stood first, old but not fragile, her dark eyes narrowing.

“Sonya Hawthorne,” she said, voice like aged oak.

“We heard you were dead.”

“You almost got your wish,” Sonya said flatly.

Varrick stood next, slower, adjusting his belt like her presence had just yanked him out of a nap.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m not here for permission,” she said.

“I’m here for justice.”

Mira crossed her arms. “Justice for what?”

“For the lies Roman’s been spreading. For the blood he’s spilled. For the wolves he’s branded and exiled just for questioning his orders.”

“You’re marked,” Varrick reminded her.

“Treason doesn’t get trials.”

“No,” Sonya said.

“But truth does.”

They exchanged glances.

Doubt. Fear. The look of wolves who had seen what happened to those who stood too tall in front of Roman’s fire.

“I’m invoking the ancient right of challenge,” Sonya said, her voice rising like a storm.

“I challenge Roman for the right to lead this pack.”

The silence hit hard.

Varrick stared. Mira blinked.

“You’re not even mated,” he scoffed.

“You’re barely standing.”

“I’m still here,” Sonya growled.

“And that’s more than I can say for the ones Roman’s torn down.”

“She has called an ancient right. We have to honor that,” Mira interrupted.

She looked at Sonya.

“If you challenge him, we will back you.”

Then, the doors slammed open behind her, boots scraping against the dirt floor.

Roman.

His scent hit her like smoke.

Dark. Burning. Poisoned by the scent of cruelty and old blood.

He stepped in wearing black.

Always black. Like a damn shadow made flesh.

“Well,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his lips.

“Didn’t expect to see you walk in. I figured you’d slither back, tail tucked.”

Sonya didn’t turn.

“I challenge you, Roman,” she said, loud enough for every elder in the building to hear.

“Publicly. With the council present.”

Roman chuckled.

“And who do you think’s going to stand for you? Who still calls you pack?”

She turned then, ice in her eyes.

“The ones who remember what it means to be pack. Not your lapdogs.”

Roman’s jaw ticked.

“You’re overstepping.”

“No,” she said.

“I’m finally standing where I belong.”

He stepped closer, voice low and venomous.

“And what will your little prophecy prince say when you die for nothing? What will Landon do when your body is dragged through the trees like the last fool who crossed me?”

Sonya didn’t blink.

“He’ll rise. And when he does, you’ll wish it was me you were fighting.”

Roman’s hand shot forward.

Cuffs.

Silver-laced.

The burn hit her wrists like fire.

“Then let’s give the people a show,” he sneered.

“Lock her up.”

Guards moved in before she could shift, before her wolf could rage.

But it wouldn’t have mattered anyway, the silver cuffs stopped her shift from happening.

It took everything she had not to scream, not to fight.

Not yet.

The elders didn’t speak.

Didn’t stop it.

Didn’t look at her as she was dragged down the hallway.

Mira didn’t say a word now that Roman had spoken.

He was the alpha, why would they?

Her vision blurred as Roman leaned in and whispered, just for her.

“This is your final act, Sonya. And when it’s over, they’ll forget you ever stood at all.”

But as the door slammed behind her and darkness closed in, Sonya smiled.

Because Roman didn’t know one thing.

Landon wasn’t done.

And neither was she.