Page 34

34

SONYA

T he wind cut through the pine trees, carrying with it the scent of blood long before the scout returned.

Sonya stood overlooking their hidden camp, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her white-blonde hair whipped against her cheekbones like tiny whips of moonlight.

The cold bit at her skin, but it was the chill in her soul that had her teeth gritted.

She had already felt it—something wrong, something final.

When the runner reached the edge of the clearing, panting and eyes wide, she ran down to where he went to meet Landon and some of the others around a fire.

When she got there, he was still catching his breath, but he didn’t need him to speak.

Not really. But when he did, her world narrowed to a pinpoint of fury.

“Mira’s dead,” he said, voice cracking like dry bark.

“Public execution. Roman made sure every elder, every pack member watched.”

The words didn’t register at first. Not really.

It was like being hit in the chest with something too fast, too hard, to brace against.

Mira.

The one elder who’d looked her in the eye and told her, “Challenge him. We’ll back you.” The woman who had whispered truths through trembling lips in the old ritual hall and came to see her when she had been locked up.

Now her head was mounted at the center of the pack square like a warning.

The scout looked down, avoiding her eyes, but his words kept falling like stones.

“He said… anyone caught harboring the Lycan King or… or you… would be dealt with the same. No trials. No mercy.”

“He used the word ‘traitor bitch,’ didn’t he?” she asked quietly.

The scout hesitated.

Then nodded. “Yeah. He made sure it echoed. And he said if no one came forward soon–”

“What?” SOnya snapped, knowing he was being all too hesitant.

“That your family was next. Starting with your mother. He doesn’t believe you haven't been in contact with them.” His voice was quiet and eyes on the ground, scared to look at her.

A muscle in Sonya’s jaw ticked. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides until her nails bit into her palms.

Landon was at her side before she could draw another breath. His presence hit her like warmth against the cold that had rooted in her bones. She didn’t look at him, not yet.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low, heavy with the kind of sorrow that was shared between warriors and lovers alike. “I know she mattered to you.”

Sonya let out a slow exhale through her nose. “She mattered to all of us.”

There was silence between them, but it wasn’t hollow. It throbbed with something ancient. Something rising.

She turned, her ice-blue eyes sharp as glass. “He’s not going to stop, Landon. He’s going to kill anyone who believes in us. In you.”

He nodded slowly. “Then we don’t give him the time to.”

Her eyes searched his face—softer than Roman’s, but no less commanding now. There was strength in the slope of his jaw, power in the warmth of his voice. His kindness didn’t make him weak. It made him dangerous. Because unlike Roman, Landon didn’t rule with fear.

He led with belief.

“War starts tomorrow,” he said flatly.

Sonya didn’t flinch. “Yeah. It does.”

He reached for her hand. She let him take it.

Around them, the camp moved in quiet urgency. Word was already spreading—through the bond, through hushed voices, through sharpened blades and readied bows. Packs that had once bared fangs at each other now trained side-by-side, united by one thing a shared refusal to kneel again to tyranny and a change for the better. For unity.

Sonya spotted Garen, the rogue with a scar splitting his left brow and jaw, adjusting his armor near the fire. He caught her gaze and nodded once. Behind him, a few younger shifters tightened leather bracers on each other’s arms. She recognized one from Roman’s pack—barely older than sixteen. Exiled for speaking out. His eyes were hard now. Ready.

“We hit the main compound,” she said to Landon. “We split them fast and loud. Cut the chain of command at the throat.”

“I want to give the non-combatants time to flee,” he said, ever the peacemaker. “We’ll hit at dawn. Quiet entry. Then strike.”

She nodded, appreciating that about him—his unwillingness to become what they were fighting.

But she? She would burn Roman’s house to the damn ground.

“I’m going to check on the supplies,” she said. “And the scouts posted near the southern line.”

Landon leaned in and kissed her temple. The contact grounded her. “Come back soon.”

She lingered in his warmth a second longer than necessary. “I always do.

The night settled into cold silence by the time she returned to her tent. She was exhausted, her limbs heavy, her mind buzzing.

Landon waited for her there. He was shirtless, the firelight casting warm shadows across his lean muscles. His wolf stirred just beneath the surface, as if it knew what tomorrow demanded. His green eyes flicked to hers the second she stepped inside.

“How is it?” he asked.

“Ready,” she murmured.

He watched her carefully. “And you?”

She tried to smile. Failed. “I’m ready to kill him, if that’s what you mean.”

Landon stepped closer, touching her face like she was breakable. “That’s not what I meant.”

Sonya exhaled shakily. “I’m scared. Not of the fight. But of what comes after.”

Landon’s voice was gentle but unwavering. “We rebuild. Together. No matter what.”

She searched his eyes and nodded, her chest tight. “Don’t you dare die on me.”

“I won’t,” he promised. “Not while you’re breathing.”

They stood that way for a long time—her hands on his bare chest, his fingers in her hair, their foreheads pressed together like prayer.

No more hiding. No more running.

Tomorrow, they would rise.

For Mira.

For her family.

For every rogue left bleeding in the woods.

For themselves.

And Sonya knew—down in her bones and her blood and the place her wolf curled up around the truth—that if they had to set the world on fire to break Roman’s grip?

Then so be it.

Let it burn.