Page 29

His hands slide up my ribs, leaving trails of heat on my skin. The forest around us is silent save for our breathing, heavy in the midnight air. Nic's eyes gleam wolf-gold in the darkness as he lowers his mouth to mine.

"Luna," he whispers against my lips. "I've always—"

A howl tears through the night, ripping me from the pleasant haze of my mortifying dream.

I bolt upright, heart hammering against my ribs, sheets tangled around my legs.

For a disorienting moment, I'm caught between the phantom sensation of Nic's touch and the very real sound of chaos erupting outside my window.

Another howl rises, this one cut short. Not a communication howl—a battle cry.

I scramble from bed, sleep evaporating instantly. The clock reads 2:17 AM. Through the window, orange light flickers at the edge of the forest—fire. Dark shapes move across the grounds, some running toward the packhouse, others sprinting toward the eastern boundary.

We’re under attack. All this time spent fearing it, preparing for it, and suddenly, it doesn’t feel real.

But it’s real.

My hands tremble as I yank on jeans and a sweater, shove my feet into boots. A wave of nausea hits—morning sickness at the worst possible time—but I force it down through sheer will. No time for that now.

Shouts echo through the corridor as I grab my mother's journal from the nightstand, stuffing it into my pocket. The small book feels like a talisman, a connection to what I need to do.

The hallway outside my room churns with paNiced activity—pack members rushing toward the central building, parents carrying sleepy-eyed children, teenagers helping the elderly. The scent of fear hangs thick in the air, metallic and sharp.

"Luna!" Ruby appears at my elbow, her face pale. "It’s the Cheslem pack. They've breached the eastern perimeter. The Elders are gathering everyone in the main hall."

My mind races. The eastern perimeter—where my parents died defending the pack. Where their wards have been weakening for fifteen years.

"The ward markers," I say, the realization crystalizing. "That's what I need to reach."

Ruby grabs my arm. "Are you insane? The fighting is worst at the boundaries. Nic has ordered everyone to stay here—”

"I can help." I pull away, certainty growing with each second. "My mother's journal—the ward restoration—I have to try."

"You don't even know how!"

"I'll figure it out." My magic pulses beneath my skin, responding to my determination. "I have to try. For everyone."

For my child, though, I don't say this aloud.

Ruby's expression shifts from fear to resignation. "Luna—"

Whatever she planned to say is lost as the front doors burst open.

Pack members stream in, some supporting the injured.

Blood streaks the marble entryway, stark against the white stone.

Among the wounded, I recognize Theo Ennes, Thomas’ little brother, his arm hanging at an unnatural angle, and Melissa Blackwood, a deep gash across her forehead.

"Get to the basement!" someone shouts over the growing panic. "Everyone to the safe rooms!"

I move against the current, pushing toward the doors, driven by growing certainty. My magic feels different tonight—stronger, more purposeful, guiding me toward something I don't fully understand but can't ignore.

A large figure, a solid wall of tension and authority, suddenly blocks my path.

Nic.

His clothes are torn, smudges of dirt and what might be blood marking his face. His eyes lock onto mine with laser focus even amid the chaos.

"Where do you think you're going?" His voice cuts through the noise.

"The ward markers." I straighten, meeting his gaze. "I can help. I need to help, so don’t get in my way."

"You're staying here where it's safe." He grips my upper arm, not painfully but firmly enough to make his intention clear. Even that touch burns. Some part of me wants him to never let me go. "Get to the hall. Now . This isn’t a discussion."

There’s real fear in his voice and eyes for the first time in my memory.

"I can strengthen the wards," I insist, trying to pull away. "Like my parents did. I want to finish what they—”

"Your parents died doing exactly that." His face hardens. "I won't lose you the same way."

The raw emotion in his voice makes me pause, but only for a moment. "If I don't try, we could lose everything. The pack, the territory—" My child's future, I add silently. "Let me help, Nic."

"You don't even know how to access the ward system."

"My mother's journal has notes. And I have her magic." I step closer, lowering my voice despite the chaos around us. "You know I'm right. You know we need this. I have to try, Nic. It’s what they would have wanted me to do.”

It’s the only justification I can give him.

We both know I’m not doing this for Silvercreek.

For Ruby, perhaps, my oldest and only friend—or for James, who is trying to fix our relationship, and for Thomas, who has been nothing but kind to me.

Maybe even for Nic, though we both know I’d never say it to him.

His jaw clenches, conflict clear in his eyes. For a moment, I think he might actually listen. Then a massive crash from outside shakes the building, and screams erupt from the eastern wing.

"They're inside the perimeter!" Thomas's voice carries over the din. "Nic, we need you!"

Nic's attention splits for just a fraction of a second—enough for me to twist free of his grip. I back away, our eyes still locked.

"I'm sorry," I tell him. "But I have to try."

Before he can stop me, I turn and sprint toward the doors, dodging between paNiced pack members. I hear him shout my name, fury and fear mingling in his voice, but I don't stop.

Outside, the night has transformed into hell. The air reeks of smoke and blood and that strange wrongness I've come to associate with corrupted magic. Flames lick at the groundskeeper's shed, casting grotesque shadows across the lawn. In those shadows, battle rages.

Shifters clash in savage combat—Silvercreek wolves defending their territory against darker, twisted forms. The Cheslem wolves move wrong somehow, their joints bending at impossible angles, their eyes glowing an unnatural crimson. The same wrongness Nic described from the border patrol attack.

I skirt the fighting, keeping to the shadows as I make my way toward the eastern boundary.

Every instinct screams at me to turn back, to seek safety, but I push forward.

The ward marker is out there—the anchor point my parents created to protect this territory.

If there's any chance I can strengthen it, I have to try.

The sounds of battle fade as I enter the forest, replaced by an eerie silence. The trees loom dark and watchful, branches swaying in a wind I can't feel. I pull my mother's journal from my pocket, flipping to the page I've read a dozen times since finding it.

The primary ward marker sits where the old oak split in the lightning strike. The stone absorbs and amplifies the magic fed into it, creating a barrier that extends to the secondary markers.

I know the place. The lightning-struck oak is a pack landmark, a massive tree at the eastern edge of our territory that was split down the middle decades ago but somehow continues to live, growing around its own wound.

The forest floor is slick with fallen leaves, making my progress treacherous in the darkness.

Twice I slip, catching myself against rough bark.

My breath comes in quick gasps, lungs burning with exertion and fear.

The weight of what I'm attempting settles on my shoulders—I'm running toward danger when everyone else flees, with only the vaguest idea of what to do when I arrive.

A crash in the underbrush to my left makes me freeze. A dark shape bursts from between the trees—a Silvercreek wolf locked in combat with a Cheslem attacker. They roll past me in a blur of teeth and claws, neither noticing my presence in their battle frenzy.

I press on, faster now. The split oak can't be much farther.

When I finally reach the clearing, I recognize it immediately.

The massive oak stands sentinel at the center, its trunk split by ancient lightning but still alive, new growth spiraling around the old wound.

A stone about the size of a dinner plate sits at its base, half-buried in earth and roots.

Unremarkable to casual observation, but to my magical senses, it pulses with faint, familiar energy.

My mother’s magic. Faded but present, woven into the very substance of the stone.

I drop to my knees beside it, placing my hands on its cool surface. Now what? The journal described the connection but not the method. How did my mother channel her power into this system?

I close my eyes, trying to feel what she might have felt. The stone warms beneath my palms, responding to my touch. My magic rises to meet it, tentative at first, then with growing certainty.

Intent , I realize. The wards respond to intent as much as power.

I focus on protection, on safety, on the boundary between our territory and the outside world. I picture it as a wall of light, curving around our lands, keeping corruption at bay. My magic flows from my center, down my arms, into my fingertips, seeping into the stone.

The ward marker begins to glow, faint at first, then brighter, illuminating the clearing with silvery light. I feel something massive and complex awakening, a web of energy connecting to other points throughout the territory. The boundary wards—dormant for so long, now responding to my call.

A memory washes over me, not my own but my mother's, somehow preserved in the magic itself. Her hands on this same stone, my father beside her, their powers combining as darkness pressed against the borders. Their determination, their fear, their love for each other, and the pack they protected.

The connection strengthens. The stone grows brighter, pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat. I feel the ward beginning to solidify, energy flowing outward to reinforce the territory's boundaries. It's working. It's actually working.

Then, a shadow falls across me.

My concentration wavers, but I dare not break the connection now, not when the ward is still stabilizing. Whatever's behind me will have to wait just a few more seconds—

Pain explodes across my back as something slams into me, breaking my contact with the stone and sending me sprawling face-first into the dirt. The ward's light flickers and dims without my magic feeding it.

I roll onto my back, gasping for breath, and find myself staring up at the largest wolf I've ever seen. Black as midnight, with eyes that glow blood-red in the darkness. Corruption ripples across its form like heat waves, distorting the air around it.

A Cheslem Alpha.

It plants a massive paw on my chest, claws digging into my shirt but not quite breaking skin. A warning. Its lips curl back from yellowed fangs, muzzle hovering just inches from my face. The stench of its breath—rotting meat and something chemical, burning—makes my eyes water.

In that moment, terror crystallizes into perfect clarity. I think of my child, of Nic, of the pack fighting for their lives just beyond these trees. Of my parents who died on this very spot.

I reach for my magic, but the wolf's paw presses harder, cutting off my breath.

The last thing I see before darkness edges my vision is the wolf's jaws opening wide, saliva dripping onto my cheek as it prepares to tear out my throat.