Page 56 of Fated (The Bonded Legacy #1)

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CALEB

T he air grew heavier as Crescent Fang moved in coordinated silence through the woods.

Even as the wolves crossed the forest expanse between the two territories, the acrid stench of smoke and blood reached Fenrir’s nose, carried on the wind like a warning.

Fenrir’s powerful form navigated the uneven terrain with predatory grace, Caleb’s consciousness riding the current of his wolf’s heightened senses.

Their shared awareness sharpened as they breached the tree line, their combined gaze sweeping over the Bloodstone courtyard.

The scene below was chaos.

Fires licked hungrily at homes and buildings, crackling flames sending up columns of bitter smoke that stung Caleb’s nostrils.

The air vibrated with a cacophony of sounds—snarls, yelps of pain, the wet tearing of flesh, and the hollow thud of bodies hitting the ground.

The metallic tang of blood overwhelmed his senses, layered with the acrid scent of fear and the charred smell of burning fur.

Blood pooled in the dirt, soaking into the earth beneath the lifeless bodies of wolves—both defenders and rogues. Others writhed, their pained whimpers carrying clearly through the night as they fought to rise.

The flickering orange glow cast grotesque, dancing shadows across the battlefield, turning familiar packlands into an alien landscape. Crescent Fang came to a halt at the ridge, eyes fixed on the carnage below, the heat from the fires palpable even from this distance.

It’s happening again.

Caleb’s lungs seized, each breath catching on invisible thorns.

The world tilted sideways as buried memories clawed their way up from the grave he’d dug at sixteen.

The mangled bodies of packmates, the wails of mourning wolves, the heavy silence of their loss—came rushing back with brutal clarity.

He stood frozen, vision narrowing to pinpoints.

I’ve brought them here to die.

The thought lashed through him, sharp and unrelenting. His warriors trusted him, and he’d led them into this chaos, into this slaughter.

Fenrir’s growl surged through his mind, a commanding force that cut through the spiral. “This is not then. You are not helpless now. Trust them. Trust me.”

Caleb blinked, forcing the memories back.

Asher’s wolf, Leif, and the Crescent Fang warriors stood behind him, golden eyes glowing with readiness, awaiting his command.

Caleb drew strength from their steady presence, mind sharpening with purpose.

He gave a sharp bark, his telepathic bond humming to life as he issued orders.

“Defend the Bloodstone pack. Protect their wolves. Do not attack unnecessarily—focus on driving the rogues back.”

With coordinated precision, Crescent Fang surged forward, their formation spreading like a wave of purpose as they descended into the melee.

The battle was unlike anything Caleb had faced before. Bloodstone wolves fought valiantly yet faltered against the rogues’ relentless ferocity. Crescent Fang wolves surged into the fray—intercepting attacks, shielding the vulnerable, trying to turn the tide one skirmish at a time.

The enemy was a twisted mix of madness and precision.

Some rogues fought in wolf form, feral and wild, their attacks reckless but brutal.

Others were partially shifted, using their claws with eerie precision as they engaged Bloodstone defenders in hand-to-hand combat.

Then there were those in tactical gear—rogues Caleb almost mistook for human if not for the sour, pungent scent that clung to them.

They wielded weapons: knives and crossbows glinting in the firelight.

“This is no ordinary attack.” Fenrir’s growl rippled through the pack mind. “There’s a mind behind this chaos.”

Fenrir and Leif surged toward the center of the packhouse courtyard, where the fighting was thickest. The massive wolves carved a path through the chaos, Fenrir’s muscular form a whirlwind of power as he tore through rogue ranks with devastating efficiency.

Leif moved in perfect sync, covering his alpha’s flank and dispatching any rogues who attempted to circle behind.

Twenty yards ahead, near the entrance to the main packhouse, Fenrir’s golden eyes caught a flash of silver fur.

Darius’s wolf, Ronan, broad and commanding, fought with ferocious precision as he shielded a trio of pups scrambling toward the stone steps of the building.

His teeth sank into the neck of a feral rogue, shaking the lifeless body free before whirling to meet another rogue charging from the direction of the burning stables.

Caleb spotted another rogue circling wide, its eyes locked on Ronan’s flank.

Fenrir pounced, intercepting the rogue mid-leap.

His jaws closed around its throat, snapping it with a sickening crunch.

The lifeless body dropped to the ground, and Fenrir turned toward Ronan, meeting the Bloodstone alpha’s wolf gaze.

Ronan bowed his head in brief acknowledgment before turning to engage another rogue. Fenrir growled low, focus already shifting back to the chaos around him.

A rogue leapt from behind an overturned cart, matted fur hanging in clumps as its claws raked across Fenrir’s flank with a sound like fabric tearing.

Caleb hissed as liquid fire bloomed along his side, the pain sharp and immediate, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. The rogue’s fetid breath—a mixture of sour and rot—washed over him in hot waves.

Fenrir twisted in a fluid counterattack, muscles bunching beneath midnight fur slick with sweat and blood.

His massive jaws locked onto the rogue’s shoulder with a bone-jarring impact that Caleb felt through his entire body.

Fangs punctured through muscle and sinew with a sickening tear, the resistance giving way with a sensation like biting through tough meat.

Warm blood sprayed in an arc across the dirt, spattering against Fenrir’s muzzle with a coppery taste that flooded Caleb’s mouth.

The rogue collapsed, its frantic snarls snuffed out, replaced by the hollow rattle of its final breath.

Fenrir’s ears pricked at movement near the eastern fence—two wolves cornered against wooden posts as five rogues advanced in a coordinated half-circle.

The tawny-colored male snarled viciously, placing himself between the attackers and the iridescent white she-wolf.

Caleb’s blood ran cold as the rogues tightened their circle.

The male lunged at the nearest attacker, teeth bared, but as he committed to the attack, a second rogue sprang from behind a burning storage shed.

The ambusher caught the male mid-leap, jaws clamping around his exposed throat and ripping through flesh with a savage efficiency that sent arterial spray across the fence posts.

The she-wolf’s anguished howl pierced the night—raw grief that vibrated through Caleb’s chest. The unmistakable cry of a mate severed from her other half.

She pawed desperately at the fallen male, claws scraping against his cooling fur with frantic urgency.

She nudged him with her nose, leaving smears of blood across her muzzle, breath coming in staccato bursts that created small clouds in the cold evening air.

The scent of her desperation—sharp and acrid—cut through even the overwhelming smells of death and fire.

Even as Caleb witnessed her grief, Fenrir’s awareness shifted elsewhere.

“She doesn’t see it.” Fenrir’s growl carried both urgency and dread.

A rogue in tactical gear raised its crossbow, aiming at the grieving she-wolf.

Fenrir bounded toward her, muscles coiling with explosive power as he closed the distance.

He was too late. The crossbow bolt struck her in the side, driving deep into her chest. The she-wolf collapsed beside the male, movements weak and sluggish as blood seeped from her wound.

Caleb didn’t know these wolves, but the tragedy of their loss overwhelmed him.

The rogues pushed harder, their coordination unsettling as they began to target Crescent Fang’s warriors. Caleb caught sight of Leif battling two partially shifted rogues—one wielding a knife. The rogue slashed Leif’s side, the blade cutting deep as he had intercepted Leif mid-leap.

Leif yelped in pain, collapsing to the ground as the rogue loomed over him.

Fenrir roared, his fury igniting a primal haze as Caleb’s vision blurred with red and his wolf took complete control.

They tore into the rogue ranks with vicious precision, Fenrir’s claws slashing through flesh and bone.

He pounced on the knife-wielding rogue, weight driving the feral wolf to the ground before his jaws snapped its neck in a clean, brutal motion.

Urgency tempered Fenrir’s rage. He darted through the battlefield, golden eyes slicing through chaos until they locked on his fallen beta.

The brown wolf lay on his side, breathing shallow and labored. Blood matted his fur where the rogue’s knife had slashed his flank. Fenrir nudged him gently, a low whine rumbling in his throat as Caleb’s thoughts screamed with worry.

Leif. Hold on.

Leif’s golden eyes flickered open. The wolf shifted back to Asher’s human form, gaze meeting Fenrir’s before his eyes closed again. Something cracked in Caleb’s chest at the sight, a physical pain that threatened to buckle his knees.

But Fenrir’s instincts surged forward, filling the hollow space.

The massive wolf lifted his head, his howl tearing through the battlefield—a rallying cry that surged through the Crescent Fang warriors.

Caleb felt their responses through the telepathic bond: renewed strength and unyielding determination.

The Crescent Fang wolves redoubled their efforts, their attacks growing more coordinated and severe as they drove the rogues back.