Page 19

Andros

I left her there for three days. Not out of cruelty, though I knew she'd scream it from the rooftops if she had the strength, but because I had to.

The last rune had broken with such violent force that even my wolf had gone still in its aftermath, ears flattened, tail low.

Not in fear of her, but in pain with her.

Bonds didn’t lie. I felt it deep, even with the fractures.

She was unravelling, raw and flayed from the inside, caught between the woman she pretended to be and the wolf she’d spent years trying to kill.

She wasn't safe. So yes. I left her.

But I checked on her. Every night. Every morning. Quiet, unseen, watching from the shadows as the fever burned through her veins, as the flush of her skin deepened, as her breath came shallow, twitching under the blankets.

I had food sent—light meals, fruits and broth, meat only when she stopped trembling. A healer came once, not to touch her, just to look. She told me what I already knew. The magic had taken its toll. Her body was fighting to readjust.

Eventually, she came back to herself. Not fully. But enough. The first time I saw her sit upright again, her wrists still red from the bindings, she glared at the guard like she wanted to kill him for breathing. That was when I gave the order to untie her.

Dain, of course, had asked about her constantly. He slipped questions into every conversation, tugged on every sleeve he passed in the halls, poked at every cook and servant with big, worried eyes.

“Where’s Lexi?”

“Why can’t I see her?”

“Did she get sick again?”

And I couldn’t let him see her. Not yet. Not like that.

So I made sure he was entertained, looked after, challenged enough to keep his mind busy and his feet too tired to go sneaking where he shouldn’t.

I even joined the pups' training one morning—something I hadn’t done in a long time. They were out in the lower yard, wooden blades and breath puffing like steam in the crisp morning air.

Dain was among them, smaller than the rest but quicker, his steps sharp, eager to learn. I stood with Garrick at the edge of the yard, watching the sparring matches unfold with half a mind while the rest of me drifted—back to her, as always.

During one of the breaks, Dain jogged over, sweat on his brow and excitement lighting his face.

“I’m gonna be the best warrior this pack’s ever seen,” he declared proudly, squaring his little shoulders like they could already carry armour.

I gave him a nod, arms crossed. “If you keep training the way you do, I don’t doubt it.”

He grinned, wide and full of something pure I rarely saw anymore. Then he ran back to his friends, picking up his sword with renewed purpose.

Beside me, Garrick exhaled through his nose. “How do you tell a human boy,” he asked quietly, “that he’ll never really be part of the pack?”

There was no venom in it. Just truth.

“Or do you think Lexa plans to turn him when he’s older?”

“Lexa?” I scoffed. “She doesn’t even want to be a wolf herself. She’d probably let herself rot before she ever turned someone else.”

Garrick looked at me sideways. “So what then? He trains. He bleeds for the crest. But he never belongs.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe that’s all he’ll get.”

But my thoughts had already drifted back to her.

To the quiet pulse of the bond between us—wrong, distorted, bent under the pressure of dark magic still lingering in her blood.

It didn’t behave like bonds should. It twisted.

Cut in and out. Sometimes I felt her like a whisper in the back of my mind, like warmth on the skin during a storm.

Other times, she vanished entirely, as if something was choking the connection at its root.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. A mark was a vow. A tether. An unshakable thread between souls. But with her, it felt like trying to hold smoke in my hand.

We walked in silence for a while, boots crunching over frost-hardened ground, the wind whistling low between the stones of the outer yard.

The morning sun had barely crested the eastern ridge, bleeding pale gold through the skeletal trees that clawed up along the path to the citadel.

Everything smelled of cold iron and pine, smoke curling up from distant chimneys, the scent of training sweat still clinging faintly to our cloaks.

The citadel loomed ahead, a shadow of stone and steel carved into the mountainside like it had grown from the ice itself.

Its towers scraped the sky with jagged defiance, black banners snapping high above the battlements, and the guards flanking the massive front gates stepped aside with bowed heads as we approached.

Garrick fell into stride beside me, his expression unreadable—until it wasn’t.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice lower than usual, not the easy banter he usually favoured. “Only…” He hesitated, then looked at me fully. “I couldn’t help but wonder if some of that tainted shit in her blood’s gonna slip through the bond and infect you now that you’ve marked her.”

I didn’t look at him, but the line of my jaw tightened.

“She’s not a curse,” I said.

“Didn’t say she was,” Garrick replied, but the concern lingered behind his eyes. “Just... she’s got something dark rotting in her spine, and you wrapped a bond around it like it wouldn’t bite.”

A beat of silence passed. Then he added, far too casually, “You want me to tie you to a bed next? Maybe knock some sense back into your head?”

Despite myself, a short laugh escaped. It was sharp, dry, and unexpected.

“I didn’t plan to do that,” I muttered, running a hand down my face. “She left me no choice. I warned her, Garrick. She wouldn’t stop. Not until she broke herself in half.”

Garrick glanced at me from the corner of his eye, his brow raised. “You bit her, Andros. You didn’t just make a decision. You made a claim.”

I stopped just before the inner gate, the stones beneath us slick with frost, and looked up at the looming walls of the citadel.

“I know,” I said.

“Do you, though?” Garrick asked, his voice quieting. “Have you thought about what this means for the pack? For us? You didn’t just bring in a rogue—you marked her. Publicly or not, that bond will change things. People talk. And strays don’t just become Luna material because you want them to.”

I turned to him slowly, my gaze cold.

“She’s not a stray anymore.”

Garrick studied me, long and hard, then gave a slow nod, not of agreement—but of acknowledgment.

“Then you’d better figure out what the fuck you’re going to do when the rest of them realize it too.”

He walked ahead, pushing open the door to the citadel with a creak of old wood and iron, his cloak trailing behind him like the end of a conversation I didn’t want to finish.

I didn’t move at first, just stood in the doorway, eyes narrowed at the rising sun, breath frosting in the cold air. The bond pulsed faintly under my skin—quiet for now, but ever-present.

Then a boy appeared from the shadows of the inner gate, chest heaving like he’d sprinted half the citadel to find me.

“Alpha,” he said, breathless but proud to have been chosen for the task. “The guests have arrived. They await you in the Great Hall.”

“Show them in. Garrick and I will join them shortly.”

He bowed and scurried off, the door slamming behind him.

We took the west corridor, past rows of mounted wolf crests and iron torches that lined the stone like sentries. The path to the Great Hall curved inward, its vaulted ceilings arching overhead like ribs of a giant beast. The air smelled of polished oak and hearth smoke, of steel and old history.

Inside, my men had arranged the space with long tables, heavy with food and wine, plates of roasted boar, fresh bread, thick stews still steaming in iron pots. Banners had been hung bearing both our sigils—ours in deep crimson and silver, theirs in a rich forest green sewn with earthen gold.

The Briarhold Pack.

They were no warriors—not by tradition. No great army. No bloodline soaked in conquest.

Briarhold was a pack of farmers, smiths, and crafters. Simple wolves. Proud. Tough. Their hands built the walls of their homes and buried their own dead. They’d survived in harsh lands with fewer men and less steel than any other pack I knew.

Now that Crescent Moon had been reduced to ash and whispers, their lands open and lawless, Briarhold wanted to secure trade. Establish routes through the forests and rivers we now controlled.

It was the smart move. We met at the base of the long table, where their Alpha stood waiting.

Alek Stoneforge—broad-shouldered, bearded, his skin weathered from years in the sun.

His Luna, Maera, stood beside him, six months pregnant and radiant with that serene strength only true mated pairs ever possessed.

Her hand rested on the curve of her belly as she smiled at me, no hint of fear in her gaze.

“Alpha,” I greeted with a nod and shook his hand. “Welcome to Blood Night.”

“Alpha,” Alek returned, his voice deep and warm. “You honour us.”

Garrick stepped forward, already gesturing to the side room prepared with food and firelight. “Come, the table’s ready. We don’t let allies go hungry in this hall.”

They followed, easy and relaxed, their Beta and two guards behind them. I watched their movements—measured but confident. These weren’t sycophants or soft-bellied diplomats. They might not train for war, but Briarhold could hold their own.

As we sat, I signalled one of my men forward and handed over a polished wooden box wrapped in dark cloth. The Beta placed it on the table before Maera.

“A gift,” I said. “For your son. When he arrives.”

Maera’s eyes lit up. “That’s generous.”

She opened the box slowly, revealing a hand-forged dagger—silversteel, small and light, but wickedly sharp, the handle carved with runes for protection and strength.

“From our best blacksmith,” I said. “A warrior’s blade, should he need it. Or something to hang above his cradle, to remind him he was born into strength.”