The scent of fear is soaked into the walls of Darkfang.
Once, this packhouse echoes with life, laughter bouncing off the stone hallways, the clang of training swords in the courtyard, the smell of meat roasting and wolves telling stories by the fire. Now, it stinks of blood and dread. Silence hangs over the place like a death shroud, broken only by whispers and footsteps that dare not fall too heavily.
And yet I am being dragged into yet another council meeting. Another room full of aging wolves with stiff spines and soft bellies, pretending they still have power in a world that has long moved past them.
Cade is the one who forces me to go. He doesn’t say it out loud, of course—he knows better. But he stands in my doorway this morning, jaw clenched, arms crossed, giving me that look like I am some untrained pup dodging responsibilities. His silence says what he doesn’t dare speak aloud.
They’re afraid. And when wolves are afraid, they start looking for new alphas.
So here I am, sitting at the head of a table carved from blackwood, my claws tapping idly on the armrest of my chair while a half-circle of elders stare at me like I am a bomb waiting to go off. Which, honestly, isn’t far from the truth.
Viron clears his throat—Elder Viron, with his crooked nose and age-curved spine. He is the kind who still thinks respect is earned through titles and gray hairs.
“Alpha Kael,” he begins, voice too calm for his own good. “The pack… grows restless.”
I don’t respond. Let him sweat.
“They’ve lost too much,” he continues. “First the former Alpha, now the scouts. The bloodline is unstable. Morale is low. They need something—someone—to hold onto. An heir. A Luna. A future.”
I lean forward slowly. The wood beneath my claws cracks with the pressure. “Did you just give me an order… old man?”
He pales. “No—of course not. I merely meant—”
Before the sentence finishes, I move.
My claws tear through his throat in a single, precise swipe.
Blood sprays across the table, arcing through the air and painting the marble floor crimson. The other elders don’t scream—they know better. But I feel their fear radiate like heat.
Viron gurgles, a wet, ugly sound, as he collapses sideways in a heap. The blood pools fast, soaking into the hem of my coat. I don’t bother stepping back.
I turn my gaze to the rest of them. “Let it be known,” I say quietly, my voice colder than the grave, “that I rule alone. Speak of mates again… and you’ll join him.”
I step over Viron’s corpse and leave the room, growling under my breath at their cowardice, their incompetence. They sit around squabbling about heirs and futures like this is some fairytale kingdom. Idiots.
There is no future if I don’t crush Talia first.
And speaking of Talia—my guards are still useless in finding her. Every trail has gone cold. Every informant has turned to dust beneath my magic or clamped their mouths shut with fear. It is infuriating.
So I decide to take matters into my own hands.
If I can’t find her… I’ll start by breaking the people she loves.
I descend into the dungeon beneath the packhouse, where the air is heavy with rot and despair. The torches lining the stone walls flicker weakly, as if even fire doesn’t want to live down here. The cells smell of old blood, mold, and iron.
Ronan is chained to the wall, shirtless, his body a map of pain, fresh lash marks sliced across his chest and back, some still seeping. His jaw is bruised. One eye swollen half-shut.
Across from him, kneeling in her own filth, is Sabrina.
Blood coats her mouth. One eye is nearly swollen shut. Her fingers are bent at unnatural angles, and a fresh welt glows across her cheekbone.
They still haven’t broken.
Stubborn little bastards.
I step between them and stand still, letting them feel the weight of my presence. They don’t flinch, but I can see it—the tightening of Ronan’s shoulders, the way Sabrina’s breath hitches.
“Tell me where she is,” I say, my tone deceptively calm. “Or I’ll make you watch each other die. Slowly.”
So I smile. “You were once proud,” I say. “Honored. Held high in this pack. Look at you now.” I step closer to Ronan, grabbing his face and turning it toward me. “Slaves. Broken. Forgotten.”
“You’re willing to die for her?” I ask, stepping back. “For Talia?”
That is when Sabrina spits blood at my feet.
I look down at the red streak across the stone, then back at her. “Careful, mutt.”
Her voice is hoarse, cracked, but filled with fire. “Yeah. Because she’s more Alpha than you’ll ever be.”
A guard steps forward with a glowing brand—red-hot and cruel—and without hesitation, presses it into Ronan’s back.
The scent of burning flesh fills the room.
Ronan doesn’t scream. He grits his teeth and arches in agony, eyes screwed shut, but he doesn’t make a sound.
Sabrina does. She cries out, dragging herself across the stone floor as if she could get to him. Her mangled fingers reach toward him helplessly.
I crouch in front of her. “That was for your mouth,” I say. “Want to try again?”
I stand slowly, frustration growing in my chest like wildfire. “You think silence is loyalty. But loyalty is meaningless when your Alpha is dead.”
I turn on my heel, boots clicking on stone, my coat swirling behind me.
As I leave the dungeon, I don’t speak to the guards. Don’t give them more orders.
The message has already been sent.
Pain is the language of wolves.
And I’ll keep speaking it… until someone tells me where the Flame is.
