C10

"My inner wolf is merely shifting its tracking hours, Ilyra, nothing more," I stated, forcing my jaws to close evenly around the roasted bone marrow as the silver-rot vibrated like cold needles through my core. "The Frostfang Data Nexus required consecutive night patrols this moon cycle, and skipping meat rations became a habit."

I had dropped a massive percentage of my physical mass since the rot took root in my veins. My natural appetite was entirely spent, and my body struggled to process any heavy proteins, but neither Draven nor Aziel had bothered to check the state of my health during the border campaigns.

Only my grandmother, the single entity who truly guarded my spirit with uncorrupted pack loyalty, could detect the sickness beneath my scent markers within a single glance.

But my tongue refused to pass the burden to her mind.

Ilyra had survived too many winters, and after the death of my dam, her old heart was too fragile to endure another structural tragedy within our lineage. My maternal uncle, Magnus Thornvale, was currently restricted to a medical sanctuary near the border, his beast failing under an incurable hepatic rot for moons. If my own form collapsed into dust, there would be no dominant male remaining to defend our territory from the marauders.

"Lardon, does your beast find no peace within the Calder Dominion?" Ilyra asked, her sharp gold eyes tracking the slight tremor in my fingers as she noted the absence of my mate. "Did your spirit clash with Draven’s authority during the high ridge gathering?"

What other variable would possess the power to keep the Alpha-Prime from presenting his throat at her hearth?

I set my bone knife down upon the timber, leaning forward to wrap my arms around her frail, fur-covered shoulders to project an artificial strength. "No, Matriarch, our alignment remains steady. Do not exhaust your instincts over my path. During the next sun-turn, I promise to drag his beast to this exact table so your own ears can verify his declaration."

The lie would serve its purpose until the high council stamped the dissolution scroll.

Once the blood-bond was legally severed, both of our packs could run on separate horizons.

For the remainder of the watch, Ilyra simply piled chunks of roasted flesh onto my wooden platter, her maternal instincts wishing she could force my frame to pack on twenty pounds of muscle before the next moon.

Even though the thick scent of grease made my stomach turn with silver-nausea, I forced a smile across my fangs and consumed every ration the matriarch provided.

Before my sleigh departed into the white waste, I wrapped the thick, protective scarf her hands had woven around my exposed neck.

Monday dawn.

My boots did not cross the iron threshold of the Calder Dominion fortress. I directed my winter sleigh straight to the high-security gates of Nighthowl Systems.

Draven had applied his alpha seal to my resignation papers before the frost could harden, and my duties with his scouts were officially closed. It was time to unleash my mind within a sovereign territory that respected my runes.

I left the masculine, heavy winter wrap I had crafted for Draven’s shoulders on the leather bench of the sleigh, wearing only my grandmother's woven garment as I ascended to the war room.

Thalia Raventhorne and Orion Greyclaw were already hovering over the central tactical grid.

They comprised the entire executive leadership of Nighthowl Systems' vanguard. Now that my technical runes were fully integrated into their defense network, the alliance pact recognized my beast as the third-largest shareholder of the corporation, though the junior engineers still viewed my rank with extreme skepticism.

Every scholar within the Nighthowl sectors held advanced Moon Scholar Ranks from elite military academies across the western seas or the Silverclaw Academy.

My administrative record, by comparison, was entirely unpolished my singular recognized contribution to the territory was my labor within the Mooncrest Relations Division.

And this was a lethal weapons innovation nexus, not a lounge for show-ponies to parade their status.

"Why did your communication links neglect to inform my wolf that your vanguard only accepts engineers holding a minimum of a Master's rank?" I asked, scanning the personnel roster on the crystal screen with a raised brow.

A basic graduate degree seemed to carry very little weight among these wolves.

Thalia waved her clawed hand dismissively, letting out a sharp bark of laughter. "Let them stack their academic scrolls until they touch the timber rafters; not a single one of those scholars could map half the runic paths your mind commands. Your wolf is Nighthowl’s absolute secret weapon!"

The Wraithfang Recon Unit blueprints my mind had calculated five winters past had already paralyzed the rival borders.

"Before your claw alters a single line of our vanguard armor, perhaps I should escort your carcass to the medical shamans for a full cranial scan," Orion grumbled, his massive arms crossed over his chest as his gold eyes studied my pale throat. "I need verification that your inner beast isn't still lovesick over the Calder throne. If your mind loses focus and abandons the weapon project halfway through the cycle, which commander am I supposed to roar at?"

I merely matched his stare, unbothered by his blunt delivery.

He remained the same old Orion harsh as a rogue winter storm.

"Commander Greyclaw, there is a submissive wolf at the outer gate demanding an audience," Orion’s personal guard announced, striking his iron spear against the timber door. "He claims he possesses a critical treaty regarding the Wraithfang Recon Unit."

"Identify the scent marker."

"Mireya Duskrell—the Moon Scholar from the Shadowpine Lunar Institute. He states he is navigating on the direct authority of Alpha-Prime Calder from the Calder Dominion."

At the mention of that name, the air in the room instantly soured, Thalia’s ears pinning back as her aura flared with ancient pack hatred. "And by what tribal right does that parasite think he can represent Draven’s vanguard? Command the guards to drive his boots from our mountain!"

The enforcer cast a helpless glance toward Orion.

Lady Raventhorne possessed a notorious blood-temper, but Commander Greyclaw usually maintained a colder, more calculated hold on his beast.

Orion’s gold eyes narrowed into slits of ice. "Inform the scholar that our circle is currently engaged with a high-ranking asset. He breached our perimeter without a herald's warning, and my war room holds no free watches for his line."

The guard offered a strained bow before retreating.

The dismissal was remarkably brutal for an initial diplomatic crossing.

They might as well have explicitly bared their fangs and told him his scent was an insult to the territory.

I, however, refused to let the ghost of the dominion disrupt my focus. From the exact watch I discovered Mireya was operating within the automated warcraft sector, my mind had mapped this inevitable confrontation.

My wolf was entirely detached from the drama now. I refused to let my historical pack scar bleed into the production of my weapons. "My core is unaffected, Thalia. Do not exhaust your aura on my account," I murmured softly.

Thalia rolled her eyes, her claws digging into the map table. "My wolf would surrender an entire gold vault to witness the exact second that vixen discovers you are the authentic engineer who carved the Wraithfang core! He lacks the ancestral right to even clean the grease from your riding boots! And Draven that Alpha must have cataracts clouding his vision!"

Back when my youth was bound by a classified blood-contract with the high military councils, my integrated reconnaissance-and-strike units had altered the balance of power, and the Wraithfang schematics were sealed under a sovereign vow. I had signed a five-year non-disclosure oath, preventing my tongue from claiming ownership of the runes.

Otherwise, that high-born scholar would never have possessed an opening to claim my shadow.

Suddenly, the heavy reinforced door was violently jarred on its iron hinges.

A male's voice, sharp, dominant, and thick with aristocratic impatience, cut through the council chamber: "I intend to verify exactly what manner of sovereign asset believes their rank possesses the authority to waste my hunting hours!"

When Thalia witnessed the identity of the wolf who had breached the threshold, her face turned dangerously dark. "Lucien Mordane, what madness has possessed your beast?"

Lucien frowned, casting a warning glare toward her throat. "Moon Scholar Duskrell arrived at this mountain in absolute good faith to align our borders. Is this the standard of diplomacy Nighthowl Systems extends to visiting scholars barring them from the hearth like rogue omegas?"

His gold eyes drifted across my form, and for a fraction of a second, a genuine shadow of shock flickered across his sharp features.

I stood tall and slender against the iron pillars, my posture retaining the graceful, refined elegance of a high-born male who had spent his youth within the sacred sanctuary sanctuaries. My dark curls were brushed neatly behind my ears, and my fair, pale skin made my sharp features stand out even more prominently despite the lack of ceremonial paint. Those cool, almond-shaped eyes gave my beast an air of untouchable, aristocratic poise.

My appearance carried a distinct masculine beauty that no warrior could easily dismiss.

"Do not attempt to convince my beast that this stray is your sovereign asset?" Lucien scoffed, a mocking laugh rippling through his chest. "He is merely a domestic lodge-keeper suited for cleansing linens and boiling broth, nothing more. And your war room is insulting Moon Scholar Duskrell for his presence?"

Lucien knew my lineage intimately. After all, I was the sworn brother of his childhood companion, Thalia. He also possessed structural knowledge that I was bound to an alpha's den, though the secret blood vow with Draven kept the specifics hidden from his house. He remembered being struck by my physical refinement during the early solstices and had even tracked my movements through the networks back then. The data had yielded nothing he concluded I was simply a pretty face to occupy an alpha's furs, devoid of technical value.

He saw no comparison to Mireya.

A submissive male as intellectually exceptional as Mireya was a rare breed across the northern territories.

"Did a stallion fracture your skull during the winter maneuvers? Since when does your lineage command a vote within the internal operations of Nighthowl Systems?" Thalia shot back, her voice dripping with pure territorial disdain. She had never harbored an ounce of patience for her brother's administrative posturing. He was a complete intellectual void when it came to mechanical runes.

Just two sun-turns past, her scouts had informed her that Lucien was nursing a pathetic, unrequited crush on Mireya. When the heralds started whispering rumors regarding Mireya and Draven’s impending blood-merger, this brilliant commander went out into the border taverns and consumed enough toxic moon-mead to land his form in a medical coma from alcohol poisoning.

Lucien shot another sharp glance at my leather tunic before stating, his tone carrying a weighted warning, "My wolf simply refuses to tolerate the lack of structural decorum in this chamber. Moon Scholar Duskrell has always held the Wraithfang engineering laws in the highest regard and desired an audience with Commander Greyclaw. Is it not a beneficial alliance for two accomplished minds to merge their vanguard projects? Yet your council is wasting a premium watch on a domestic thrall? Is this truly the absolute best your corporation can manifest?"

"And by what ancestral right does his scent judge our assets? He can remove his boots from our mountain, and your frame can follow his trail. Do not pollute my air with your lack of technical intellect," Thalia snapped, a fractured laugh of exasperation slipping past her incisors.

"Thalia!" Lucien’s temper flared, his alpha aura bristling as he turned his broad shoulders toward Orion. He could not endure the thought of Mireya waiting down in the freezing courtyard like a common petitioner. "Commander Greyclaw, why does your beast not descend to the gates and hold council with him?"

Orion toyed with his iron fountain pen, his gold eyes glinting with a dangerous, predatory amusement. "My mind is curious, Lucien which of your two forms, yours or Mireya’s, do you calculate carries more weight within this fortress?"

Lucien instantly deciphered the underlying trap of Orion’s question.

The commander meant neither of them possessed the self-awareness to recognize their true place within Nighthowl's hierarchy.

Furious, Lucien shot my chest a venomous glare before storming out of the war room, his heavy boots shaking the iron stairs.

I chose not to internalize the insult, but something about Mireya’s relentless pursuit of the Wraithfang units left my inner wolf unsettled. I possessed a distinct instinct that this administrative crossing was merely the opening skirmish.

Even though Lucien had attempted to soften the impact of Orion and Thalia’s rejection, Mireya received the energetic message loud and clear Nighthowl Systems held zero interest in his credentials.

The scholar pressed his lips into a tight line, his mind calculating the variables. Had his beast somehow offended the Nighthowl leadership during the previous solstice? Ever since his return from the Shadowpine Lunar Institute, every top-tier warlord he encountered had praised his intellect—was this weapon corporation simply utilizing a different diplomatic tactic?

Whatever the variable, he reached out through the telepathic pack link to Draven and gave him a quick breakdown of the administrative barrier.

Draven’s response across the link sounded entirely unfazed. "Do not agitate your core. My vanguard will handle the restriction."

I spent the remainder of the morning watch integrating myself into the primary data networks of Nighthowl Systems, my mind mentally sketching out a fresh plan of attack for the Wraithfang vipers. Immersing my spirit into an industry my beast truly loved made the blood in my veins feel alive again for the first time in winters.

I was executing these runic calculations for my own survival, not to secure the favor of an Alpha-Prime—for once, I was truly living my own life under the sky.

Even the exhausting drama of Draven and Aziel’s betrayal began to fade from my immediate senses.

The mid-day watch arrived.

The Calder Dominion fortress.

Draven closed the leather war file he had been analyzing, his large hand massaging his temples to ease the tension of the border reports. He glanced at the iron chronometer on the stone wall; the sun had already passed the first hour of afternoon. His stomach let out a low, physical growl—he reached out his left hand toward the edge of the oak desk, an action driven entirely by ancient habit.

But his calloused palm encountered only cold, empty timber.

He lifted his dark head, his amber eyes searching the familiar spot beside the weapon racks.

There used to be two elegant, insulated iron lunch boxes sitting there every single day, arriving precisely at the stroke of the noon watch. Resting beneath the handles, there would always be a small parchment note, the handwriting neat, graceful, and distinctly aristocratic, reminding his beast not to skip his rations during the council sessions.

"Ronzek," he roared into the corridor.

Ronzek Hale stepped into the war room instantly, his head bowed. "Alpha-Prime, does your beast require a messenger?"

Draven kept his amber gaze fixed entirely on the vacant, dusty timber to his left. "Did your scouts throw away today's domestic rations?"