C4

"Where is the omega stray, Lardon Vexley?" Selith Vayne barked, sauntering into the private room and dropping his leather hunting pouch onto the wolf-furs without a second thought.

I slowly pulled my hands away from my tunic, tracking the seventeen-winter-old beta who was all clumsy limbs and arrogant amber eyes. Draven Calder adjusted the heavy iron throat-guard of his armor, casting a chilling glance toward his younger brother. "Is that the manner of greeting taught by the pack mentors, Selith?"

Selith bared his small fangs in a pout. "You harbor zero affection for his presence, Alpha, so why should my tongue recognize him as the lodge master?"

The high-matron of the Calder Dominion had drummed the rhetoric into the pack's ears often enough—Lardon was a low-tier wolf who had married up into the ruling lineage, clawing his way into the obsidian fortress where he ought to live in absolute servitude. The elders had a definitive title for an omega of that status.

A glorified kennel keeper.

Draven shot his brother a calculating, dangerous look. "Bury the deception, beta. Expose your true agenda before my patience thins."

Selith’s eyes gleamed with youthful mischief. "Does the Alpha-Prime command the hunting parties throughout the daylight watch?"

"And if my claws are occupied?" Draven rumbled.

"The Matron is presiding over the ceremonial fur exhibition, our sire is mapping the southern borders, and the High Elder's health is too fractured to attend my progress evaluation at the Shadowpine Lunar Institute," Selith whined, swinging his legs over the carved wooden bench in a practiced display of submission. "Order Lardon to run the errand. He consumes our pack rations, drains the dominion's moonstone resources, and loiters within our home all season. His schedule is entirely empty."

Draven paused, his wolf shifting restlessly under his skin. "Direct the command to his face if you dare."

Selith huffed a breath but let out a sharp, mocking bark. "He crawls on his belly to secure your approval, Alpha, so he always treats my hierarchy with extra caution. He is exactly the breed of submissive wolf the rogue broadcasts warn you about—calculating, always wearing a false scent. Just send the mental link; he will never possess the courage to defy your roar."

Lately, Selith had grown entirely fixated on monitoring Mireya Duskrell’s public archived transmissions regarding Skyfang Rift Engineering, neglecting his combat training. He had zero intention of letting the Matron or the Alpha-Prime discover his failures from the institute masters. Lardon, by contrast, was a nameless shield; a public lashing from the instructors would never break his low spirit and he lacked the status to complain to Draven.

Draven appeared to weigh the political optics, then slung his heavy leather riding cloak over his broad shoulders and moved toward the stone threshold. "Acceptable. I will transmit the mandate to his quarters."

I awoke with a searing heat fracturing my skull, a low-grade silver-fever burning through my bloodline. These days, my inner wolf簡seemed to mutiny at the slightest physical strain; my spiritual immunity simply failed to mend the flesh the way it did before the decay took root.

I had already claimed medical absence from the Mooncrest Relations Division the dawn prior, and my sole objective for this sun-cycle was to reach the grand clinic to consult the master elders regarding a final, desperate marrow intervention.

By the time my boots crossed the stone threshold of the sanctuary lobby, my legs felt like waterlogged pine. I managed three agonizing steps before the world spun into a blur of shadows and the granite floor surged up to claim my face.

"Lardon!"

A frantic voice shattered the ringing in my ears.

Then, the darkness swallowed me whole.

When my consciousness finally drifted back into the light, the first scent to hit my nose was the familiar, sharp pine-needle aroma of my closest companion, Thalia Raventhorne, hovering over my cot.

Thalia’s features were a twisted knot of feral anxiety and pure irritation. "What manner of torment has Draven been inflicting upon your beast? The elder claims your wolf collapsed from absolute exhaustion—your fever only just broke under the cold-stone treatment."

My heart pounded violently against my ribs. I tensed, my fingers gripping the furs as a wave of panic hit me—had they discovered the silver-rot eating my bones?

"What ails your mind? Has the fever scorched your telepathic link?" Thalia called out, her voice rising in a panicked pitch. "Elder! His wolf is—"

"Silence your roar, I am intact," I winced, the high volume splitting my skull as I reached out to grab her wrist. The absolute last complication I required was Thalia broadcasting my terminal decay throughout the entire Bloodmoon territory—he was incapable of guarding a secret if his life hung in the balance. If my sire or the pack enforcers caught wind of my weakness, my exile would be executed before dusk.

"What business brings your scent to the medicinal quarters?" I asked, steering the conversation away from my carcass.

Thalia rolled his shoulders, sniffing the air. "My brainless brother engaged in a rogue moon-ale competition and ended up in the emergency chambers with silver-poisoning. I came down to evaluate whether his beast had expired yet."

He fixed me with a piercing, unrelenting glare. "But your aura looks completely decayed. Does this stem from Draven and that arrogant Moon Scholar he flaunts at the borders?"

Thalia had witnessed the live scrying projection of the mountain ritual, too. Only a handful of elite families knew Draven had secretly bound his blood to mine, yet the entire territory network was obsessed with his public, fairytale courtship of the "intruder wolf."

Vile. The both of them.

I felt entirely deadened inside, the fires of my rage having turned to cold ash moons ago. "I am dissolving the blood vow," I stated in a flat, hollow whisper. "Once the thirty-day cycle concludes, these three winter cycles of degradation will be nothing but a shadow behind me."

Thalia stared at me, his jaw dropping in absolute shock before his gold eyes narrowed with savage fury. "He dares to place that trespasser on the alpha throne?!"

When I sealed my lineage to Draven, I had sacrificed everything—my ancestral legacy, my hunting standing, even the highly coveted invitation to join the legendary Sterling Institute of Aeronautics. I had reshaped my entire nature to be the submissive mate his pack demanded, maintaining his halls, guarding his borders, and loving his cruel beast with every fiber of my soul.

Any wolf with eyes could see it wasn't my choice to break the pack; it had to be Draven casting his shadow mate into the wild.

I shook his head slowly. "The decision originated from my own jaws."

Thalia took two full minutes to process the weight of my words, then he struck his palms against his thighs, a wicked, triumphant grin splitting his face like a cub on a successful hunt. "That is the bloodline pride I remember! A brilliant mind like yours should be commanding entire territories, not wasting your lifespans on the Calder lineage. Return to the valleys and join Nighthowl Systems—I can secure you an equal share in the hunting rights."

Nighthowl Systems was a cutting-edge faction specializing in Wraithfang Recon Units, and Thalia held a massive stake in their territory vaults. He possessed zero understanding of the mechanical runes—he had been a hopeless scholar throughout his youth—but he understood the single most vital resource in the northern sector:

Raw gold.

And he knew how to deploy it to buy power.

At the mention of the vanguard faction, a faint spark of life flickered within my pale chest. If my academic trajectory hadn't been derailed by the pack alliance, my wolf would be directing Skyfang Rift Engineering today.

Scout units had become the single most dominant strategic advancement of our era, vital for territorial warfare, border defense, and tracking migratory game across the wilderness.

Winters ago, my master professor had only agreed to sign my recommendation to the elite research sector because I had single-handedly designed and calibrated the internal core for the integrated Wraithfang Recon Unit, model U.N. It unified long-range endurance, heavy runic payloads, lightning speed, and automated celestial navigation—a breakthrough that had already altered the tide of real pack wars on the front lines.

Within the engineering conclaves, my schematics remained the gold standard.

Yet after my submissive marriage crushed my path, I found myself physically broken and spiritually hollowed. Silver-rot at this stage of my life cast a lethal shadow over my future—I had no metric to calculate how many moons my heart had left to beat.

But that agonizing road had carved a final truth into my soul:

In the end, a wolf must fight for his own life. Live for your own beast.

Even if the elders couldn't purge the silver from my ribs, I refused to let regret dictate the remaining seasons of my life.

I desired...

To run back to my true craft. To unearth the wild dreams I had buried in the dirt.

Thalia knew nothing of runic engineering himself, but his vaults were deep and Nighthowl Systems retained some of the most formidable minds in the northern territories.

Thalia provided the gold; the engineers brought the intellect. In just a few winters, Nighthowl Systems had become a rising power in Bloodmoon’s industrial landscape, a dark horse with an unblemished reputation for warcraft.

But still—

"You forget, when I chose to bind myself to the Calder name, Orion Blackthorn severed all telepathic contact with my wolf. He commands Nighthowl Systems now. I highly doubt his beast would tolerate my scent in his war room."

The male who had authorized my original recommendation was Orion's own sire. Both father and son had placed their faith in my intellect, investing immense hope and resources, certain I would go on to achieve legendary feats—perhaps even bring glory to our ancestral lands.

But the day I accepted Draven's collar, I failed them completely.

Thalia scratched the fur at his collar. "Orion Blackthorn projects a savage exterior, but his inner wolf is soft regarding your history—you know this. Let me arrange a private meeting at the neutral borders so you two can air the blood. Truthfully, I believe his wolf still calls for you."

I managed a fractured, joyless smile.

If Darius hadn't engineered that political trap to elevate his own status—if he hadn't forced my hand and threatened my lineage into surrendering everything I held sacred—my life would have run a dazzlingly different path.

My communication slate buzzed against the stone table. Selith Vayne was forcing a link.

I frowned, my lip curling as I severed the connection.

With the dissolution ritual looming, I possessed zero patience for the beta's childish arrogance.

But Selith refused to acknowledge the rejection; the chimes kept piercing the silence, demanding and entitled.

On the fifth resonant chime, I pressed my teeth together and accepted the link.

"Your wolf is infuriating! Can your senses not identify my marker on the network?"

"State your business, beta," I commanded flatly.

"There is a mandatory progress review at the institute at the tenth hour. You are required to stand in for my Alpha brother. If the high masters question your presence, you will state you are our house keeper, do you understand?"

His brother had just paraded his alliance with Mireya before the high houses, and Selith had no intention of allowing the institute to form a negative impression regarding the Moon Scholar's status.

My tone remained chillingly measured. "I am not your dam. I am no longer bound to your Alpha brother's home. Redirect the command to his legal guardian. And hear this well, beta—"

"Your wolf has survived enough winters to comprehend what basic protocol means."

I cut the link, severing his voice.

I felt entirely drained of essence.

Selith had never shown my wolf an ounce of respect. Pups always mirror the snarling attitudes of the Alphas who sire them. Selith believed I had trapped Draven into our secret arrangement, and for three winters, every seasonal gathering, the boy would invade my quarters solely to make my existence a living hell—demanding meals, tracking his muddy furs across my floors, finding new avenues to disrupt my peace.

When the scent of courtship first began to rise between Draven and Mireya, Selith would purposely block my path just to prevent my wolf from interfering in their budding alignment.

Seventeen winters old—his beast should know the laws of the wild by now.

I owed his lineage nothing. I no longer needed to indulge his arrogance.

When Thalia saw that I was finally baring my fangs against the Calder bloodline, he realized my mind was set on the dissolution. He hurried back toward the Nighthowl Systems territory, determined to convince Orion Blackthorn to grant my wolf an audience.

I waited for the elder's herbal IV drip to empty into my veins.

Close to the fifth hour of evening, the slate chimed once more—this time, the marker belonged to the Matron of the Calder Dominion, Lady Seraph Kain.

I hesitated before allowing the transmission to pass.

"Where have you hidden Selith? He claimed your wolf would attend the progress review. The master instructor states your scent never graced the halls, Selith logged an absence claiming sickness, and now the tracking hounds cannot locate his trail!" Lady Seraph Kain’s voice was like ice breaking over a frozen river, sharp and heavy with impatience.

My brow furrowed.

I had not anticipated the beta running rogue.

Lady Seraph Kain had never looked upon my low rank with satisfaction—in truth, her behavior had always hovered on the edge of open warfare. If I hadn't "trapped" her prime son during his heat, she would have ensured Draven aligned his bloodline with a mate from the highest tier of the northern aristocracy.

"His location is unknown to my senses," I replied coldly.

"You are the wolf who abandoned the assignment! Attempting to escape your pack obligations once again?"

"It is no marvel your womb has failed to yield an heir to our lineage in three winters—you cannot even execute the basic tracking of a juvenile beta!"

A frail, ancient male voice interrupted the transmission from the background. "Let us not rouse the beast, Seraph. You are well aware of Lardon's nature." A sequence of hollow, dry coughs followed the words. "Selith is no longer a cub. He does not fall under Lardon's guardianship."

Draven’s grandfather, the old High Elder, was the solitary soul within the Calder Dominion who had ever offered my wolf a scrap of genuine warmth. For three winters, his authority had shielded me from the worst of the pack's cruelty. Draven had only agreed to the secret blood vow because the old warrior's spirit was fragile—he could not survive the stress of a fractured house. Furthermore, Draven’s grandfather and my own ancestral sire had run as war-brothers on the blood fields, so the old wolf had taken a profound liking to my spirit and smoothed the path for our mating.

Now, with the elder's failing health hanging in the balance, I reevaluated the risk. "I will attempt to track Selith’s scent."

Perhaps I had indulged the boy's arrogance too much in the seasons past, and my blunt rejection today had stung his pride. At that age, a beta's rebellion was a common hazard, but the wilderness was entirely unsafe for a lone youth after dusk. My sudden harshness had likely driven him into the shadows.

I ripped the herbal needle from my skin, my skull spinning violently, my balance nearly failing as I forced my boots onto the stone floor. I dialed Selith’s digits repeatedly.

Zero response.

Every mental link was blocked instantly.

As if the boy were purposefully mocking my tracking attempts.

My winters spent managing the Mooncrest Relations Division had not been in vain—my wolf was an expert at tracking hidden data and reading between the territorial lines. I combed through Selith’s digital network logs, his recent territory check-ins, and his status updates.

Finally, my metrics pinpointed the coordinates of an elite billiards lounge hidden in the upper neutral valleys.

The moment I stepped through the heavy wooden arches of the VIP chamber, my nostrils caught the scent of numerous familiar high-ranking wolves.

At the absolute center of the grand hall stood Draven Calder and Mireya Duskrell.

Right then, Selith was draping himself over Mireya’s shoulder, peppering the Moon Scholar with eager inquiries regarding the Silverclaw Academy.

The moment his amber eyes caught my pale form standing in the shadows of the doorway, Selith leaned heavily into Mireya’s space, his voice rising clearly over the clatter of the game. "Since my Alpha brother favors your presence so fiercely, I expect my tongue will no longer address you as 'Master Mireya.'"

"How about I address you as 'lodge master' instead?"