C5

"My business on this floor does not concern your Alpha," I said, keeping my voice as level as the silver-rot burning in my side would allow. "I am here for my personal logs. Nothing more."

Ronzek sneered, his nostrils flaring as he stepped directly into my path, blocking the corridor with all the self-righteousness of a high-ranking pack enforcer. "Your logs? Do you take me for a half-grown cub, Lardon? You logged a permanent resignation, yet here you are, hovering around the executive tier like a phantom. If you truly desired to sever your service, your boots would be tracking the outer mud, not these granite floors."

I didn't answer him. I simply reached into my tunic and pulled out the physical archive key, holding it between my fingers. The cold iron bit into my skin, matching the absolute freeze settling over my heart.

Ronzek’s eyes darted to the key, his jaw tightening. Before he could unleash another biting remark, the heavy oak doors of the grand war room swung open.

Draven stepped out. His massive frame immediately dominated the narrow stone corridor, the scent of fresh pine and dominant alpha authority hitting my senses like a physical blow. His amber eyes swept over the scene, locking onto my pale face, his brow dropping into a dangerous, dark line.

"What is the meaning of this racket, Ronzek?" Draven’s deep rumble vibrated through the floorboards.

"Alpha-Prime," Ronzek immediately bowed his head, shifting his stance to show submission. "Lord Vexley has ascended to the high tier without authorization. He claims he is here to clear his records, but his presence is disrupting the council's focus."

Draven closed the distance between us, his heavy leather boots thudding against the stone. He loomed over me, his predatory gaze dropping to the silver key in my hand, then tracking up to the dark shadows bruising the skin beneath my eyes. "I believe my words in the valley corridor were explicit, Lardon. You are to remain at your station until Mireya's name is completely cleared of the border gossip. Who authorized your ascent to this floor?"

"My own jaws authorized it," I said, refusing to lower my gaze this time. My fingers trembled against the iron key, but I kept my shoulders straight, masking the agonizing heat fracturing my ribs. "The relations division has been completely transferred to my assistant. The files are locked. I am no longer a hound on your leash, Draven."

A suffocating silence fell over the hallway. Ronzek drew a sharp breath, his eyes widening at my blatant defiance. No low-ranking wolf had ever addressed the Alpha-Prime by his personal name on this floor, let alone rejected a direct territorial command.

Draven’s amber irises flashed with a sudden, arctic fury. He stepped closer, his chest nearly brushing mine, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly growl that sent a tremor of instinctual fear straight to my inner wolf. "You speak of dissolution and resignation as if the Calder Dominion belongs to your whim. Your mating bond was sealed under my protection. Until the tribal altar processes the scrolls, your wolf answers to my roar."

"Then drag me to the altar today," I whispered, my voice cracking under the weight of the silver fever tearing through my blood. "Why wait the thirty days? If my presence fouls your air so deeply, let us step before the elders and cut the bond now. You can return to Mireya's bed without a single shadow on your lineage."

Draven froze, his powerful jaw locking into stone. For a fraction of a second, something raw and unreadable flickered in the depths of his golden eyes—a sudden, sharp tension that looked almost like doubt.

"The tribal law requires a cooling-off cycle," Draven rumbled, his voice losing its mocking edge, turning heavy and dark. "We do not break blood laws for your emotional tantrums."

"This is no tantrum," I said softly, dropping the archive key at Ronzek’s boots with a dull clank. "Keep the desk. Keep the title. I am leaving."

I turned on my heel and walked toward the iron elevator gates, refusing to look back at the Alpha who had spent three winter cycles keeping me hidden in the dark. Every step felt like walking on jagged glass as the silver-rot clawed at my chest, but I kept my jaw locked, swallowing the copper taste of blood rising in my throat.

Behind me, Ronzek’s voice drifted down the corridor, hesitant and confused. "Alpha-Prime... should I deploy the perimeter guards to lock him in his quarters?"

Draven didn't answer immediately. I could feel his heavy, predatory gaze burning into my back until the iron gates slid shut, cutting off the executive tier completely.

By the tenth hour of Friday morning, the transport was steering me far away from the black stone fortress of the Calder Dominion. The medicine the elders had given me was losing its grip; my hands left slick, sweaty marks against the steering wheel as I forced my breathing to slow. I had a far more vital destination to reach before my strength failed entirely.

The regional combat fields.

When I parked the transport near the edge of the training grounds, the thunderous roar of specialized engines already echoed across the valley. High above the dirt trenches, three Wraithfang Recon Units were cutting through the sky in a tight, aggressive formation, their metallic wings catching the midday sun as their runic propulsion systems left trails of shimmering blue light.

My inner wolf stirred, a faint, long-buried spark of pride warming my pale chest. This was my true craft. The integrated core humming inside those scout units was built entirely on the mathematical formulas I had calculated before my marriage crushed my path.

I pulled my fur-lined hood low over my face, stepping out into the cold mountain air. My twisted ankle from the briars was still throbbing, forcing me into a slight limp as I navigated the gravel pathway toward the VIP judging platform.

"Lardon?"

A sharp, heavily textured voice cut through the noise of the trial engines.

I paused, my breath catching in my throat as I lifted my head. Standing at the base of the wooden steps was Orion Blackthorn.

The commander of Nighthowl Systems looked exactly as he had three winters ago—massive, imposing, with roughly cut dark fur lining his leather combat vest and a pair of piercing silver eyes that could read a battlefield in a single glance. He was surrounded by elite engineers and vault keepers, but the moment his gaze caught my form, his entire posture went rigid.

The high-ranking Alphas around him fell silent, tracking his sudden shift in focus.

Orion stepped away from his inner circle, his boots crushing the gravel as he closed the distance between us, his nostrils flaring slightly as he caught my scent. "Thalia claimed your wolf would be running the outer valleys today... but I did not believe his tongue."

"Orion," I managed to say, my throat feeling tight and raw. "I came to look upon the combat trials. The U.N. core looks... exceptional in the sky."

Orion’s silver eyes scanned my ghostly features, his brow knitting together in an immediate, intense scowl. He didn't look at the scout units above; his focus remained entirely locked on the sickly pallor of my cheeks and the way my hand was pressed tightly against my side. "Your wolf looks completely fractured, Lardon. What has the Calder lineage done to your blood?"

"Nothing," I lied softly, averting my eyes. "I am simply adjusting to the seasonal shift."

"Do not play the submissive hound with me," Orion growled, a low, protective rumble vibrating in his chest that carried more genuine concern than anything Draven had offered me in three years. He reached out, his large, calloused hand gripping my shoulder with a firm warmth that nearly made my knees buckle. "Your ancestral sire claimed you were thriving in the master lodge, but your aura smells of ash and medicinal herbs. If you require sanctuary from Draven's house—"

"I have already signed the dissolution scrolls, Orion," I interrupted, my voice dropping to a whisper. "The bond is ending. I am returning to the craft."

Orion froze, his silver eyes widening in absolute shock. Before he could speak another word, a sharp, patronizing laugh echoed from the wooden staircase above us.

"Well, if it isn't the shadow mate, crawling out of his den to find a new master."

I tensed, my head snapping up as Nyelle Ravaryn descended the steps, flanked by two lower betas from the Fenrir pack. My bastard brother wore an expensive silk tunic, his face twisted into a smug, triumphant sneer as he looked down at my limp.

"What business does a discarded lodge keeper have at an elite combat trial, Lardon?" Nyelle scoffed, stepping onto the gravel. "Did you follow the Alpha-Prime here too? If you are seeking Draven, you are a few minutes too late. He is currently presiding over the high tiers with Mireya Duskrell."

I felt the blood drain from my face completely.

My eyes tracked past Nyelle, looking toward the highest peak of the VIP pavilion.

Sitting side by side on the carved stone chairs were Draven Calder and Mireya Duskrell. Draven was wrapped in his heavy alpha furs, his dark head tilted toward the Moon Scholar as Mireya pointed a slender finger toward the sky, explaining the runic trajectory of the Wraithfang units with an elegant, practiced ease.

They looked perfect together—the ruling Alpha and the elite scholar, commanding the northern alliance from the throne.

"Our sire was right about you," Nyelle whispered maliciously, stepping into my personal space so only my ears could catch his words. "You are a dead asset. Look up there. Draven has already brought his true mate to the industrial trials. Your name is nothing but a footnote in his archives."

The silver-rot in my ribs choosing that exact second to flare into an absolute, blinding agony. A sharp, white-hot heat sliced through my bones, catching my breath in my throat as my vision blurred into a sea of dark shadows. My knees gave way entirely, the gravel rushing up toward my face as my hands failed to catch my weight.

"Lardon!" Orion’s panicked roar shattered the noise of the engines.

But before my frame could hit the frozen dirt, a pair of powerful, heavily armored arms intercepted my fall, snatching my weak body out of the air with absolute, terrifying force.

The pungent, unmistakable aroma of winter ozone and dominant alpha fury enveloped my senses.

I forced my heavy eyelids open, my gold eyes tracking up to meet a pair of burning amber irises.

Draven had descended from the high pavilion in a single, feral leap, his massive chest heaving with an unchecked, predatory rage as his powerful arms locked around my waist, lifting my pale frame completely against his armor. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury as his gaze cut past my broken body, locking onto Orion Blackthorn’s outstretched hands.

"Unclasp your claws from my mate, Blackthorn," Draven roared, his voice shaking the very foundations of the trial grounds. "Before my wolf tears your territory to pieces."