Chapter 49.

Malachai's POV.

I storm through the chaos of the hunter's camp, my fists clenched and blood still crusted along the side of my face where Hope had cut me. Around me, hunters limp, groan, and shout orders at one another, trying to salvage what they can from the wreckage of our failed attack. Makeshift tents flap in the wind, stained with blood, and the metallic scent of injury hangs heavy in the air.

But I'm not concerned with the wounded.

I am furious.

They ran. Cowards. We were right there—Lucian pinned, Malakar tangled beneath his own weight, and Hope within my grasp, choking on the last of her breath. I had won—and still, they had let it all slip away. My hand twitches, still remembering the feel of her throat beneath my fingers.

“I had them!” I bellow, kicking a broken crate out of my path. “I had both Alphas. I had the girl! And you ran?”

A few of the hunters glance my way but quickly look back down, tending to their wounds or disappearing deeper into camp.

“We were outnumbered,” one of my lieutenants dares to say. “They had more wolves than we expected—”

My hand shoots out, grabbing the man by the collar and slamming him against a tree. “Outnumbered?” I growl. “You think numbers matter to me? We had the element of surprise, the advantage! And you threw it all away the second things got hard!”

I release the man with a shove and turn away, pacing like a caged animal.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. My plan was flawless. Strike hard. Strike fast. Take the Alphas. Kill the traitor, Hope. And finally, finally destroy the pack that had dared to defy us.

And yet...

Hope had fought back. The wolves had rallied. And worst of all, my own people had failed me.

My thoughts turn dark, bitter. This is no longer just about the war. It's about something deeper now. Personal. Fated.

I'll regroup. I'll find new allies. And next time, I won't make the mistake of underestimating them.

I clench my jaw, staring out toward the dark line of the forest where it had all fallen apart. Next time, I'll make them bleed for real.

All of them.

I storm deeper into the camp, yanking open tent flaps and barking at every hunter in sight. My voice is hoarse with rage, my steps wild and uneven as my anger spirals out of control.

“You’re all pathetic!” I shout, grabbing one man by the front of his shirt and dragging him halfway to his feet. “We had them right there—right in front of us—and you ran!”

The man doesn't respond, avoiding my gaze. I shove him backward and turn to another hunter, pointing a trembling, accusing finger.

“You, too! Cowards. All of you. You’d rather crawl away bleeding than win?”

A few hunters stand off to the side, whispering among themselves. The group’s unease is palpable.

Then one voice rises above the rest.

“We would’ve died, Malachai.”

A young hunter steps forward—barely twenty, face still scraped and raw from the fight. He stands tall, but his hands tremble slightly.

My eyes narrow. “What did you just say?”

“You heard me,” the young man snaps, jaw tight. “We would’ve died. We barely made it out with our lives. You didn’t have a plan—you had a suicide mission.”

I take a step closer. “Watch your mouth, boy.”

But the young hunter doesn't back down. “No. Someone has to say it. You’re losing it. You’re obsessed with this—Hope, the wolves—you’ve lost sight of the whole reason we’re even fighting. This wasn’t justice. This was you getting off on your own damn vengeance.”

My face twists into something feral.

Then I snap.

I lunge at the hunter, slamming him to the ground and punching him—once, twice, three times. Blood sprays from the boy’s nose as he struggles beneath my weight. My fists keep falling, blind with fury, deaf to the shouts around me.

“You think you know what this is about?” I roar. “You think you know anything?”

Two hunters rush in, grabbing my arms and dragging me back. I fight them, eyes wild, teeth bared like an animal, but they hold fast. The young hunter groans on the ground, blood pooling beneath him.

Everyone stares at me.

And in that silence, they see it. The madness. The total absence of reason in my eyes.

“He doesn’t care about us,” someone mutters. “He just wants her dead.”

“And the wolves,” another adds. “He’d sacrifice every one of us if it meant killing them.”

One by one, the hunters begin to step away—some to tend to the wounded, others to gather what little they have left. A silent understanding passes between them.

They didn’t sign up for this.

This isn't leadership.

This is a vendetta.

Without another word, the hunters begin to walk away from me. Some take supplies. Some leave empty-handed. But none look back.

I stand in the center of the broken camp, breath heaving, fists bloodied. Alone.

Utterly, completely alone. And for the first time… I don't care.

I stand motionless in the center of the crumbling camp, my fists still stained with blood, the sting of betrayal settling deep in my chest. Around me, silence creeps in like fog—thick and suffocating. The fires have died down to embers, tents sag from disrepair, and the last few backs of the hunters vanish into the woods without a single glance behind them.

I am alone. Utterly alone.

For a moment, the haze of rage lifts, and something foreign slips in—doubt.

Am I wrong?

The thought strikes me like a blade. My jaw clenches, breath shallow as my gaze sweeps over the camp that once pulsed with purpose. I had led them. I had been their voice, their fire. Now I am the wreckage left behind.

Maybe they're right.

I stagger back a step, one hand rising to my temple as the weight of their words echo in my mind.

"You’ve lost sight of the reason… you’re obsessed… you don’t care about us…"

My chest tightens. For a second, just one fleeting second, I feel the tremble of truth. Maybe this is madness. Maybe this path will devour me whole.

Maybe I am becoming the very thing I claim to fight.

But then… the image comes again.

Hope. Her eyes wide as I wrapped my hands around her throat. Lucian and Malakar, bloody and broken before they slipped through my fingers. The wolves. All of them. And the fire in my soul reignites.

My face twists into a grimace of fury. No. I am not wrong. This isn't madness. This is destiny.

The world needs to be purged of their kind. The wolves, their twisted bonds, their delusions of peace. And Hope—Hope, with her cursed bloodline and soft heart—she is the worst of them all. A traitor to her kind. A threat to everything.

If no one else will see it, then I'll do it alone. I'll burn their world down if it is the last thing I do. Even if it kills me. Especially if it kills me. Because deep in my bones, in the marrow of my being, I know.

This is what I was born for. This is my purpose. This is fate.