Chapter 70
A few words, murmurs from the crowd. I let them settle.
“This was guerrilla warfare,” I said. “A tactic used for centuries by smaller, less–equipped
enemies to strike fear into more powerful ones. They use the shadows. They bait and bleed.
They think fear is our weakness.”
I looked at the Alphas beside me. I thought of the warriors who had fallen. The ones who
were still being pulled from rubble. The healers working without rest.
“But tonight, we proved them wrong. We–Moonstone, Silverclaw, Ridgewood, Aspenrun,
every pack that showed up–fought together. Side by side. Tooth to tooth. Not as separate
entities. Not as strangers. But as wolves.”
I scanned the crowd. The flash of Elena’s hair. Logan’s tense jaw. The baby–faced Alpha from Drift Hollow who had taken down a rogue with a meat fork. He raised his chin as I caught his eye.
“We are not afraid,” I finished. “And we will not break.”
Rogue Outskirts
The train yard groaned like it remembered its past.
Twisted steel beams arched over skeletal tracks, their bolts long since rusted away. The old freight cars sat like tombstones–graffitied, scorched, their doors hanging open like yawning mouths.
Wind sliced through the hollow corridors with a sharp, metallic whistle, carrying with it the scent of oil, rust, and old blood.
A group of us huddled around a barrel fire in the belly of the yard’s long–abandoned maintenance depot. The roof was half–collapsed, stars visible through broken beams, but it was shelter enough.
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Chapter 70
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The fire crackled, sputtering against the damp wood we’d scrounged. It threw long, flickering shadows against concrete walls and the outlines of weapons–machetes, blades, makeshift spears–leaning in piles nearby.
Smoke and heat curled into our cloaks, but it couldn’t chase away the cold.
One of the men closest to the flames scraped ash from the lip of the barrel with the toe of his boot. The glow lit his face in slices–cheekbones high, jaw tight with fury. “They toasted,” he muttered, voice thick with disgust. “Fucking celebrated like they’d won something.”
“Dressed up in their tailored coats and smug speeches,” another rasped from the shadows. His hand twitched toward the hunting knife at his belt, fingers twitching. “Saw ‘em on the
news. All proud of themselves. Unity this. Alliance that.”
“They think it’s over,” a third voice sneered. Younger, sharper. “Like we just threw a
tantrum and went home.”
“They didn’t win,” came the reply from the far edge of the circle. That voice was older— gravel dragged through smoke. Cold as ice, low as a snarl.
The speaker stepped forward slowly, and the firelight caught the edge of his coat–heavy, black leather. His boots crunched over shattered glass as he moved. “Last night wasn’t defeat,” he said. “It was an introduction.”
The others stilled.
“They think the Summit was their moment. That this treaty will stitch the packs back together. But all they did,” he continued, sweeping his hood back to reveal a mess of scars lining one side of his face, “was light the fuse.”
A silence followed.
The kind that settled deep in your spine.
Somewhere above us, a crow croaked from its perch on the scaffolding and took off into the night.
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A figure sitting apart from the rest shifted slightly. Small, slight. A hood pulled tight over her head, concealing most of her face. She’d barely spoken since arriving–just listened.
But now she did speak.
“What’s the next target?” Her voice wasn’t loud. Wasn’t rushed. Just steady. Calm. Like she
already knew the answer and was simply waiting for it to be said aloud.
The scarred man turned toward her, eyes glinting like coals beneath his brow.
For a moment, the fire snapped louder, as if it, too, was leaning in.
He didn’t blink.
“Moonstone.”
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Choptor 71
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Chapter 71
- ELENA
