Bloodmoon Pack, Seven Days After Zarya’s Escape
Ash swirled through the ruined great hall like ghosts with unfinished business. The stink of burnt timber and dried blood clung to everything. The packhouse groaned under the weight of failure.
I stood above Alpha Grant’s broken form. He looked more corpse than man—his face swollen, his lip split, blood matting the thinning tufts of his hair. Pathetic.
“I will only ask you this once more,” I said, my voice even but edged like a blade. “Where. Is. The weapon.”
Grant coughed, a thick sound like wet gravel. “My great-grandfather… he hid it. In the woods north of the territory. We searched. Years. Found nothing.”
A muscle ticked in my jaw.
“Then your ancestors were as useless as you are.” I turned to my commander. "Canvas the land. Tear it
