Chapter 11
616 Words
By the time the last rogue dropped, the yard stank of blood and exhaust.
Amara stood just inside the infirmary door, hands still smeared from carrying in a bleeding teenager. Nira moved between cots like a storm, snapping orders.
“Frost.” Elias’s voice cut through the noise.
He looked older—blood on his shirt, mud on his boots, eyes too hollow. “I need you. Five minutes.”
Nira’s gaze flicked over. “Don’t break her more,” she muttered, turning back to a patient.
In the side corridor, Elias said quietly, “We lost two. One guard, one elder. Three bad but breathing. Rogues: six down, maybe more slipped.”
Cold spread through her ribs. “You didn’t drag me out here for body count.”
He exhaled. “Alpha Rowan requested you.”
Of course he did.
“Rip the bond, then ask for a debrief,” Amara said. “Efficient.”
“He wants your account of the west,” Elias said. “If you refuse, it looks like defiance. That helps no one.”
She almost laughed. “Helps who, exactly?”
“Us,” he said. “Silverpine. Blackridge. Everyone stuck in this valley.”
She swallowed whatever was next and followed him outside.
The yard had been half‑cleaned: bodies covered, worst blood kicked into dirt. Blackridge wolves formed a loose ring around Rowan, Lysander, Gideon and Lyra under a pine.
Rowan turned as they approached.
Nothing moved in her chest. No pull, no hum. Just a memory of pain.
“Frost,” he said.
“Alpha Hale.”
“Where were you when the first rogue hit your sector?” he asked.
“Marker twelve,” she said. “One straight for the house, others tried to circle.”
“Why the house?” Lyra asked.
“Panic,” Amara said. “Drive pups and civilians out, grab what you can. And they hit while you were talking.”
Rowan’s jaw tightened. “Conclusion?”
“Someone knew exactly when both packs would be sitting still,” she said. “And exactly where you’d be standing with your back to the door.”
Gideon swore. Lysander’s mouth thinned.
“Inside help,” Lyra muttered. “Or damn good intel.”
“We’ll coordinate,” Rowan said shortly.
“Is that all?” Amara asked.
He looked at her then, really looked. At the bandage under her shirt, at her split knuckles.
“You saved one of my pups,” he said. “Milo.”
“I did my job.”
“You did more than that. And I—” His throat worked. “I did worse.”
She said nothing.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he said. “I’m asking you not to break. Whoever is playing with rogues and borders is counting on us being too busy tearing each other apart to see them.”
“I’m not your piece,” she said.
“No,” he answered. “You’re the one person here who knows exactly what it feels like to be treated like one.”
A shout broke the moment.
“Alpha! You need to see this!”
A young guard sprinted from the treeline, holding something small and black. He skidded to a stop, panting, and pushed it into Rowan’s hand.
“Found it strapped under a rogue’s fur,” he said. “Hidden in the ruff.”
Amara stared. Tiny red light. Sleek casing. Too clean for wolves.
“Tracker?” Elias asked.
Rowan turned it once, jaw hard. “No,” he said. “Camera.”
The little red light blinked twice.
Then went dark.
- Writer
