Marked by the Midnight Alpha

The Woods Have Eyes

The trick to not getting caught was patience.

Broc Valerius had more of it than most. He’d spent three hours in the same crouch, knees buried in pine needles, all senses tuned to the den’s courtyard. The mountain was alive with the ordinary: a squirrel’s daredevil chase up a spruce, wind threading through dry grass, a hungry fox sniffing after the scraps the wolves left behind.

He ignored it all, eyes fixed on the slit-window of the Alpha’s quarters.

Movement inside: Blaze, pacing, his silhouette a shifting shadow across the frost-rimmed glass. The Alpha’s tension was palpable even from here; Broc could almost taste the acid tang of his anger. He watched as Blaze stopped, hunched over the battered desk, and pressed his forehead to the heel of his hand.

Then the human girl appeared, reflected in the glass as she passed by the narrow beam of afternoon sun. Her hair was unmistakable—a burn of orange and red, always a little too wild, a little too bright for the world that tried to contain it. The mark on her collarbone glowed, a faint but unmistakable signature, like a beacon.

He pressed a thumb to the side of his small, circular mirror. The surface shimmered, then settled, focusing in on the scene inside. The charm that amplified sound and sight worked well—he could catch the cadence of their voices, even if the words themselves were blurred, muffled by stone and warding.

He didn’t need to hear every syllable. The body language told enough. Blaze stood at a deliberate distance, posture coiled, never quite letting himself relax. The girl faced him head-on, chin up, glare set to kill. Their voices rose and fell in patterns that made Broc’s lip curl in amusement.

She challenged him. She didn’t fear him. More than that, she got under his skin. Broc saw it in the way Blaze’s hands flexed, how his gaze dropped, how he never turned his back to her even when the conversation waned. The Alpha was obsessed, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

Good.

Broc let a slow breath out, fingers barely stirring as he made a new entry into his notebook. The cover was made of dark leather, with the sigil of Hollow Ridge stamped in silver, and it fit perfectly in his palm. His notes were all observations. Every detail was ammunition for the next report or the next encounter.

He heard the crunch of boots on snow before he saw her: Priscilla Thornwood, moving with a grace that belied her age. The Oracle’s silver hair caught the low sun, and her eyes swept the perimeter with a keenness that left no doubt—she knew she was being watched, even if she didn’t know by whom.

Broc stilled, slowing his breath, flattening himself into the undergrowth. Even in partial human form, he could mask his presence well enough to fool most, but Priscilla was not most.

She walked to the door of the guest quarters, her gait steady and unhurried. At the threshold, she paused, head c****d as if listening to a voice only she could hear. Then she rapped on the door, the knock sharp and deliberate. She didn’t wait for permission before entering.

Inside, the mirror flickered, then cleared.

Priscilla joined the girl at the tiny desk. Blaze hung back, arms crossed, watching the two with a look Broc could only read as wary hope. The conversation that followed was tense, Priscilla’s words clipped and precise, the girl’s responses laced with sarcasm and bitterness.

Broc leaned closer to the mirror, straining to make out a key phrase—something about blood, something about the Witch of Silverbridge. He saw the Oracle’s eyes widen, just a fraction, before her composure snapped back into place.

Now we’re getting somewhere.

He grinned to himself, then made another note in the book: “Oracle confirms: Mark is active, Witch bloodline. Alpha unaware, or feigning.”

Behind him, a low wind stirred the boughs, carrying the distant scent of a wolf. Not the Alpha—this was older, spiced with bitter herbs and the unmistakable bite of prophecy. He recognized the taste. Priscilla’s visions often left a residue.

He considered moving, but chose to hold. The best reconnaissance came at the edges, the blind spots. He had no interest in confrontation today; today was for learning.

He watched as the girl pressed her palm to her mark, her expression twisting in confusion, pain, and maybe a little bit of awe. He watched as Blaze—Alpha of the Midnight Pack, scourge of the mountain, the wolf who had once torn out Broc’s mentor’s throat—stood uncertain and off-balance, as if a single word from the human could upend the world.

Broc clicked the mirror shut, tucked the notebook into his inner coat, and settled back on his haunches.

He could hear the Hollow Ridge Alpha’s voice in his head: “Find the weakness. Exploit the wound.”

He would. But first, he wanted to see just how deep the wound would go.

Night would come soon, and with it, new opportunities. Broc grinned again, sharp and satisfied.

Let the Midnight Pack stew. Let the Alpha choke on his own leash.

He’d be there when the chains finally snapped.