ALPHA AND HIS BETA'S NAUGHTY GIFT.

THEY KNOW.

He has tried to bury that memory but with Jackson mentioning it, he remembers.

The night Kai unintentionally challenged his father against his plan to wipe out a whole weak pack simply because he deemed them unworthy. When the pack's defender tried to fight him, his power exploded, nearly killing the defender and two others who tried to intervene.

His father, Alpha of the prestigious Beacon Hill Pack, ruler of one of the oldest wolf bloodlines in North America. He looked at him with disgust instead of pride, and made his judgment without hesitation. He mercilessly sent Kai into exile.

"We built this," We built this,’ Jackson says, voice breaking. "Mystic Valley. You took a scattered pack of rogues and rejects and turned them into something that rivals the great packs. You've expanded our territory, and earned respect from wolves who wouldn't have spit on you a decade ago."

Kai stays still, but something tightens in the line of his shoulders.

"The elders at Beacon Hill is finally listening because they've heard how great you've become even without your title. Your father is finally considering bringing you back. You're this close to reclaiming your birthright, to becoming the True Alpha you were meant to be."

Kai's hands curl into fists. His breath comes harder now, faster.

Jackson moves closer, his voice becomes calm. "We all want to go home. Me. The others. The wolves who've stood by you since the beginning. We're tired of being outcasts. We've fought too hard to throw it away now." He pauses, swallowing. "I'm not asking you to stop living. I'm not telling you to lock yourself away. But don't be distracted. Not now. Not when we're so close."

A muscle in Kai’s throat jumps.

Then he turns away, letting out a slow breath as he walks to the window.

Outside, early light spreads across the compound. Wolves train in the yard. Snow melts on the branches. His people, his family by choice, move like a machine they all built together.

His hand lifts to the cold glass.

“How,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Jackson, “could I forget?”

Jackson's anger drains. He crosses the room, resting one hand on Kai's shoulder in a rare moment of quiet brotherhood. Jackson is beyond just a beta to him. He's his brother.

"She can't just stumble into our territory and make you lose your head."

Kai's jaw works. Words climb his throat, desperate to break free.

"I think I found her. I think she's my mate."

The confession sits on his tongue, heavy and inevitable. Jackson deserves to know so he can understand why everything feels different now and why walking away from Ivy might be impossible.

He opens his mouth.

Valor growls with a warning.

The sound reverberates through Kai's skull. His wolf has never stopped him from speaking before. Never interfered with his decisions.

But now Valor's presence presses down, demanding silence.

"Not yet," his wolf whispers.

Kai's mouth closes.

Jackson waits, expectant, searching his face for answers.

But Kai says nothing.

And the secret stays buried, coiled in his chest like a bomb waiting to detonate.

***

Back at Beacon Hill's temple, the granite wolf statue splits at dawn. It cracks down the middle as if someone had driven an axe through it, and inside, where there should be nothing but dust and rock, something glows.

White light. Pure enough to hurt.

The temple keeper drops his broom and backs into a column.

By the time Alpha Garren Winter arrives, half the pack has gathered outside, whispering, too afraid to get close. The glow pulses. Not steady—it moves like breathing. In. Out. A strange rhythm that doesn't belong to stone.

Garren shoves through the crowd. His boots marching heavily against the floor. Three feet from the broken wolf, he stops.

Up close, the light burns his sight. It has a metallic smell that occurs after lightning strikes.

Harvey appears beside him, breathing hard. "Other territories. It's happening everywhere."

"What is?"

"Sacred relics are glowing. Silverwood. Thornridge and even the nomads near the border has all given the same report."

Garren stares at the wolf's chest, at the light pouring out like a wound that won't close. His molars grind together.

"Call the council," he says. "Now."

***

The council chamber smells of aged wood and the faint musk of bodies long settled into their chairs. Only those essential to the pack may enter these doors. Six elders sit around the table, pillars of the pack’s power, their eyes heavy with anticipation.

Alpha Garren settles into the chair at the head. His posture is taut, shoulders squared, eyes without emotion. He doesn’t speak yet. He watches.

To his right, Elder Wade, his closest advisor, leans forward, hands steepled, gaze tracking every subtle shift.

Elder Archer, Warden-General and commander of all defenders, sits straight-backed, one eye hidden beneath a leather patch, the other dark and intensely focused. His hands rest flat on the table, fingers flexing.

Elder Zion, the pack’s healer, adjusts the edge of his robe, his gaze sliding between Garren and the others, careful, patient, wary.

Elder Torren, Steward of Sustenance, the one who governs food, agriculture, and all the harvests that feed the pack, scans the room for unease.

And Elder Reed, Treasurer of the Pack, keeper of all coin and trade, sits rigid, fingers drumming softly against the table.

Harvey stands by the doorway, silent and still, arms crossed, his presence a living barrier against distraction.

Garren’s hand rests against the armrest. There's pin-drop silence while he watches everyone in the room.

“The relics are awake,” he says. He makes sure to deliberately keep his voice low. “All relics tied to the prophecy are glowing. You know what that means."

A murmur rises and dies immediately. Elder Wade leans forward, tightening his lips, his eyes searching the rest of the others for confirmation, but he only finds apprehension mirrored back.

Archer swallows, then risks the words he’s been holding. “The White Witch,” he mentions."

"Yes," Alpha Garren answers. "We've been relenting with the search."

Elder Archer, his eye hidden beneath the patch, nods, a silent acknowledgment, the faintest tension in his shoulders betraying his unease for a man like him.

Garren rises slightly in his chair, letting the shadows fall across his face. “From this moment, every pack resource goes to one purpose. Find the White Witch. Bring her to me. Alive," he commands.