Chapter Six
1181 Words
Seraya
She woke slowly, silently, like prey trained by instinct to keep still even before consciousness fully returned.
The first thing she registered was heat. Her back was pressed against damp earth, the low flicker of firelight was dancing against her eyelids.
Voices.
She was hearing many men’s voices. Soldiers. Laughing, low murmurs, snapping twigs beneath boots. She didn’t open her eyes—not yet. Her body was still sluggish from the dart, but her wounds… even the ones on her arms were gone. Healed. That meant at least three hours had passed. Maybe more. The moon was higher now. That meant it was probably just past midnight.
She cracked one eye open the barest slit.
They had set up a temporary camp. A semicircle of cloaked soldiers lounged around the fire with weapons within arm’s reach. Elite Enforcers. Not a single one of them looked relaxed. They weren't here to sleep. They were waiting.
For her.
And she was right in the middle of them.
Her hands were still bound, chains coiled tight around her wrists and ankles. They had been reinforced with runes. She could feel the iron humming against her skin. They weren’t taking chances with her.
She didn’t move. She just listened.
“…I’m just saying, the laws weren’t always like this,” one of the soldiers muttered. His voice was scratchy with fatigue, maybe age. “Before the Purge, the packs worked with witches. Before the High Council declared it all forbidden.”
“Yeah, and that was before witches started turning wolves against their own kin,” another snapped. “Before sorcerers burned down entire villages in the name of trying to bring back Moonfire.”
A third voice—smooth and skeptical—spoke up. “That’s just what the Elders say. They needed a scapegoat. They always do.”
“Tell that to the pack of Black Hollow,” someone grunted. “Oh wait, you can’t. They’re ash.”
A few of the men laughed at that. It was an ugly sound.
A younger soldier stirred the fire with a stick. “All I’m saying is that magic makes wolves weak. It makes us… unpredictable. You can’t trust someone who has been touched by it. It warps the mind, you know. Makes them persuasive. You hear their voice? You could almost believe they aren’t scum.”
That earned a few muttered agreements.
“I heard they can plant ideas in your head,” said another, his tone a little too eager. “Slip into your dreams. Make you love them, hate them. Make you think they’re—”
“You don’t believe him?” A voice cut through, sharp and cold.
Seraya’s stomach tensed.
Corren. Bastard.
Even half-drugged, she recognized his voice. He hadn’t been laughing.
“Fine,” he said. “Let’s ask the witch then.”
Silence fell. Thick and sudden.
Seraya didn’t move.
“You can stop pretending, sorceress,” Corren said louder, directly toward her now. “I know you’re awake. You’ve been listening to us for at least ten minutes.”
Still she didn’t move. Her heart thundered in her chest, but she kept her breathing even. Calm. Passive. That always made people underestimate her.
“Is she deaf now, Commander?” someone sneered from across the fire. “Maybe she needs a little encouragement—”
Heavy boots approached. Seraya tensed—but not fast enough.
A brutal kick drove into her stomach.
The breath punched out of her lungs as white-hot pain exploded through her core. She curled instinctively, spitting blood and bile onto the ground. But she didn’t scream. She swallowed it. Bit it back. She wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.
The fire popped. Someone laughed.
And then the laughter was cut short by a sickening crunch.
Corren had moved fast. Too fast for anyone to stop him.
He had the soldier by the collar, his fist buried deep into the man’s jaw. The soldier stumbled back, groaning, clutching his face as blood dripped from his mouth.
“What the bloody hell was that?” Corren growled, his voice like gravel scraping stone.
The soldier stood straight, dazed and bleeding. "Relax, Commander," he slurred. "It's just a rogue.”
Corren stepped forward again, radiating menace. “A rogue the Alpha said not to touch. Or would you like to be dismissed for insubordination?”
Silence.
“Does anyone else want to test my patience tonight?” Corren asked, scanning the circle with narrow eyes. “No? Good. Then hear me now—nobody touches her again.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he strode toward Seraya where she still lay on the ground, breath shallow, blood on her lip.
He grabbed her by the rope binding her wrists and hauled her up like she weighed nothing.
She staggered on her feet, wincing.
“Where is your noble Alpha when I’m being kicked like I'm nothing?” she hissed under her breath, voice hoarse.
Corren didn’t flinch. “Shut up.”
He dragged her across the camp, away from the firelight, toward a large tent at the center. It was larger than the others, and made of black cloth with reinforced stitching. Of course. The command tent. Draven’s tent.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she snapped, stumbling over a tree root. “Dragging the rogue like a dog.”
He didn’t answer. Just tightened his grip.
“Are you afraid I might bewitch you too if you get too close?” she taunted. “Do you want to tell your Alpha how you stared too long into my eyes and suddenly wanted to kiss me?”
Corren growled. “You think this is funny?”
“Yes, actually,” she bit back. “All this talk about witches twisting wolves’ minds. I think it's very funny how you are all very scared of me.”
He stopped walking. Whirled around and grabbed her chin roughly, forcing her to look up at him. His eyes blazed.
“You don’t know me,” he said, low and sharp. “And if you weren’t allegedly bonded to him, I would have gutted you in that forest.”
“Then do it,” she whispered, smiling with blood-stained teeth. “Go ahead. Prove you’re just like the rest of them.”
His grip faltered.
But only for a second.
Corren shoved her forward again. “Shut your mouth. You’ll be lucky if you live through the night.”
They reached the tent. Two guards at the entrance moved aside silently. Corren yanked back the flap and threw her inside.
Seraya stumbled into the tent, but didn't fall. The scent of pine smoke, leather, and something familiar hit her like a wall.
Draven.
He stood by the small table inside, bent over a map, leather stripped down to a black tunic, his crimson cape slung over a chair. His head snapped up when she entered. His eyes—storm grey and shadowed—took her in. The chains. The blood.
His jaw clenched. Uh oh.
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