Chapter 10 — The Blood of White Hunters
1312 Words
The rival clan did not fortify its borders with fear.
Their territory lay beyond the western ravine, where the forest thickened and the land rose in steady slopes instead of jagged cliffs. The air there carried fewer sharp scents of dominance. Patrols were quieter. Less theatrical.
They did not need spectacle to prove strength.
Inside the main hall—a wide timber structure built into the side of a hill—Alpha Illarik sat at the head of a long table carved from a single oak trunk.
The hall was warm, not from excess fire, but from presence. Wolves moved calmly in the background. No raised voices. No tension thickening the air.
Illarik’s silver hair fell loose over his shoulders. His posture was relaxed, but nothing about him was careless.
Across from him stood his son.
Trent.
Younger. Sharper. Eyes like a blade honed through observation rather than bloodshed.
“You’ve been listening again,” Illarik said mildly.
“I always listen.”
“That is not what I meant.”
Trent stepped closer to the table.
“The eastern pack fractures.”
Illarik did not react immediately.
“They have always been loud.”
“This is different.”
Illarik gestured slightly for him to continue.
“Marcus challenges openly. Damien holds authority by habit. Morgan builds alliances quietly.”
Illarik’s gaze sharpened slightly at that.
“And the hunters?”
Trent’s jaw tightened.
“One.”
Illarik leaned back slightly.
“Linda.”
“Yes.”
Illarik studied his son carefully.
“You speak her name too easily.”
“I speak of her skill.”
“And of her lineage.”
A pause.
Trent nodded once.
“Yes.”
Illarik folded his hands.
“She is her father’s daughter.”
“And her mother’s,” Trent added.
Illarik’s eyes darkened slightly.
“The White Hunters were never meant to serve ambition.”
“They served balance.”
“Yes.”
Trent’s gaze lowered briefly.
“There are few left.”
“None within their pack.”
Trent’s voice dropped.
“She is the last.”
Illarik did not contradict him.
Silence settled between them.
“She is entangled,” Trent continued.
“With Morgan.”
“Yes.”
Illarik’s brow lifted faintly.
“You are certain?”
“Multiple sources confirm it.”
Illarik’s expression shifted only slightly, but it was enough.
“Then she is vulnerable.”
“She is controlled.”
“Not controlled,” Illarik corrected. “Influenced.”
Trent inclined his head slightly.
“She believes in the throne.”
“Because she was raised to.”
Trent’s voice hardened.
“She was raised to kill for them.”
“Yes.”
“And they sent her parents to die.”
Illarik’s gaze sharpened.
“You assume.”
“I observe.”
Illarik stood slowly, walking toward the open arch that looked out over the forest beyond their territory.
“The eastern Alpha seeks expansion.”
“Yes.”
“He provokes minor border disputes.”
“Yes.”
“And he blames instability.”
“Yes.”
Trent stepped beside him.
“He believes we are testing him.”
Illarik’s lips curved faintly.
“Are we?”
Trent did not answer.
Illarik continued:
“We do not seek war.”
“No.”
“War destabilizes trade. Patrol structure. Succession.”
“Yes.”
“And yet,” Illarik added quietly, “if the brothers turn on each other…”
Trent finished the thought.
“The eastern pack collapses from within.”
Illarik nodded once.
“And she,” Trent said softly, “will be at the center of it.”
Illarik turned his head slightly.
“Explain.”
Trent’s voice was calm, analytical.
“If Marcus and Morgan escalate, she will be forced to choose.”
“Between loyalty and truth.”
“Yes.”
“And if her parents’ death resurfaces…”
Illarik’s eyes narrowed.
“She will demand answers.”
Trent nodded.
“And in demanding answers, she destabilizes the throne.”
Illarik studied his son.
“You speak as if you already know something.”
Trent held his gaze.
“I know that certain truths have begun moving.”
Illarik did not press.
Instead, he asked:
“What do you propose?”
Trent did not hesitate.
“We extend invitation.”
Illarik’s brow lifted.
“To defect?”
“No.”
Illarik waited.
“To observe.”
Illarik was silent for a long moment.
“She will not betray her pack.”
“She will seek truth.”
“Which is more dangerous.”
“Yes.”
Illarik stepped back into the hall.
“She would never come openly.”
“No.”
“She would not trust us.”
“No.”
Trent’s voice lowered.
“But she may trust information.”
Illarik’s eyes sharpened.
“You want to position us as neutral.”
“We are neutral.”
Illarik gave him a faint look.
“Neutrality is perspective.”
Trent inclined his head.
“Then we offer perspective.”
Illarik moved back to the table, placing both hands on the wood.
“And what do you gain?”
Trent did not hesitate.
“Stability.”
“And?”
“A White Hunter not bound to Damien.”
Illarik studied him carefully.
“You are not thinking of marriage.”
Trent’s jaw tightened slightly.
“I am thinking of alliance.”
Illarik’s voice dropped.
“She is entangled with Morgan.”
“She is not his mate.”
“No.”
“She is his instrument.”
“Yes.”
“And instruments break.”
“Yes.”
Trent’s gaze hardened.
“She deserves choice.”
Illarik watched him closely.
“Careful.”
Trent did not flinch.
“I respect strength.”
“You admire it.”
“Yes.”
Illarik exhaled slowly.
“If we invite her too soon, Damien declares provocation.”
“Then we do not invite.”
Illarik’s eyes narrowed.
“We wait.”
Trent nodded.
“Until the brothers fracture openly.”
“And then?”
“Then we offer sanctuary.”
Illarik studied the map carved into the table.
“There will be blood.”
“Yes.”
“Possibly hers.”
Trent’s jaw tightened.
“Not if she understands the game.”
Illarik’s gaze sharpened.
“She was raised inside it.”
“But not shown the full board.”
Illarik considered that.
“The White Hunters were honest wolves.”
“Yes.”
“They did not play politics.”
“No.”
“They balanced power.”
“Yes.”
“And now she stands alone.”
Trent’s voice softened slightly.
“The last of their blood.”
Illarik nodded once.
“Few remember what that blood meant.”
“Purity of oath,” Trent said quietly. “Loyalty to truth over throne.”
Illarik’s eyes flickered.
“Truth over throne,” he repeated.
A dangerous philosophy.
“If she learns the truth,” Trent added, “she will not choose Morgan.”
Illarik glanced at him.
“You are confident.”
“I am observant.”
Illarik turned toward the forest once more.
“Then we watch.”
“Yes.”
“And we wait.”
“Yes.”
“And when the eastern brothers draw blood—”
Trent finished calmly.
“We ensure she does not drown with them.”
Silence settled in the hall.
Outside, wind moved gently through the trees.
Illarik spoke one final time.
“There are few heirs left of the White Hunters.”
“Yes.”
“She is the last.”
Illarik’s voice lowered.
“Then we do not waste her.”
Trent inclined his head.
“Agreed.”
And somewhere beyond the ravine—
The last White Hunter was already being pulled toward a storm she did not yet understand.
- Writer
