Chapter 13 — Blood in the East Wing
1079 Words
The corridors felt emptier than usual.
Alpha Damien had left before dawn, taking half the hunters with him under the pretense of a border hunt. His temper had been sharp that morning, voice clipped, orders abrupt.
Linda had been left behind.
Again.
Guard Morgan.
Remain inside.
Stay close.
When the Alpha reassigned her to inspect the distant armory wing instead of sending Bailey, she understood the message.
Containment.
She walked the long corridor toward the far storage rooms, jaw tight.
I am not his shadow.
The eastern wing of the compound was rarely used now. The old armory had once stored spare blades, bows, and chain armor from seasons of expansion. Now it was mostly quiet—dust, iron, echoes.
Her boots struck stone in controlled rhythm.
She reached the door.
Pushed it open.
The room smelled of oil and old steel.
She moved between racks, checking straps, blade edges, arrow shafts. Everything appeared untouched.
Too quiet.
Then—
A sharp crash.
A muffled shout.
From deeper in the wing.
Her head snapped up.
Another sound.
A strained grunt.
Impact against wood.
A voice—
Marcus.
Linda was already moving.
She ran down the corridor, boots striking stone harder now.
The sounds grew clearer.
A struggle.
Furniture splintering.
A low, desperate growl.
She reached the final door and did not hesitate.
She kicked it open.
The scene froze in a single, violent image.
Marcus was on his back against the far wall.
A blade buried deep in his chest.
Above him stood a man she had never seen before.
Tall. Broad. Dark coat.
Blood on his hands.
His eyes lifted to hers.
Not wild.
Not triumphant.
Focused.
“Wait—” he started.
Linda didn’t.
She launched forward.
Knife drawn mid-stride.
The man stepped back, pulling the blade free from Marcus’s chest in one swift motion.
Blood spilled.
Marcus gasped.
The stranger raised his hands slightly.
“It wasn’t—”
She attacked.
Steel met steel.
He blocked her first strike narrowly, metal ringing through the room.
She pivoted and drove another strike toward his ribs.
He twisted away, fast.
Faster than most wolves she’d fought.
He wasn’t scrambling.
He was controlled.
That enraged her more.
“You killed him!” she shouted.
“I didn’t—”
Her blade grazed his shoulder.
He hissed sharply but did not counter with lethal force.
He moved defensively.
Which confused her.
Her third strike came low; he deflected and stepped sideways.
“I was trying to—”
She didn’t let him finish.
Her knee drove toward his midsection; he caught it, shoved her back.
Distance.
She lunged again.
He caught her wrist this time.
His grip was strong.
But he did not twist.
Did not break.
“Listen to me,” he said sharply.
She headbutted him.
His hold broke.
She slashed again, barely missing his throat.
He stepped back toward the window at the rear of the chamber.
“You’re being played,” he said.
“Liar!”
He looked at Marcus once.
Then at her.
“Too late,” he muttered.
And in one fluid motion, he leapt backward through the open window.
Glass shattered.
Wood splintered.
By the time she reached the opening, he was gone.
Gone like the arrow in the clearing.
Silent.
She spun back toward Marcus.
He was sliding down the wall, blood pooling beneath him.
She dropped to her knees.
“Stay with me,” she ordered.
Her hands pressed against the wound.
Blood soaked through immediately.
“Marcus.”
His breathing was shallow.
Uneven.
His eyes struggled to focus.
“Listen,” he rasped.
“Don’t speak.”
She pressed harder.
The blade had gone deep.
Too deep.
“Linda,” he forced.
Her throat tightened.
“I’ll get help.”
“No.”
His hand gripped her wrist weakly.
“You don’t have time.”
Her vision blurred slightly.
“Who was he?” she demanded.
Marcus’s lips curved faintly—painfully.
“Not who you think.”
Her heart slammed.
“Tell me.”
He coughed.
Blood touched his lips.
“Go to Illarik.”
The name hit her like a blow.
“What?”
“Go… west.”
His fingers tightened once more.
“He knows.”
Her mind fractured.
“Knows what?”
Marcus’s eyes dimmed slightly.
“The truth.”
“Marcus—”
His grip loosened.
His head tilted.
The breath left him.
And did not return.
Silence swallowed the room.
Linda’s hands were still pressed to his chest.
Warm blood soaked into her skin.
The air smelled metallic and thick.
Her breathing became shallow.
Slow.
She stared at his face.
Waiting for movement.
Nothing.
Her hands trembled.
She had hated him.
Distrusted him.
Threatened him.
And now he lay dead in front of her.
Because of a stranger.
Because of—
Her head snapped toward the window again.
The white wolf in her wanted to chase.
To hunt.
To tear.
But footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Fast.
Multiple.
Voices.
“Over here!”
Bailey burst through the doorway first.
Then two other hunters.
They stopped.
The image before them did not require explanation.
Linda.
On her knees.
Covered in blood.
Marcus dead at her hands.
The blade on the floor near her.
The shattered window.
Bailey’s eyes widened.
Not shock.
Recognition.
This is bad.
One of the hunters stepped forward cautiously.
“What happened?”
Linda opened her mouth.
No sound came out.
She looked down at her hands.
Red.
Everywhere.
“It wasn’t—” she started.
But her voice sounded weak even to herself.
The second hunter looked toward the window.
“Someone fled.”
“Who?” Bailey demanded.
Linda looked up at her.
“A stranger.”
“Name?”
“I don’t know.”
Silence.
Too much silence.
The first hunter’s expression hardened.
“You were alone with him.”
“No.”
“You pulled a blade on him yesterday.”
The words struck like stone.
Bailey’s eyes flickered.
Linda’s mind raced.
The letter.
The argument.
Morgan’s promise.
Marcus’s warning.
It all collided.
“I didn’t kill him,” she said.
But doubt had already entered the room.
And doubt spreads faster than fire.
One of the hunters stepped behind her.
She sensed it too late.
Something hard struck the back of her head.
Pain exploded white behind her eyes.
Her body went weightless.
The room tilted.
Marcus’s face blurred.
Bailey’s expression faded into shadow.
And then—
Darkness.
- Writer
