Whispers of the Winter Wolf

Episode Nineteen

Part 30: The Allegiance of the Brute

We did not go to Torg together, not at first.

"He is your convert, Lyra," Draven had said, his voice a low rumble. "He trusts you. He is loyal to the hand that showed him mercy. Go. Get what we need. Then... I will make him ours."

I returned to the Healer's tower. Torg was sitting up, his massive frame hunched, his bandaged legs propped on the bed. He had eaten again. The fog of pain and poppy milk had cleared, and in its place was a simmering, sullen, and deeply confused anger. He looked like a bear that had been kicked from its cave.

He saw me, and his shoulders tensed. But it was not with fear. It was with a desperate, wounded need.

"You," he growled, "You... were right. He... he is in the high cell. I can... I can smell the wind from there. It's cold. He is cold. And I am... warm." He looked at the fire, his simple, brutish heart at war with itself. "Why?"

"Because my Alpha," I said, my voice quiet, "believes loyalty is a bond, not a chain. Silas used you, Torg. Draven protects his own."

"I am... not... his own," Torg forced out, his voice thick with the agony of his betrayal.

"You could be," I said.

His head snapped up, his eyes wide.

"You want a home?" I asked, my voice soft. "You want a pack that feeds you? That keeps you warm? That respects your strength? You want an Alpha who doesn't see you as a club, but as a warrior?"

He was breathing hard, his massive chest heaving. "Yes," he whispered. It was the most honest, painful word of his life.

"Then tell me about Malakor."

And it began. The dam of his broken loyalty burst. He talked for an hour, a torrent of confused, angry, and vital information. He didn't know the grand strategy, but he knew the life. He knew the names of the other rogue leaders Silas had absorbed. He knew the routes they had taken from the Barren Lands. He confirmed my theory: this pass was the third and final supply route. The other two were already stocked, and undefended.

He told us Malakor's army was not just rogues. It was... everyone. Dispossessed packs, lone wolves, half-breeds, even wolves cast out for dark magic. It was an army of the unwanted, united by a single, charismatic leader who promised them the one thing they all craved: vengeance.

"He... he says the old packs are weak," Torg rumbled. "That the 'blessed blood' is thin. He says... he will build a new world from the ashes of the old."

When he was finished, he was exhausted, a hollowed-out shell. He looked at me, his eyes now empty, his purpose gone. "Now... what?" he whispered. "Do you... kill me?"

"No," I said, my voice firm. "I make you a promise."

I turned, opened the door, and looked at the Shadow Guard who stood outside. "Fetch the Alpha. Now."

Five minutes later, the door opened again. Draven entered, filling the small, warm room with a cold, mountain authority. He was not the mate who had held me. He was the Alpha, his face a mask of stone, his golden eyes blazing.

Torg cringed, his body trying to sink into the mattress. This was the executioner.

Draven stopped at the foot of the bed, his power a crushing, silent weight.

"You have spoken to my Luna," he stated. It was not a question.

"I... I have," Torg stammered.

"You have told her the truth."

"I... yes, Alpha."

"You have served a false Alpha," Draven continued, his voice a low, lethal rumble. "You have trespassed on my lands. You have attacked my pack. And you have laid your hands on my mate."

Torg was trembling, his eyes shut, waiting for the death blow.

"But," Draven said, his voice changing, "you have also been betrayed. You were a loyal warrior, and your leader abandoned you to die. Your loyalty was wasted."

Torg’s eyes snapped open.

Draven took a step closer. "My Luna... she sees your strength. I see your loyalty. Such things should not be wasted."

Draven held out his hand—his large, scarred, Alpha's hand.

Torg stared at it, his mind unable to comprehend the gesture.

"I am not Silas," Draven said, his voice echoing with a power that shook the room. "I do not demand sacrifice. I offer protection. You want a home? You want a purpose? Swear your oath. Not to me as a king. But to me as your Alpha. Swear, and you will no longer be a prisoner. You will be pack. You will be ours."

Torg was weeping. The huge, broken, brutish warrior was weeping like a lost child. He tried to get out of the bed, to kneel, but his legs were useless. Instead, he bowed his massive head, a gesture of complete, profound submission.

"I... I swear," he choked out, his voice thick. "My life... my strength... it is... yours. Alpha. My Alpha."

"Good," Draven said, his voice softening, just a fraction. He placed his hand on Torg’s bowed head, a gesture of claim, of acceptance. "Rest, Torg of Shadowcleft. Heal. Your Queen has a mission for you. And your new pack needs your strength."

We left Torg to the Healers, his world remade, and went straight to the war room. Kaelen was there, along with the other five members of Draven’s high council. Her face was a mask of cold impatience.

Draven took his seat, not speaking, and gestured for me to take the floor.

Kaelen’s eyes narrowed. This was a profound, public shift in power.

I stood. My voice was clear, cold, and confident. I laid out everything Torg had told me. The name: Malakor. The gathering in the Barren Lands. The army of the dispossessed. And, most importantly, the two other, undefended supply routes.

A heavy, grim silence fell over the council.

"This is not a rogue band," one of the old warriors said, his face pale. "This is a horde. We cannot hold the passes against a thousand."

"Then we won't," I said.

All eyes turned to me. Kaelen scoffed. "What do you suggest, Luna? We let them walk in and feed them, as we did their brute?"

"No, Beta," I said, my voice sharp, meeting her icy glare. "We starve them. You don't fight a horde, you break it. An army of rogues... they are not loyal to Malakor. They are loyal to their stomachs. Torg proved that. They are an army of starved wolves, held together by a single promise of food and vengeance."

I pointed to the map. "He's expecting three fully-stocked passes. He's expecting to feed his army as it crosses our territory."

"We burn the other two routes," Draven said, his mind already working with mine.

"Exactly," I said. "We send raiding parties. Not to fight. To burn. We take everything. When Malakor's army arrives, they will find no food. They will find no supplies. They will find only scorched earth and a long, cold march. And a starved rogue... is not a loyal soldier. He is just a starved rogue."

The council stared, a new, sharp respect in their eyes. This was the viper's strategy: poison the well, not fight the man who came to drink.

Kaelen, however, was shaking her head. "It's... it's a rogue's trick. It's cowardly. We should meet them. We should... fight."

"We will fight," Draven said, his voice a flat, cold command. "But we will fight on our terms. We will fight an army that is already broken. An army that is hungry, that is cold, and that has already begun to turn on itself."

He stood, his gaze sweeping over his council. "Valerius," he commanded, "You will take your Guard and you will lead the first raiding party. You will burn the northern pass. Kaelen..."

He turned to his Beta. Her face was pale, her hands clenched.

"You will lead the second party. You will burn the eastern pass. You will take everything. Give them nothing. Not a single scrap of bread."

It was a brilliant move. He was using her, trusting her with the most critical mission. He was validating her as a warrior... but he was forcing her to execute my plan.

Kaelen was trapped. Her face was a complex mask of fury, humiliation, and her deep, ingrained loyalty. To accept was to obey me. To refuse... was to betray him.

"Alpha," she said, her voice a low, strangled sound. "This plan... it relies on the word of that... brute. It relies on the manipulation of a rogue. It is not our way. It is dishonorable."

"It is survival," I said, stepping forward, my voice as cold as hers.

"It is a trick!" she spat, her control finally snapping. She whirled on Draven, her eyes blazing with a desperate, jealous fury. "She has blinded you! She uses these... soft tactics. She charms prisoners. She whispers in your ear. She... she stopped you, my Alpha, in the cells! This is not strength! It is a sickness. She is the weakness Silas spoke of, and you are proving him right!"

The room was so silent it hurt. The council was frozen in horror.

I did not move. I did not speak. I looked at Draven.

His face was not the face of a mountain. It was the face of an avalanche. He was utterly, terrifyingly calm.

He looked at his Beta, the woman who had fought at his side for five years.

"You are relieved of your command, Kaelen," he said. His voice was not a roar. It was a flat, cold, and utterly final sentence.

"Alpha...no," she breathed, the color draining from her face.

"Valerius, you will command both parties. Kaelen, you will be confined to your quarters until I have decided your fate." He stepped forward, shoulder to shoulder with me, a single, united, unbreachable wall. "You have questioned my mate. You have questioned my command. And you have questioned my judgment in front of my council. You are no longer my Beta. You are... nothing."