Whispers of the Winter Wolf

Episode Ten

Part 21: The Serpent and the Ghost

The world narrowed. There was no pack. There was no Draven. There was only the wind, my breathing, and the man on the far ledge.

He was a good sentry, alert and scanning, but he was pack-trained, his movements predictable. He scanned right, he scanned left. He paused. He repeated. I waited for him to scan left, and in the moment his head turned, my breath slipped out. The bowstring thrummed, a sound lost in the wind.

My arrow crossed the canyon in a silent, gray arc.

The sentry didn't cry out. He gave a wet, choked gasp, his hands flying to the fletching in his throat. He staggered, a look of pure, animal surprise on his face, and then he toppled backward off the ledge, vanishing into the brush below.

One down.

For a second, nothing happened. The camp below continued, unaware.

Then came the c***k.

It wasn't a roar, but a deep, sharp thud that echoed from the cliffs above the deer pen. The two Shadow Guards had done their work. A single, massive boulder, dislodged, slammed into the loose scree. It was not an avalanche, but a cascade, a river of stone and rock that poured down onto the makeshift barrier.

The sound of splintering timber was lost in the sudden, shrill shriek of a thousand panicked deer.

The box canyon exploded into chaos. The herd, a living tidal wave of antlers and fur, turned as one. The barrier, now broken, was their only escape. They surged toward it, their hooves a thunder that shook the ground.

"THE HERD!" a rogue roared.

"THE BARRIER! HOLD THE BARRIER!"

I saw Silas, the dark-haired leader, spin around, his face a mask of cold fury. "GET THEM! GET THAT HERD! IDIOTS, DON'T LET THEM RUN!"

And just as I had predicted, the massive, brutish enforcer next to him bellowed, a sound of pure, mindless rage, and was the first to sprint after the stampeding deer. He was all instinct, no thought.

"AFTER HIM!" Silas screamed, pointing. "GO! GO!"

The majority of the rogues—twenty, maybe twenty-five of them—broke from the camp, a disorganized, desperate mob, chasing their entire winter's food supply as it funneled through the narrow exit. They were running straight into Valerius's trap.

I didn't watch. My eyes were on Silas.

He was seething, his hands clenched. He watched his men vanish, then kicked the stew pot from the fire, sending sparks and stew hissing across the dirt. He was furious, his plan unraveling. And he was, for one crucial, beautiful second, utterly alone.

I dropped my bow. It was too slow now. I drew the long, curved blade from the sheath on my back. Its familiar, cold weight settled in my hand.

I didn't climb down the ravine. I slid, sinking my boots into the loose scree, using the thunder of the stampede and the screams of the rogues to cover the sound of my descent. I landed on the canyon floor in a low crouch, the camp just thirty yards away. The air was thick with dust and the smell of blood and animal fear.

Silas was still facing the exit, his back to me. He turned, grabbing his own sword from a weapons rack. He was going to join the chase.

I moved.

No sound. No thought. I was a ghost, a ripple in the dust. My feet, clad in soft leather, made no noise. Twenty yards. Ten. His back was a map of leather straps and muscle. My blade was up, held in a reverse grip, ready for a killing strike to the kidney, fast and final.

Five yards.

He spun.

He wasn't a fool. He was an Alpha. He had sensed it—a shift in the air, the cold intent of a predator. His sword, a long, scavenged blade, came up, and our steel met with a ringing, high-pitched shriek that cut through the chaos.

Sparks flew. The impact shuddered up my arm, but my rogue's grip held.

We were frozen for a split second, face to face. He was taller than me, leaner than Draven, but just as fast. His eyes were not the hot, molten gold of my mate. They were a pale, cold, intelligent ice-blue. And they were wide with pure, unadulterated shock.

He hadn't just been attacked. He'd been attacked by a woman, one he didn't even see, who was now holding him at a standstill.

"Who in the hells," he hissed, his voice a low, cultured snarl that was nothing like the brutes he commanded, "are you?"

"The one you didn't plan for," I breathed.

I broke the lock, ducking under his recovery swing, and lashed out with my boot knife, aiming for his thigh. He was too fast. He dodged, the blade only slicing through his leather breeches. He lunged, his longer blade a blur.

This was not a pack-fight. This was not a training spar. This was a rogue's duel. It was not about strength; it was about speed, leverage, and the willingness to kill.

We circled each other in the abandoned, chaotic camp, two predators in a dance. From the narrow pass, I could hear the thwip of arrows and the sudden, choked screams of his men. Valerius's trap was sprung.

Silas heard it, too. His eyes flickered to the sound, his distraction giving me an opening.

I didn't lunge. I threw the pot of black grease from the ground at his face.

He recoiled, surprised, batting it away. But in that second of blindness, I was in. I slammed the pommel of my blade into his wrist, hard. I heard a c***k. His sword clattered to the ground, his hand spasming.

He roared, this time in real pain, and swung at me with his good hand. I ducked, driving my shoulder into his stomach, using his own momentum to send us both toppling to the ground.

We landed in the dust, a tangle of limbs and rage. He was on his back, his broken wrist useless, his eyes wide with fury. I was on top, my blade at his throat, my knee on his chest.

The chaos from the pass was dying down. The last of the deer were gone.

The camp was silent, save for our two harsh breaths.

"It's over," I panted, pressing the blade just hard enough to draw a single drop of blood. "Your army is broken. Your food is gone."

Silas stared up at me, his cold blue eyes assessing me, even now. "The Alpha of Shadowcleft..." he wheezed, a strange, terrifying smile touching his lips. "He sends his Luna to do his work. How... progressive."

Before I could answer, a massive shadow fell over us.

"GET. OFF. HIM."

I froze. The voice was a guttural roar. I looked up.

The enforcer. The huge brute who had chased the deer. He hadn't gone all the way. He had come back. And he was standing over me, his club—a massive, gnarled piece of wood—raised high, his face a mask of bloodlust.

I was in an impossible position. If I moved, Silas would strike. If I stayed, the club would crush me.

"Good, Torg," Silas whispered, his icy-blue eyes never leaving mine. "Kill her. Slowly."

The club came down.