Whispers of the Winter Wolf

Episode Twelve

Part 23: The Victor's Return

The march back to Shadowcleft was a long, grim, and silent procession. The sun was beginning its descent, painting the high mountain peaks in shades of blood-orange and deep purple. The adrenaline that had turned my veins to ice and fire was receding, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion so profound my legs felt like lead.

Valerius and his Guard were a revelation. They had bound Silas’s hands and his bleeding leg. Then Valerius had looked at the moaning, crippled brute, Torg.

"Luna? What are your orders for this one?" he asked, his voice flat, devoid of judgment. He was asking a commander, not a woman.

I looked at the massive rogue, who was now just a pathetic, blubbering mass of pain. I felt nothing. No pity, no rage. Just the cold, clear logic of the wild.

"Can he walk?" I asked Silas.

Silas, his arms bound tight, his face pale from blood loss, gave a dry, rasping laugh. "Not unless you plan on carrying him."

"Bind his hands," I ordered Valerius. "And bind his legs. Stop the bleeding, but leave the wounds. He can crawl. If he slows us down, we leave him to the carrion."

Valerius didn't blink. He and his men were ruthlessly efficient, using their own bandages to staunch the worst of the bleeding, then cinching Torg’s hands behind his back. The brute whimpered and cursed, but he was forced to drag himself, his useless legs trailing behind him, his moans a grotesque soundtrack to our journey.

We walked in a diamond formation. I took the lead, setting a pace that was punishing but necessary. Valerius and two guards flanked the prisoners. The last two guards took the rear. They had offered me a waterskin, which I’d taken, and jerky, which I’d refused. I couldn't eat. I was still too high on the hunt.

Silas, despite his wound, kept up. He was watching me, his icy-blue eyes bright with that same, unnerving intelligence.

"You're a natural, you know," he said, his voice a low, conversational murmur. The guards tensed, but I didn't stop. "The way you used that brute's rage against him. The fire. The tendons. That wasn't a pack-wolf's move. That was art. You enjoy it."

"I enjoy surviving," I said without looking back.

"Don't lie to yourself, Luna," he hissed. "You enjoy the power. You enjoy the look in their eyes when they realize the 'little stray' is the one holding the blade. It's the same thing I enjoy."

"Silence," Valerius snapped, jabbing Silas with the butt of his bow.

I said nothing. But his words, like little barbs, found a purchase deep under my skin.

We reached the high gates of Shadowcleft as the last light of day failed. The torches on the ramparts were being lit, casting long, dancing shadows.

And the entire pack was waiting.

They filled the main courtyard, a sea of silent, upturned faces. They stood on the ramparts, on the steps to the great hall. Word had spread. The hunt was over. As we passed through the great stone arch, a hush fell over the stronghold.

I saw Beta Kaelen first. She stood on the steps of the hall, her arms crossed. Her scouting party was with her, and they were all, to a wolf, clean. Unbloodied. They had found nothing but cold trails and dust. Her face was a mask of thunderous, humiliated fury.

Then the crowd parted, and he was there.

Draven moved through his pack like a storm. He was not walking. He was stalking, his power a physical, suffocating wave. His eyes—those molten gold, predator's eyes—were not on the crowd, not on the prisoners, not even on his victorious Shadow Guard.

They were locked on me.

He didn't stop until he was a foot in front of me, his shadow consuming me. I could smell him—pine and power and a sharp, new scent of raw, agonizing anxiety. He was vibrating with a control so taut I could see the muscles in his neck cording.

I met his gaze, my own exhaustion a heavy cloak. I had to end this. I was the commander. I had to report.

"Alpha," I said, my voice coming out as a dry, cracked rasp. I cleared my throat. "The Blackfang army is broken. Their herd is scattered to the winds. Nine are confirmed dead. The rest have fled." I nodded back to the prisoners. "We have taken their leader, Silas. And his enforcer. The threat... the threat is neutralized."

The courtyard was so quiet I could have heard a pin drop on the stone.

Draven didn't look at the legendary rogue leader, now bound and bleeding at my heel. He didn't look at the crippled giant moaning behind him.

His gaze raked over me, a frantic, desperate inventory. He saw the dried blood on my cheek, the dark, foreign spatters on my—his—tunic, the dirt under my nails, the new, shallow cut on my arm from Silas’s blade.

His hand, his large, calloused, scarred hand, came up. It was visibly, minutely, shaking.

The crowd gasped as one. Their Alpha, the mountain, the iron-fisted ruler... was trembling.

He didn't speak. His thumb, rough and warm, came to my face. He slowly, deliberately, wiped a smear of drying blood and black grease from my cheekbone. His touch was a brand.

"You are hurt," he growled, his voice a low, rough sound, thick with an emotion I couldn't name. It was not a question.

"It is not my blood," I whispered.

His eyes closed for a single, pained second. The relief that rolled off him was so profound it made my knees buckle. I had been standing on adrenaline and spite for hours. Now, with him in front of me, the strength that had held me up simply… dissolved. I swayed on my feet.

Instantly, he was there. His arm shot out, wrapping around my waist, pulling me against his side. He held me up, his body a solid, immovable wall of heat. He was supporting my entire weight.

He turned his head, his gaze sweeping over the courtyard. The Alpha was back.

"VALERIUS!" he boomed, his voice echoing off the stone. "Take the prisoners to the high cells. Send a Healer to the brute. I want him alive."

"Yes, Alpha!"

"SHADOW GUARD! You have hunted well, and you have served your Luna well! You have my thanks. You are dismissed."

Your Luna. The words were a hammer blow, a final, public cementing of my place.

Draven didn't let me go. His arm was a steel bar. He turned, guiding me, holding me, and began walking toward the lodge. The crowd parted before us like water before a ship's bow.

We passed Kaelen on the steps. Her face was a mask of such pale, toxic hatred that I almost recoiled.

We passed Silas, as Valerius dragged him away. The rogue leader looked up, his icy-blue eyes bright, and he smiled.

"You've found a rare one, Alpha!" he called out, his voice laced with a strange, mocking laughter. "A true viper in your den! But a viper is a viper. Be careful... that she doesn't one day decide your throat looks too soft."

Draven didn't slow. He didn't even look. He just pulled me closer, shielding me from the words, and kept walking, his purpose absolute: to get me home.