My Mate, My Executioner

5. Orin

[The Ouroboros Temple - The Inner Sanctum]

For the first time in the centuries-long history of the Ouroboros Cult, the recall failed.

High Shaman Morvath gripped the dark iron railing of the Blood Siren Altar. His

knuckles turned white as the crimson fluid in the basin violently bubbled backward, resisting his command. The magical feedback rattled through the

floorboards and deep into the marrow of his bones.

"The blood link is resisting!" Shamaness Morana’s voice cut through the dark

chamber, sharp with panic. Her golden mask shimmered under the flickering torches. "The Recall command was absolute. Her blood is deep into

the altar's core and it burnt. She should have been pulled back to her bed the moment it started burning!"

"Something blocked it," Morvath’s voice was low and venomous.

A thin trail of dark blood leaked from his nostril—the physical price of

forcing a high-tier tracking spell. He wiped it away with his crimson sleeve,

his eyes never leaving the resisting blood pool. " That shadow executioner did not just kidnap her. He found a way to anchor her soul to his."

"Since when do shadow wolves anchor souls?" Elder Lucas, a dark shaman watching from the corner, stepped forward in bewilderment. "They want her dead. Why is she still breathing?"

"I am as surprised as you are, Lucas," the High Shaman replied coldly.

In the center of the room, a low fire flickered to life. It illuminated a

magical projection of Arya’s empty warded room. The silk sheets were rumpled.

The silver vials of her daily suppressants sat untouched on the table, mocking them.

"She is twenty-three years old," Morana whispered. Her voice trembled between

absolute fear and raw fury. "In thirteen days, the cosmic manifestation begins.

If she is not sacrificed in the Cradle when the full moon hits the center of the

sky, our ancestors’ centuries of waiting will be for nothing. The blood seals

will collapse. We will wither and die."

Morvath turned away from the altar. His eyes burned with desperate rage.

"He has not taken her to the Gloom Pack's territory," Morvath deduced, looking at the projection from the soul well. "The assassin is going off-script. He is taking her into the Ashen Wilderness. He is taking her to the traitor. We need to stop them."

The room went dead silent. The name did not need to be spoken aloud.

Orin.

The rogue commander who had watched his own lineage slaughtered twenty-three years ago because he refused to lift a blade against the prophecy child.

"Deploy the Carnifex," Morvath commanded, his voice echoing with absolute authority.

The other Alphas in the room immediately stood at attention.

"Tell those brutes to track her scent. If Orin touches a single hair on her head, bring me his scalp. Bring me the executioner’s head too, if he stands in

the way. But Arya—bring her back alive. Until she fulfills her purpose, we need

her heart beating."

"It will be done, My lord," Lucas bowed.

"Morana," Morvath turned to his right hand. "Go to the courtyard where the

guards last saw them. Bring me anything left behin that we can purge in the soul flame to understand exactly what kind of magic we are dealing with."

Morana nodded, her white robes sweeping across the floor as she led her

handmaidens out of the chamber.

[The Ashen Wilderness]

Deep in the dark woods, Arya’s world had narrowed to a single horizon of sheer agony.

Every step Draven took was a hammer against her skull. The impact vibrated

through her frail bones. Her skin pulsed with a fierce, unstable silver light

that illuminated the dark trees around them.

The heat radiating off her body was searing. Sweat slicked her neck, making her ruined white dress cling to her raw skin.

"Stop," she rasped. Her trembling fingers clawed uselessly at the fabric of his

ruined shirt. "Please... just stop. Let me die here."

She wept, the agonizing pain of the withdrawal tearing her apart from the

inside.

Draven stopped for a brief second. He hissed, adjusting her burning weight on

his shoulder, and kept walking.

"If your heart stops, mine does too," Draven muttered.

Deep inside him, his inner wolf clawed at his chest in absolute terror, unable

to shift because of the chain's restriction. It was a terrifying, suffocating

helplessness he had never experienced before.

"I am not dying in the mud because of you," he growled. "Not until I find a way

to break this curse. For now, you stay alive, even if you don't want to."

He pushed through a thicket of sharp thorns that would have shredded

human skin. His heavily calloused body barely registered the scratches.

Ahead, a small timber hut sat nestled into the side of a rocky cliff. It was modest and completely hidden, with thin smoke curling quietly from its chimney.

Draven marched up to the porch and kicked the door open. The thick wood groaned loudly on its leather hinges, slamming against the inside wall.

Inside, an old man sat by a hearth, his back to the door. He was slowly

grinding dried herbs in a mortar. His movements were steady, rhythmic, and

completely unbothered by the violent intrusion.

"I told your High Shaman that I was finished with his butcher shop," the old man said. His voice sounded like dry parchment being folded. "Go back to your

temple. I have nothing left for men who wear masks."

"I am not one of them," Draven growled.

He dropped Arya onto a straw pallet near the fire. The rough impact made her let

out a sharp cry of pain, the sound cutting through the quiet of the hut.

The old man turned slowly. His eyes were milky with age, but sharp with a quiet,

dangerous intelligence that had survived too much trauma to be easily fooled.

He looked at Draven’s bloodstained shirt. He looked at the brutal scars cutting

across the massive warrior’s frame. Finally, his gaze drifted to the fragile

girl convulsing on the floor, her skin glowing like hot embers.

"A shadow wolf," Orin whispered. His expression shifted from annoyance to

something overwhelming. He looked closely at Draven's sharp face—a face he

recognized from the rival bloodlines. "And the silver child of the prophecy. You

have brought the end of the world to my doorstep."

Draven drew his knife. The firelight danced off the lethal edge as

he took a predatory step toward the old man.

"She is dying from your Cult’s suppressants," Draven said, his empty eyes flat and dangerous. "The drug is wearing off, and her body is rejecting the raw air. Fix her. Now. Or I will see how many pieces I can cut you into before you

stops breathing."

Orin did not flinch. He did not step back. He did not even look at the blade

pressing toward his chest.

"Threaten me all you like, boy," Orin said, rising slowly to his feet.

His height was surprising. Even in his old age, he carried a heavy dignity that Draven’s raw violence could not shake.

"I have lived through the m******e of my own blood. I watched my family burn because I would not join the hunt for this child. Do you really think a blade scares a man who has already been through hell?"

Draven snarled, pressing the cold tip of the knife directly against the skin of the old man’s throat.

"I do not care about your history. If she dies, I die. I am not letting a mortal's grudge be the end of me."

"Ah, I see." Orin let out a dry, mocking laugh, glancing at the glowing shackle.

"You have been anchored to her soul."

Orin looked down at the girl. "Whether you kill me now, or I help that girl, my

life ends today. The Ouroboros let me live in these woods because I stayed quiet. The exact moment I interfere with the Great Harvest, I am a dead man. The

Carnifex will find me, and they will kill me."

Arya let out a choked, agonizing cough. Her back arched off the straw pallet. A

sharp spark of silver light jumped from her skin, casting wild shadows

against the timber walls.

"Please," she gasped, her trembling hand reaching out toward the old man. Tears

rolled down her glowing cheeks. "Help me."