Two Alphas, One Luna

Chapter 18 – Floodlines

The entrance doesn’t look like the mouth of anything important.

It’s just a rusted metal door sunk into a graffitied retaining wall, half‑hidden behind a smear of brambles at the edge of an overgrown lot. The kind of place humans assume leads to nothing but rats and bad smells.

They’re not entirely wrong.

“Charming,” Talla mutters, wrinkling her nose as we crunch through broken glass and weeds. “If I were an unhinged ritualist, this would definitely be my first choice.”

“Second,” Silen says mildly. “His first choice was the quarry. This is… overflow.”

“Don’t say ‘overflow’ when we’re about to go into flood tunnels,” I tell him.

He doesn’t apologize. Of course.

We came straight from the hollow—no time to shower, barely enough to grab weapons and flashlights. The city still clings to my skin, forest to my hair. I’m a walking argument.

Corren stands at the door, one hand resting on the rusted handle, the other braced against the wall. His scent is all focus and strain. Jarek at his shoulder, eyes scanning every shadow.

Behind me, Vaelor waits with wolf’s patience, Rhun at his side. Ysara and Maelith hover just out of immediate danger range, which for them is still closer than I’d like.

“Last chance to stay topside,” Corren says without turning.

“Nope,” Talla says. “Miss all the fun? Never.”

I swallow. “If Fenrik’s down there, I’m not standing on the sidewalk.”

Corren’s jaw tightens. He yanks the handle.

The door shrieks protest, then gives. Damp, cool air gusts out, carrying the scent of still water, mold, old iron… and under it, faint but clear, wolf.

My wolf lifts her head, ears pricked. Not the crisp pine of forest, not the familiar grit of city pack. Younger. Sharper.

Fenrik.

“Got him,” I whisper.

Vaelor inhales once, eyes narrowing. “Young. Scared. Covering it with jokes,” he says. “Definitely your pup.”

Our pup. The thought hits too fast and I shove it aside before either alpha’s aura picks it up.

We file in, mixed formation: Jarek first, then Silen, then Corren, then me between Talla and Vaelor, with Rhun bringing up the rear. Concrete walls close around us, slick with condensation. Our flashlights carve white tunnels in the dark, catching old graffiti, rusted ladders, the occasional skitter of something small and non‑wolf fleeing our intrusion.

“This used to be part of the old flood management system,” Corren says quietly. “Before they redirected the river. Most of it’s dry now.”

“Most,” Talla echoes. Her boots splash through a shallow film of water. “Comforting.”

We walk. The ceiling lowers, then opens again into a wider chamber, where several tunnels feed into a central space. The air is thicker here, electric against my skin.

“Wait,” Ysara says softly from behind. “Listen.”

We stop.

At first there’s only the drip of water and the faint hum of the city overhead. Then, under it: a low murmur, like voices carried through walls. Not words. Tones. Fear. Frustration. A stubborn little line of defiance I recognize all too well.

“Fen,” Talla breathes.

I close my eyes, letting my wolf lean into the feeling. The thread from the quarry is here too, hummed through concrete instead of stone. New lines, smaller circle. Same signature.

“Left,” I say. “Then down.”

Silen nods once, confirming. “He always did like symmetry.”

We take the left tunnel. The air cools another few degrees, brushing clammy fingers along my spine. The sound of water grows stronger. Not a roar. A steady, controlled rush.

“Underground channel,” Jarek murmurs. “River used to run under here in heavy rains.”

The tunnel opens into a chamber big enough to park trucks in. The floor slopes gently toward a narrow canal where dark water slides silently past. On the far side, raised on a dry platform of concrete, a smaller circle has been chalked onto the floor.

Three wolves stand within it.

Fenrik is the easiest to spot—lean, fidgeting even when he’s trying to stand still, eyes too bright in the flashlight beam. His clothes are rumpled, but he doesn’t look broken. Yet.

Beside him, an older wolf I don’t know, scent strange but threaded with the elders’ cold spice. Opposite them, at the top point of the circle, stands a man with graying hair pulled back at the nape of his neck, shoulders broad under a worn jacket, hands steady over half‑finished lines.

He doesn’t start when our lights hit him.

He just looks up, eyes finding mine across the water as if he’d been expecting me for years.

I know that face. I’ve never seen it. Photographs never made it past my mother’s hands. But I know the line of that jaw, the stubborn set of his mouth. I’ve seen them in my own reflection, in the way Maelith presses her lips when she’s thinking, in the way Lirenne stares at the horizon when she thinks I’m not looking.

“Hello, Seryn,” my father says.

My heart stops. Starts again, too hard.

Fenrik’s head jerks toward us. “Oh, good,” he says weakly. “You brought the cavalry. And the apocalypse.”

Garric’s gaze flicks over my escort—two alphas, betas, shamans, a former executioner. Approval and exasperation war in his expression.

“You’re early,” he says to me, voice dry and rough and maddeningly familiar. “And you brought company.”

“Sorry we ruined your secret basement ritual,” Talla snaps. Her hands shake around the grip of her knife. “Hand over my i***t and maybe we won’t redecorate your face.”

Corren’s aura spikes, cold and lethal. Vaelor’s rolls out, wild and sharp.

Garric looks between them, then back at me. Something like wonder, and something like fear, passes through his eyes.

“Two alphas,” he says softly. “And you still walked in the front door.”

He smiles then, tired and wry.

“Just like your mother.”