Alpha of Her Ruin

Ashes Between Wolves

Chapter Twenty

The fire had gone out, but its shadow lingered.

By morning, the battlefield looked like a graveyard scorched black. Trees stood like skeletons, their leaves turned to ash. The air was heavy with the stench of charred earth and blood. Wolves moved among the fallen, gathering their dead, their faces pale with grief.

Aisla stood apart from them, the pup still in her arms. Its small chest rose and fell steadily, a fragile heartbeat against her own raging one. She hadn’t slept, hadn’t spoken. She only stared at the bodies of the Hollowed—their ruined forms twisted unnaturally, their empty eyes staring at nothing.

Her chest clenched. I killed them. Not the Woken. Me.

Whispers followed her wherever she moved. The pack avoided her gaze, muttering under their breaths. She caught fragments: dangerous… cursed… fire witch.

Corin tried to quiet them, his voice sharp with authority, but even he looked at her differently now. Not with hate—yet—but with fear.

Rhian stayed close, his presence a shield, but even he couldn’t silence the air of unease that clung to her like smoke.

When the bodies had been laid out, the elders gathered in the hollowed stump that served as their council chamber. Aisla was summoned. Rhian insisted on coming, though the glare of the elders made it clear they disapproved.

The chamber smelled of damp wood and old incense. Elders sat in a circle, their eyes like sharpened stones. At the center, Aisla stood with her arms wrapped around herself, the pup nestled at her feet.

Elder Theron, his fur streaked silver even in human form, spoke first. “We have buried twenty-one wolves this dawn. And more lie wounded. The Hollowed were unleashed. The Woken escaped. And yet—” his eyes flicked to her—“our greatest danger stood in our own ranks.”

Murmurs rippled through the chamber.

Aisla’s throat was dry. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t mean to?” Elder Seris snapped, her voice sharp. “Child, the forest burned at your hands. Wolves burned at your hands.”

Rhian stepped forward, growling low. “She saved us. You’d all be corpses if not for her.”

Theron raised a hand. “No one denies she turned the tide. But at what cost? The Hollowed—creatures our ancestors could not tame—bowed to her. And when she cast them away, they died screaming. What power is that, if not a curse?”

The word cut like a blade. Curse.

Aisla’s stomach twisted. She wanted to shout that she hadn’t chosen this, that she didn’t want it, but the fire inside her pulsed as though mocking her denial.

“I didn’t control them,” she said softly. “I freed them.”

“Is that what you call it?” Seris hissed. “Slaughter?”

Her voice broke. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Silence fell. The elders’ eyes weighed on her like chains.

Finally, Theron spoke, his tone heavy. “Aisla of the Sylen. You carry fire that does not belong to wolves. Fire that cannot be trusted. The question before us is whether to cast you out before more of us burn.”

The words struck like a physical blow.

Rhian’s snarl split the air. “If you cast her out, you cast me out.”

Gasps rippled through the chamber.

“Rhian—” Aisla began, but he cut her off.

“No. They need to hear it. You call her cursed, but you forget: she stood in front of the Woken when no one else dared. She bled for this pack. And I—” his chest heaved, his eyes locked on hers—“I would rather follow her fire into ruin than live in your shadows of fear.”

The chamber erupted in chaos. Elders shouted, voices clashing.

Theron’s staff struck the ground, demanding silence. “Enough! This is no matter for wolves to settle by noise. The fire must be judged. And if she cannot control it, then it must be bound—or ended.”

Aisla’s blood ran cold.

Rhian bared his teeth. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

Theron’s gaze was grave. “Then so be it. If she chooses her fire over her pack, you will share her fate.”

The weight of the words pressed on Aisla like stone. Her chest constricted. She had never felt so seen and so utterly alone.

Her eyes darted to the pup at her feet. It nuzzled her ankle, innocent, unknowing. A reminder of why she fought to stay.

Her voice shook, but she forced it out. “Give me time. Please. If I can learn to control it, if I can use it to protect us, then you’ll see it’s not a curse.”

The elders exchanged glances, silent, debating with their eyes.

Finally, Theron spoke again. “Seven nights. That is all. Prove you can control it. Prove it serves wolves, not death. If you fail—” His eyes narrowed. “You will not be welcome here again.”

Her heart stuttered. Seven nights.

Rhian’s hand found hers, squeezing hard. “We’ll find a way.”

But Aisla’s stomach knotted. What if there isn’t one?

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That night, she and Rhian sat on the edge of the clearing, watching the flames of the funeral pyres lick at the sky. Wolves howled low, mourning the dead. The pup lay curled against her lap, its fur warm beneath her fingers.

“They’re right to fear me,” she whispered.

“No.” Rhian’s arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her against his chest. “They fear what they don’t understand. There’s a difference.”

Her voice trembled. “What if they’re the same thing?”

He kissed her hair, fierce and soft at once. “Then we’ll teach them otherwise. We’ll show them fire can protect as well as burn.”

Her chest ached at the certainty in his voice. She wished she could borrow his faith.

But when she closed her eyes, she didn’t see protection. She saw the Hollowed writhing, their gold-lit eyes dimming as her fire consumed them. She heard their screams. And beneath it all, she still heard the whispers.

Rule. Claim. Burn.

She clutched the pup tighter, burying her face in its fur.

Seven nights. Seven nights to prove she wasn’t what the Woken claimed her to be.

Seven nights to learn whether fire could love—or whether it would devour her whole.

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To be continued…