Chapter 89
Alric
Sothing feels off.
The elders have been whispering among themselves more than usual. Their eyes hold sothing I don’t like—anticipation, maybe even hope. It’s suspicious. I’ve ruled them long enough to know the signs. They’re waiting for sothing. Scheming, perhaps.
But it doesn’t matter. They can plot and plan until their throats go hoarse; none of them have the spine or strength to oppose . Not while I have Savage Claw at my back.
I glance out the cracked window of my office, the fading moonlight spilling pale silver over the rundown buildings of White Stone. The place looks ragged, yes, but it is mine. It’s still standing, isn’t it? And that is because of .
They call weak behind closed doors. A coward. They think I don’t hear, but I do. I see their sneers, the way they avoid eting my eyes. And still, they co crawling to when the vampires circle closer. Still, they live under the protection I arranged.
If not for bringing Savage Claw into our territory, they’d all be corpses by now. Do they think I don’t realize that?
I clench my fists, my nails biting crescents into my palms. Let them whisper. Let them hope.
No one can touch . Not Stellan with his endless complaints. Not Vane with his hollow glares. Not even that old crone Nana. They all depend on even as they curse my na.
And Savage Claw? They’re my trump card.
Yes, their leader is crude, arrogant, and his pack has drained us dry, but that’s the price of survival. And as long as they’re here, no one dares to challenge . Their presence alone keeps the vampires at bay and the elders in check.
I rise from my chair, shaking off the numbness in my legs. My office feels suffocating, so I step outside. The chill of the night air clings to my skin as I walk through White Stone’s grounds.
The silence is heavy, almost unnatural. Once, even at this hour, you’d hear pups laughing, the shuffle of night patrols, the distant hum of community life. Now—nothing. Not even the occasional howl.
It’s the curfew, of course. My decree. Necessary, I tell myself. The vampires prowl in the dark, and wolves wandering at night are easy prey. So everyone hides behind barred doors while Savage Claw roams and does whatever it is they do.
I walk past the old butcher’s shop. The windows are shattered. The shiny new equipnt that was supposed to revitalize it? Gone, sold off months ago. The school is dark, no teachers inside. Most of the younger wolves are out in the fields or hauling goods instead of learning their letters.
A pang of... sothing twists in my gut. I squash it. This is temporary. All great leaders endure hard tis. History will rember as the alpha who kept White Stone alive.
Up ahead, two of Savage Claw’s n lean against the fence outside a house. They’re drinking straight from a bottle, loud enough to break the curfew silence. The sound grates on , but I keep walking.
One of them notices and smirks. "Pack Leader," he says lazily, with a mock salute. His friend laughs under his breath.
I want to snarl, to remind them whose territory they’re in. But I don’t. Instead, I nod stiffly and keep walking. I can feel their eyes on my back, feel the heat of their laughter even as I disappear into the next street.
I don’t even notice where my feet are taking until I stop in front of Eamon’s house.
It’s a hollow, sagging thing now. The windows are clouded with gri, the porch boards soft with rot. Weeds curl around the steps like claws reclaiming what’s theirs. The house hasn’t seen life in months, not since he died.
I scoff. Figures. Even dead, his shadow lingers.
Eamon always had everything. Despite being the younger brother, he was born an alpha wolf—sothing I should have been. The pack leader position that should have been mine as firstborn? Handed to him, because fate decided he was "special."
I hated him for it. I still do.
And when I finally had sothing for myself, just one thing—an oga. Thalia. She was supposed to be mine. And Eamon, ever the greedy bastard, took her too.
I grit my teeth and kick a loose rock toward the sagging steps. It bounces off with a dull clatter.
Good.
I turn away, jaw tight. As I walk, my gaze catches on a patch of earth, just slightly fresher than the wild grass around it. That’s where his pyre stood. That’s where we burned him.
For a mont, I stare at it. My heart beats heavy in my chest, though I’d die before admitting why.
"I hope you’re seeing , brother," I mutter under my breath.
"Hope you’re watching what I’ve built. What I’ve taken."
But the words taste hollow.
The night is quiet, and my own voice feels small against the empty streets. No answering voice from the afterlife. No flash of approval or disapproval from the goddess. Just silence.
*
I wake to noise. Voices outside—too loud, too early, too eager.
What the hell is going on?
I sit up with a scowl, drag on a shirt and pants, and step into the hallway. I’m not the only one unsettled. Wolves are out in the street, whispering, glancing my way, then snapping their gazes aside like I’m invisible.
My lip curls. They used to bow when they saw . Now they can’t even et my eyes.
I grab the first pup that crosses my path, a scraggly little thing no older than ten. "You," I bark. "What’s happening?"
His ears flatten. "Th-the... to-town... square..." he stamrs, eyes wide.
Pathetic. I push him away and keep walking.
The whispers grow louder as I cut through the pack’s ragged streets, and I see more faces peering from windows. Hopeful faces. Excited faces. It makes my stomach turn.
What are they waiting for?
The thought hamrs in my skull as I push through the crowd, Savage Claw’s leader swaggering behind . Their faces are wrong—too eager, too alert. This isn’t fear; it’s anticipation.
"My, my, pack leader, did you call for an audience?" the Savage Claw leader drawls, grinning with that infuriating smirk.
I ignore him. I don’t have ti for his gas. My back stiffens; my heart pounds.
I shove my way to the front, Savage Claw’s leader trailing behind with his smug smirk. The murmurs of the crowd turn into a low hush, wolves of all ages packed tightly around the old wolf statue. Their eyes are not on —they’re fixed ahead, bright with sothing I can’t quite na.
And then I see him.
"Good morning, Uncle-in-law," He says, voice smooth, carrying easily over the restless murmurs of the wolves packed around us.
"Quite the pleasant morning for an uprising, is it not?"
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