The snow at Frostmark was wrong.
Klaus knew the color of ash too well—the gray smear that came after the burnings, when villages were torched to starve packs into submission. But here, the snow was not gray. It was blackened, veined with crimson streaks that pulsed faintly like veins beneath skin. It stank of iron and rot. It was not snow anymore. It was death. The remnant of utter devastation.
"This was no raid," Roan muttered, crouching low, running his clawed fingers across the dirt. His nostrils flared. "They unmade this place." His breath fogged as a deep growl rumbled from his thick chest.
"Calm yourself, Roan. We might not be alone" Klaus warned, eyes scanning the surroundings methodically.
Frostmark had been an outpost—three longhouses, a watchtower, a forge for silver. Now only skeletal beams jutted from the earth, burning slowly in the windless night. No animal sound. No heartbeat except their own. Klaus's hackles rose.
"Stay sharp," he said. His voice came out rougher than intended. The others stiffened. Klaus wasn't known for pointless hysterics.
Thyra, ever silent, tightened her grip on her twin blades and moved ahead like a shadow. In her wake, Eryk followed, younger, his nerves raw. He was just a recruit, with little or no combat experience but with plenty courage. The boy's teeth kept flashing, as though the silence itself demanded blood.
Klaus crouched near the remains of the watchtower. The sigil was there. Larger this time. Carved so deep into the stone that it had cracked the foundation: a spiral of fangs devouring a sun. His stomach knotted. Nejire, he thought viciously. An disturbingly familiar heat rushed through him at the thought of her but he smothered it ruthlessly before it could blossom.
"She leaves her mark like a damn painter," Roan spat. "This is madness."
Not madness. Precision. A calling card. Klaus pressed his hand to the stone. The edges still burned faintly with crimson fire. The warmth still in the blackened rock.
Movement. A sound split the air.
Klaus turned sharply—and saw him. A scout, crumpled among the rubble, chest caved in, but somehow alive. His lips were shredded, his eyes milk-white with blood loss.
Klaus knelt. "Who did this?"
The man coughed, choking on his own tongue. Klaus steadied his head. "Breathe. Speak."
The whisper came, ragged, barely a breath.
"Silver… eyes…"
Klaus froze. Every muscle locked.
The scout convulsed once, then went still.
Behind him, Thyra's voice was sharp. "What did he say?"
"Nothing," Klaus snapped too quickly. "He's gone." He busied himself with the body, unwilling to meet her shrewd gaze.
Thyra's stare lingered. She knew when he lied. But she let it go—for now.
….
They burned the body and pressed deeper into the ruins. The trail of slaughter led them to the edge of the forest. Wolves torn apart, silver still lodged in their corpses—Nejire's handwork. The bond thrummed in Klaus's chest, low and sickly sweet. He clenched his jaw until his teeth ached.
He should have told them to turn back. Report to Malzan, regroup. But instead, he said:
"We go on."
Roan bristled. "We're four wolves in enemy lands. Do you feel that? Every step, eyes on us. You want to die, Beta?"
"I want the truth," Klaus growled. His voice carried finality, and they obeyed.
But in his head, the truth had a face. Raven hair. Silver eyes. Pale lips. The taste of iron and ash when she whispered his name. Nejire…. The very air taunted him with her name, carrying a tantalizing hint of her scent in the breeze.
….
On the other side of the forest
Nejire moved like a blade unsheathed.
Her lieutenants—six of the oldest spawn in Moloch's court—spread maps across the stone table. Borders marked. Wolf movements traced in red ink. The air smelled of wax and blood. She stalked like a leashed panther while Varka, her personal guard, a mountain of a man, stood like carved rock watching her movements with his pale eyes as if unwilling to let her out of his sight.
"You've broken their line at Frostmark," one droned. "We press west, and the citadel falls. It's your chance to bring everlasting glory to Moloch!"
"Yes," Nejire said distantly. Her hand was on her throat. The skin there still burned faintly, though no wound lay beneath. She had not told them. She had not told anyone.
The bond was growing. This mysterious, disturbing new feeling beneath her breast. Every night. Every breath. Every time she tried to sharpen her sword, her mind drifted to him. The wolf. The enemy. The mate. Everytime.
When the messenger entered, head bowed, she already knew.
"Scouts report wolves at Frostmark's ruins."
The lieutenants hissed, eager. But Nejire raised her hand. Calm. Calculating. Her mind raced, evaluating possibilities. One course of course, considering her predicament.
"I'll handle them." She said simply.
There was protest, of course. Too dangerous, too valuable. But her voice cut like ice silencing them instantly
"Do you doubt me?"
Complete silence. She took her blade and left before they could answer.
---
The Ambush
The forest closed in around Klaus's party like a throat. Snow muffled their steps, but not enough. The wolves' ears twitched at phantom movements, at whispers in branches.
Then silence.
A twig snapped. A war whoop!
The attack came.
Vampires dropped from the trees like carrion birds. Pale fangs, crimson cloaks. The clash was instant—steel on claw, blood spraying into the snow. Roan gutted one clean, Eryk was nearly torn apart before Thyra yanked him back. The vampire's fang snapping shut where his throat had been a second before with a loud crunch.
Klaus moved like the storm—fast, brutal, precise. But his eyes were not on the enemy. His eyes searched the shadows.
And then—she came.
Silver eyes in the dark.
Nejire.
Time collapsed. The world, the blood, the screams—gone. Only the pulse between them, twin heartbeats slamming in sync.
"You," Klaus whispered.
Her blade lifted, gleaming. "Werewolf."
For a heartbeat, they didn't move. The bond screamed through their veins, an ache so violent it bordered on ecstasy.
Then steel clashed.
…
The fight was madness. Klaus swung with rage, with terror, with need. She matched him strike for strike, but her hands shook imperceptibly. The pack fought and bled around them, but they saw only each other.
Klaus's claw raked across her arm—her blood hissed on the snow. She gasped, but didn't falter. Her blade grazed his ribs, fire spilling hot down his side.
And still—they did not kill. Could not.
The bond flared. Every wound mirrored, every motion echoed. Roan, mid-slash, stumbled as if struck by the wrongness of it. Thyra froze mid-battle, eyes wide, watching.
"Why don't you finish it?" Nejire hissed, voice breaking.
"Why don't you?" Klaus shot back, chest heaving.
They stood there, blades locked, breath mingling. For a moment, it was not war. It was something worse.
Then the horns blew. Vampire reinforcements.
"Retreat!" Klaus snarled, tearing himself away. His pack dragged the wounded back into the trees. Nejire did not pursue. She couldn't.
She stood in the snow, shaking, blood dripping from her blade, eyes burning silver fire.
…
Later
Klaus stitched his wound in silence, alone. His hands shook, not from pain but from shame. Thyra leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
"You froze," she said flatly.
"I didn't."
"I saw you." Her eyes bored into him. "What the hell is she to you?"
Klaus said nothing.
And silence, he knew, was as good as confession.