For Humankind and Werekind, the border between peace and war was always razor-thin and tonight, Alaric Vaelthorn walked it.
He crouched beneath the ancient pines of the Hollowvale Pass, a cloak of mist curling at his boots. The wind carried the scent of the cold and rotten smell of human flesh, but beneath it was a scent so sharp it nearly dropped him to his knees.
The Hunter.
She was here.
His wolf screamed to run to her and yet the memory of Elyra's torn body screamed louder forcing down the urgings of his wolf until they became pitiful whines.
He clenched his jaw, gripping the hilt of the ceremonial blade strapped to his back. Not the war-forged claymore he usually carried but a dagger forged with his ancestors' bone. The kind used for executions.
He knew he'd use it tonight the question was, could he do it?
He rose, motioning to Nyssa Greymoor beside him. Nyssa was the only ally he could trust because she was bond to him in ways his elders and other werewolves would never understand. Her black eyes gleamed under her hood, amusement dancing in her expression like candlelight.
"Still think this is wise?" she purred.
"No," Alaric replied, voice steel. "But it is necessary."
"Do I stay close?"
"No. If I fall, I fall alone."
Nyssa's grin widened. "As you wish, wolf prince."
He stepped away from the shadows.
,,,
The diplomatic camp sat in the hollowed ruins of a once-human chapel, an old Guild outpost. It was turned into neutral ground. At its heart, surrounded by torch-bearing guards and silver-lined warding stones, she stood.
Seraphine Duskbane.
She wore leather armor scuffed by battle, her black hair pulled back into a braid that gleamed like obsidian in the firelight. A dagger hung from her hip, one hand resting casually on its hilt but her stance wasn't relaxed.
He had come for her and she was ready to kill. Screw the Council, she had no intention of fraternizing with the same beasts she have been killing all her life. The same beasts that massacred her entire family.
Her eyes flicked up as he approached.
And for one breathless second, the world... stopped.
Her gaze locked with his. Unflinching. Cold.
His chest cracked open like stone beneath a chisel. The bond slammed into him full-force, raw, violent, demanding. His wolf rose in his throat, howling for recognition, howling with the need to mark her and claim her as his.
But her expression?
Nothing.
She didn't flinch. Didn't react. She didn't feel it the way he did.
She didn't feel anythingand that further enraged him.
The guards formed a perimeter, crossbows drawn and trained, but they didn't fire. Not yet.
A man in Guild armor stepped forward. Older, gray-haired, reeking of cowardice and political survival.
"Alaric Vaelthorn," he said, voice shaking, "you enter Guild territory under truce law."
"I come to speak. Not to fight."
"Then speak quickly."
Alaric ignored him. His eyes stayed on her.
"You're the one they call Duskbane."
Seraphine's voice was calm. "You're the one whose sister I killed."
The air tensed and several guards raised their bows higher.
Alaric didn't move.
"You murdered her."
"She was trespassing."
"She went to speak of peace."
"She wiped out two villages. Children."
Alaric stepped closer. "You stabbed her through the heart. Repeatedly."
Seraphine shrugged and flicked her nails, "I'd to make sure she was dead."
His voice dropped. "She was my sister."
"And she's dead," Seraphine said flatly. "Just like every other beast I've hunted."
The words sliced.
For a moment, he saw red. Literally. The torchlight blurred. His hand twitched toward his dagger.
His vengeance demanded her blood. His wolf wanted something else.
He hated both.
"You knew what she was," Alaric said finally, softly. "But you didn't know who."
"I don't care."
"You should."
"Why?"
"Because you and I are bound."
Her eyes narrowed, her posture shifting like a tiger scenting a trap.
"Don't speak to me of bonds," she said coldly. "I'm not your kind. I don't believe in fairy tales."
"It's not a fairy tale. It's a curse."
She stepped forward, hand tightening on her dagger. "You come into my camp, speak of your dead, of magic, and expect me to care?"
"No," Alaric said, and for the first time his voice cracked, low, raw. "I expect you to feel something. Because I do. And it's driving me mad."
Seraphine flinched and there was a the smallest hesitation in her stance.
A breath caught.
"You're lying," she said.
"You smell like winter and fire," he rasped. "And my bones ache when you're near. My wolf claws at my throat with need. You are the reason. And don't you dare say you haven't felt it too."
She said nothing, her silence speaking volumes.
Then without warning an arrow sliced through the air.
Alaric twisted. The bolt buried into the tree beside him with a thunk.
A second arrow followed. Then a third.
"Ambush!" someone screamed.
Figures emerged from the treeline. They were hybrids, half-shifted, foam-mouthed, wielding crude blades and alchemical claws.
The guards scrambled into position.
Seraphine didn't hesitate. She spun, dagger flashing, cutting down one hybrid with precision.
Alaric drew his dagger and moved without thinking.
Side by side, they fought, for the first time.
Back-to-back.
He blocked a hybrid's jaws with his forearm and drove his blade through its skull.
She kicked another into a stone altar and slit its throat before it landed.
Their movements were terrifyingly in sync.
Another wolf lunged for her blind side.
Alaric reached it first.
He crushed its windpipe with one hand and snapped its neck with the other.
Seraphine turned just in time to see the body fall.
Their eyes met again.
A heartbeat passed.
She whispered, "Why?"
He didn't answer.
The last hybrid had bolted into the trees. The camp was bloody and silent. Everyone was dead except the two of them. Seraphine turned to him, face flushed, breath shallow.
"You could've let it kill me."
"I wanted to."
"Then why didn't you?"
His voice dropped.
"My Wolf won't let me."
She stepped closer, blade still stained with blood. "You should kill me."
"I know and believe me when I say this, I want to." He whispered, raw flames glinting in his eyes.
There was single step between them.
"You want answers?" she asked.
"I want truth."
She leaned in, her breath ghosting over his mouth.
Then suddenly she drove her dagger upward.
Alaric caught her wrist mid-thrust. Their faces inches apart.
"Try again," he growled, eyes glowing. "And I'll break every bone in your body."
Her eyes widened, not from fear, but fury.
She yanked her wrist free.
"I don't feel what you feel," she hissed. "And I never will."
She turned and walked away.
Alaric stared after her. His jaw clenched. His eyes bearing a red glow.
,,,
Later that night, in the shadows outside the camp, a figure knelt beside one of the fallen hybrids.
A small vial was filled with blood from the corpse.
The figure whispered into a rune-etched mirror:
"The bond is real. And it's breaking him."
A voice replied, cold and ancient.
"Good. We need him fractured before the Offering."
The figure stood.
The figure's face flickered in the moonlight.
It was Nyssa Greymoor.