The cold air of the dungeon stung Elara's skin like needles, the damp scent of earth and rust wrapping around her as the heavy door slammed shut. The echo of the lock turned in her mind long after the sound faded. Her wolf stirred restlessly within her chest, pacing, snarling, not here, not like this.
She sank onto the rough floor, hugging her knees, staring at the faint line of light under the iron door. That single sliver was all she had left of the world above. The silence was thick—broken only by dripping water and her own heartbeat, too loud, too heavy.
Her wolf, Lyra, whispered inside her mind, We shouldn't be here. They've caged us like we're the danger.
Elara bit her lip, her throat aching from the tears she refused to shed. Maybe we are, she thought. Ever since Kael came, everything's changed. The patrols, the whispers, the looks... they think I brought him here.
They're wrong. Lyra's voice was sharp, protective. He sought us out. He didn't come for the pack—he came for you.
That thought made her chest tighten. Kael's gaze haunted her—the cold precision, the power that rolled off him like thunder barely restrained. He'd looked at her as though he could see right through her, past the fear and shame, into something even she didn't recognize. And then he'd vanished into the night again, leaving her world even more fragile.
Above, faint voices echoed down the corridor. Guards. They spoke in low tones, sharp with worry. "Alpha's restless. He doesn't trust that rogue Alpha's intentions. Said Kael's kind don't make peace—they conquer."
Elara flinched. She didn't want to hear it, but her wolf's hearing wouldn't let her escape.
"Still," another voice replied, "I saw him look at her. Like she was his prize."
Her blood ran cold. Lyra bristled, growling softly. We're not a prize. We're no one's.
Then why does part of me wish he'd come back? The thought slipped out before she could stop it. Lyra went silent, not in anger—but in understanding.
The hours bled together. No one came to bring her food, no one offered a word of comfort. The dungeon's chill seeped into her bones until even breathing felt heavy. She pressed her palm to her neck where her pack mark used to be—bare skin, scarred faintly from its removal. It was supposed to mean freedom, but all it meant now was that she belonged nowhere.
Night came again, or maybe it had never truly left. She didn't know. The world outside had gone quiet, and her senses picked up something faint—the softest tremor of footsteps, too light to be a guard. Her pulse spiked.
"Who's there?" she whispered, her voice rasping from disuse.
No answer. Then, a breath. Deep, deliberate. Familiar.
For a fleeting moment, she thought it was Kael—come again like a shadow in the night. But the presence stopped short of the bars, cloaked in the dim light from the torches. Whoever it was lingered, silent, as if watching.
Elara rose slowly, her chains clinking. "If you came to stare, get it over with," she said, voice trembling with a defiance she barely felt.
Still nothing. Then a low voice—a woman's. "He's not who you think he is."
Elara froze. The figure stepped forward slightly, revealing the faint outline of one of Damon's elite guards—Amara, known for her silence and loyalty.
"What are you talking about?" Elara asked.
Amara's gaze flickered to the door. "Kael. He's not here to end the feud. He's here to claim something Damon stole long ago."
Elara's breath caught. "What could that possibly be?"
"You," Amara said softly. "And he'll burn every inch of Silvercrest to get you back."
The torchlight guttered, casting her face into shadow again. Then she turned and vanished down the corridor, leaving Elara alone with the weight of those words—and a truth she wasn't ready to face.
Her wolf pressed close to her heart, whispering one thing over and over.
He's coming.