(Luke Vrenatta POV)
I hate the way Mari Ventor looks at me like she already knows how I'll die.
I hate her sharp mouth, her colder-than-ice eyes, the way silence bends around her like it's scared to speak first.
I hate how she walks like the world owes her blood.
I hate that she said we were murderers like it was fact, not accusation.
I hate that for half a second—one unforgivable fucking second—I almost wondered if she was right.
That part of me dies first.
Hatred is easier.
Hatred is clean.
Hatred doesn't ask questions it can't survive the answers to.
The Midnight Pack stands in ruins behind me, smoke still curling from the bones of our home like the land itself is breathing its last. The main pack house is a blackened carcass, stone split open, banners reduced to ash. Wolves move through it silently, salvaging what they can, carrying bodies with a reverence that tastes like grief and fury mixed together.
Nightblade did this.
Mari did this.
And I will burn her world down for it.
"They're ready," Kael Draven says beside me, his voice rough but steady. My father's Beta doesn't look at the destruction the way the rest of us do. He looks at it like a battlefield lesson—something to be learned from, not mourned.
"Good," I snap.
My wolf snarls inside my chest, pacing, slamming against my ribs like it wants out, like it wants blood. I don't give it that yet. I won't let rage make me sloppy.
That's how Nightblade wins.
"We'll move to the western keep," my father says from behind me.
Alpha Ronan Vrenatta doesn't sound broken. He sounds dangerous.
The backup pack house sits deep in Midnight territory, hidden by cliffs and layered wards older than most packs. It was built for this exact reason—because in our world, peace is just a pause between wars.
The pack listens as Ronan gives orders. Calm. Controlled. Ruthless.
Relocation. Fortification. Scouts doubled. Borders sealed.
Rebuilding begins the moment the last body is laid to rest.
Nightblade thought they crippled us.
They didn't.
They reminded us who we are.
The journey to the western keep is silent. No one speaks. The forest seems to sense it, branches bowing low, shadows stretching like they're trying to listen. Wolves move in formation—injured in the center, fighters on the perimeter.
Soren Draven walks a step behind me.
My future Beta.
He hasn't said a word since the attack. He doesn't need to. His anger is quieter than mine, colder. The kind that waits.
The keep emerges from the stone like it grew there—dark granite, reinforced steel, runes etched so deep they glow faintly even in daylight. Midnight's second heart.
As soon as we cross the wards, the tension in the pack shifts. Not gone—but sharpened.
We are still standing.
Inside, the great hall fills with voices, orders, movement. Medics work fast. Warriors strip off armor. Children are sent below ground. This is what survival looks like.
I head straight for the training yard.
Steel sings the moment my blade hits the post.
Again.
Again.
Again.
I swing until my shoulders burn, until sweat runs into my eyes, until the image of Mari Ventor's face fractures into something I can destroy.
She stood in front of me in the ruins, blood on her hands, eyes empty of remorse—and told me my family were monsters.
Lies.
They're always lies.
Nightblade poisons history the way they poison land—slowly, deliberately, until nothing clean survives.
"You're going to break the post," Soren says eventually.
"Good."
I strike harder.
"She wanted you to doubt," he adds.
That gets my attention.
I stop, breathing hard, blade dripping with sweat instead of blood. "What?"
Soren steps closer, his expression unreadable. "Ventor didn't look victorious back there. She looked… intentional."
I scoff. "Don't start."
"I'm not defending her."
"Then don't analyze her."
"She wants something," he insists. "And it's not just land."
My jaw tightens. "What she wants is irrelevant."
Because wanting implies negotiation.
And there will be none.
Later, in the council chamber, my father addresses the inner circle—elders, Betas, captains. Maps are spread across the stone table, new borders marked in red.
"Shadowfang remains our priority," Ronan says. "We finish that war first."
My head snaps up. "With respect—that's bullshit."
The room stills.
My father's gaze cuts to me. "Careful."
"Nightblade attacked us while we were distracted," I say, heat flooding my veins. "They exploited our weakness. You want to ignore that?"
"I want to survive," he replies calmly. "Two-front wars end packs."
"They already started it."
"And we will end it," he says. "On our terms."
I grind my teeth, fists clenched. Every instinct in me screams to go back—to retaliate, to answer blood with blood.
But I'm not Alpha yet.
That fact burns worse than the ruins.
The meeting ends with orders I hate but obey. That's the curse of being next in line—you carry power without authority, responsibility without control.
I leave before my anger spills into something stupid.
Night falls hard over the keep.
I stand on the battlements alone, staring east—toward Nightblade territory. Toward her.
I picture Mari Ventor standing in her pack house, cold and unshaken, surrounded by wolves who cheer destruction like it's religion.
She said my family were murderers.
I don't believe her.
I refuse to.
Because believing her means questioning everything I was raised to protect.
And I would rather drown in hatred than let doubt tear me apart.
"Enjoy your victory," I mutter into the dark. "It won't last."
My wolf howls inside me, low and vicious.
This isn't over.
It's just begun.
And when the time comes—when the wars align, when the land demands blood again—I won't hesitate.
Mari Ventor will learn exactly what Midnight does to its enemies.
Even if part of me is already bracing for the moment she looks me in the eye and tells me the truth again—
—and this time, I won't be able to ignore it.