Prologue
Maddox POV
The forest knows before I do.
I cross the boundary stone, and my chest seizes so violently I stumble, claws scraping bark as I press against a pine to steady myself. Black Fang land has always spoken to me, not in words, but in rhythm. Its pulse was steady, alive, a breathing pack woven into roots and sky.
Now… there is nothing.
No pulse.
No breath.
Just emptiness pressing in, heavy and wrong.
My wolf stirs beneath my skin, low and uneasy. Every instinct screams: I’m too late.
I move anyway. Step by step, paw after paw.
Then the scent hits me.
Blood. Smoke.
Old. Heavy. Buried deep into the earth. It curls up my muzzle and presses against my throat, sour and choking.
“No!” I growl it to the trees. The forest swallows my words.
I break into a run as fear sets in. Branches claw at my fur, tearing at my flanks and face. The ground is churned to ruin—clawed apart by too many bodies fighting too little time. Trunks are scarred deep, fur and blood marking desperate wolves scrambling for survival.
I’ve seen this before.
A month ago.
My den.
The memory hits like a hammer.
Emmeline’s cradle overturned.
Blankets shredded.
Two pack guards, necks broken.
She was only a year old.
Storm Howlers territory wasn’t far.
The same wrongness had hung in the air then. The same unnatural quiet. I had torn my den apart searching, wolf near-feral with panic, but there was nothing. No trail. No trace. Someone had planned it.
And now I know who.
Raglan.
The clearing opens ahead, and my limbs quiver.
The den or what’s left of it, has collapsed inward. Stone blackened and split. Timber reduced to brittle ash. Fire used deliberately. Methodically.
As if Raglan wanted to erase them completely.
I surge forward, wolf screaming inside me, claws digging into dirt and ash. Smoke curls around my muzzle, stinging my nose and lungs. I search for survivors. There are none.
Bodies lie everywhere.
Warriors cut down mid-shift. Elders fallen near the back, shielding the young. Smaller shapes, too small stare back at me with empty eyes. My vision blurs. I shake my head. Panting, breath ripping from my chest in ragged gasps.
This isn’t war.
This is slaughter.
Then I see him.
Torrin… My best friend.
Near the entrance. Exactly where he would have been, holding the line, buying time that never existed. Broken. Ruined.
The moment I recognize him, something inside me snaps. The wolf howls once, long and raw, then retreats. My body shudders violently, bones cracking and fur receding, and I shift back into human form.
Hands. Fingers. Feet. Chest pressed against ash and cold. I collapse beside him.
“No,” I whisper, my voice cracking apart. “No—you don’t get to—”
I crawl the last few feet, cradling him in my arms. He’s cold. Far too light. His blood soaks my hands and clothes, marking me, branding this moment into my bones.
“You were supposed to warn me,” I choke. “You swore you would tell me if Raglan-” I press my forehead to his, and grief tears loose inside me suffocating, raw, tangled with a rage hotter than fire.
Emmeline’s den is empty. Her warmth gone. Her name echoes unanswered.
I feel the cruelty in my bones. Raglan’s patience. His precision. The way mercy is stripped away and called strategy.
Raglan…
I decided to stay, for my brother.
I buried them all with my own hands, warriors, elders, pups, because leaving them to the sky would be another betrayal. I have already failed too many I loved. I don’t stop when my fingers go numb or my arms tremble violently. They deserve more than haste.
They deserve honor.
When dawn finally breaks, I am soaked in blood and ash, weighed down by something no rain will wash away.
I stand alone in the ruins of a pack that should still exist.
Somewhere beyond these trees, Raglan of the Storm Howlers still draws breath.
And somewhere, alive or taken, I don’t know.. My daughter, Emmeline, is still missing.
The grief in my chest hardens into something cold and unyielding.
I will find her.
And Raglan… if he took her the way he took this pack,
I will make him answer for every life he erased.
