Thaddeus sighs, the sound genuinely weary. “Always so dramatic. So certain of your righteousness.” His silver gaze shifts to me. “Has he told you who he truly is, little seer? What blood runs in his veins?”
I feel Ryker stiffen beside me. So Thaddeus does know Ryker is his son.
“He’s told me everything,” I reply, meeting that ancient gaze without flinching. “Including who you are.”
“Ah.” Something flickers in Thaddeus’s expression—not surprise but perhaps disappointment that this particular weapon has been denied him. “Then you understand why this confrontation was inevitable from the moment he claimed you.”
“Because you fear prophecy,” I state simply. “You’ve spent centuries trying to outrun what seers have foreseen—that your reign ends at the hands of your son.”
Thaddeus laughs, the sound holding no humor. “Prophecies can be broken. I fear nothing but the chaos that follows when natural order is disrupted.” He focuses on Ryker once more. “Your mother’s blood made you unstable, prone to emotion rather than reason, to rebellion rather than duty.”
“My mother’s blood made me whole,” Ryker corrects. “Capable of seeing beyond rigid tradition to what our kind could become if freed from restrictions that no longer serve any purpose but maintainingyourcontrol.”
The air between them crackles with tension—not just the anticipation of physical conflict but the collision of fundamentally opposed worldviews. On one side stands Thaddeus, representing a rigid hierarchy that sorts wolves into categories of value based on ancestry and adherence to tradition. On the other, Ryker embodies possibility—a future where difference becomes strength rather than stigma, where choice supersedes compulsion.
“You truly believe you can improve on systems that have preserved our kind for centuries?” Thaddeus asks, genuine curiosity evident beneath the contempt. “That your ragtag collection of outcasts and misfits represent progress?”
“I believe the strongest pack is built on loyalty freelygiven rather than submission enforced through fear,” Ryker replies. “I believe our time has come.”
The statement sits between them—simple, direct, impossible to misinterpret. Thaddeus studies Ryker for a long moment.
“You’re weakened,” he observes clinically. “The silver in your system hasn’t fully cleared. Your wounds from last night aren’t yet healed.” His smile holds no warmth. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice? That I’d fail to recognize the advantage timing presents me?”
“I counted on you noticing,” Ryker replies, his voice steady. “Just as I counted on your pride demanding you face me despite knowing what prophecy foretells.”
Thaddeus rolls his massive shoulders, power gathering visibly around him.
“Then let’s conclude this unfortunate chapter,” he declares, his voice carrying absolute finality. “Challenge accepted.”
The transformation begins—bone and muscle flow like liquid, fur erupts along restructuring limbs, Thaddeus’s face elongates into a muzzle filled with teeth designed for tearing flesh. Where the Grand Alpha stood moments before now towers a massive wolf—white fur gleaming in sunlight, silver eyes holding the cold calculation of a predator who has never known defeat.
Ryker shifts in response—his transformation slightly slower due to silver contamination but no less impressive. Black fur ripples across expanding muscle, scars visible as silver lines where hair refuses to grow. His mismatched eyes—one gold, one blood-red—hold absolute focus as he completes the change, his massive form nearly matching Thaddeus’s in size.
They circle slowly, mutually understanding that only one will leave this plateau alive. I step back, giving them space. Ican see Ryker’s absolute concentration as he seeks weaknesses in an opponent renowned for having none.
Thaddeus strikes first, targeting Ryker’s silver-wounded shoulder with precise aim. Teeth snap, missing by millimeters as Ryker twists away, using momentum to conserve strength.
They separate, reassess, circle again. The next exchange comes faster—Thaddeus driving forward with devastating power. Ryker meets the charge but redirects rather than absorbing, using his opponent’s greater mass against him. Blood sprays as teeth find flesh, though in the blur of motion it’s impossible to tell who struck first or paid the highest price.
The fight unfolds with brutal intensity—no wasted movement, no theatrical displays. This is violence stripped to its essence, alpha against alpha for territory and a future.
Thaddeus fights with vicious precision, each attack targeting a weakness.
Ryker counters, fiercely unpredictable and devastatingly accurate. He doesn’t try to match Thaddeus directly—that’s a battle he can’t win in his current state—but creates openings where none should exist, transforming defensive movements into surprising attacks.
Blood darkens their fur as the confrontation continues—black and white stained crimson under the warm sun. I can feel Ryker’s pain, his increasing struggle as silver contamination combines with fresh wounds to slow his responses.
Wait. I can feel?
My heart stutters.
Yes, there’s a faint feeling, like an echo or the distant buzz of a bee. I close my eyes, focusing on the feeling—hardly daring to hope—and reach for my gift.
It disappears, dancing out of my grasp.
I open my eyes, watching as the wolves crash into each other, blood and fur flying.
Come on, Kitara. You can do this.
