And Silas?—
His presence expanded until it felt like he occupied every inch of the clearing at once. But power. The kind that made air taste like copper and rot, that made my teeth ache and my vision blur and every instinct scream run, hide, die quietly rather than draw his attention.
His eyes changed. The old-blood burgundy darkened, shifted, turned deep purple—regal and terrible and absolutely wrong. Rogue-command magic and blood craft swirling together, creating something that shouldn't exist in one body.
“Do you see now?” Silas looked at Gideon, and his voice carried weight that made reality bend. “This is what our family was meant to become. Not hiding in garages fixing cars. Not pretending we're something safe and domesticated. We're apex predators, Gideon. We're the thing even monsters fear.”
“You're an abomination,” Gideon said, but his voice shook.
“Perhaps. But I'm an abomination that just became unstoppable.” Silas flexed his hands, and I felt power roll off him in waves. “Every rogue between here and the coast will answer to me now. Every blood ritual, every death curse, every piece of craft Rafe spent years mastering—it's mine. And soon, once I finish what I started here, the forest itself will bow.”
The pack attacked anyway.
Because pack was pack, and you fought even when fighting meant dying. You stood your ground because the alternative was watching your family fall alone.
Daniel led the charge, Alpha fury overriding exhaustion. Evan followed despite broken ribs and bleeding wounds. Jonah, Sienna, Mason, Alaric—all of them throwing themselves at something that should have been impossible to fight.
And Silas moved through them like smoke through grass.
Casual. Effortless. Every gesture a calculated dismissal. He caught Daniel by the throat, threw him into Evan hard enough to send them both sprawling. Turned Jonah's lunge aside with magic that made the young wolf scream. Sienna got close enough to bite, but corruption magic erupted from Silas's skin and sent her flying backward with burns that smoked in the cold air.
Mason tried to flank him. Alaric circled wide, looking for an opening. Working together, coordinated, using every tactic Daniel had drilled into them.
Silas raised his hand.
Dark energy gathered at his palm, corruption magic condensing into something solid and sharp and aimed directly at Michael. The bolt of black lightning crackled with malevolent intent, faster than thought, faster than any wolf could intercept.
But Alaric was already moving.
He hit Michael from the side, full wolf weight slamming into human body, driving them both to the ground as the corruption bolt screamed through the space where Michael's chest had been.
It caught Alaric instead.
The magic tore through him with a sound like wet paper shredding. Through fur and flesh and bone, carving a hole in his side that no amount of wolf healing could close. He landed in a heap beside Michael, already shifting back to human form, already bleeding out on frozen ground.
“No—” Michael scrambled to his knees, hands pressing against the wound that was too big, too wrong, too final. “No, no, no. Alaric, stay with me?—”
Alaric's hand found Michael's. His grip was weak, trembling, but his eyes were clear. Focused on Michael's face with an intensity that said he knew exactly what was happening and had made his peace with it.
“Hey.” His voice came out wet. Rattling. “Don't look so scared, Harrington. You'll ruin my dramatic exit.”
“Why did you—you shouldn't have?—”
“You saved my life in that clearing.” Blood bubbled at the corner of Alaric's mouth, but he was smiling. Actually smiling, like he'd finally found something worth the price. “Threw yourself in front of me when you barely knew me. When I'd been nothing but an asshole to you.” He coughed, and more blood came up. “Couldn't let that debt go unpaid.”
“This isn't—you can't—” Michael's voice broke. “Alaric, please.”
“Tell Daniel I'm sorry.” Alaric's eyes were dimming now, the light fading from them like a candle guttering in wind. “Sorry I doubted you. Sorry I couldn't see what he saw.” His hand tightened on Michael's one last time. “You're pack, Michael. Real pack. Take care of them for me, yeah?”
“Alaric—”
“It's okay.” The smile stayed, even as his breathing went shallow. Even as the life drained out of him one heartbeat at a time. “It's going to be okay. The pack... the pack survives. That's what matters. That's what always matters.”
His hand went slack.
His eyes, those sharp eyes that had watched Michael with suspicion for months, that had softened into something like respect over shared fights and honest conversation, went still and empty.
The sound that tore from the pack was grief made audible. Loss and rage and the desperate fury of watching family die while you were powerless to stop it.
