Ciaran leans closer, eyes narrowing. “Those lines are too clean.”
I stare at the marks and feel my wolf press hard beneath my ribs.
Four deep gouges curve across the chest in a deliberate arc. Another set crosses them at sharp angles, the cuts precise enough to be intentional despite the violence required to make them. One symbol sits centered above the sternum, carved deep enough that fresh blood still wells in the grooves.
Ansel glances up at me briefly. “That is an Alpha Challenge mark.”
Ciaran goes very still.
The injured wolf’s eyes flutter, then open wider as if the words reach him even through pain. His breathing stutters, and Ansel presses a steady hand to his chest.
“Easy,” Ansel murmurs. “Do not waste strength.”
My jaw tightens until it aches.
The rogue did not just attack a patrol wolf. He branded.
“He wanted this seen,” Ciaran says quietly.
“Yes,” I reply.
Ansel’s fingers trace the puckered lines of the symbol without touching the open grooves. “This is old law,” he says. “It is a direct challenge to your position.”
The lodge air feels colder.
Outside, voices drift from the direction of the clearing, tense and rising as news spreads. I can already feel the pack’s agitation through the walls, a collective pressure that wants direction, wants certainty, wants blood.
“Can he talk,” I ask.
Ansel shakes his head slightly. “He can breathe, barely. If he speaks, he risks tearing the wound again.”
Ciaran watches the injured wolf’s face. “He made it back. That matters.”
“It means the rogue allowed it,” I say.
Ciaran’s gaze shifts to mine. “Or the rogue miscalculated.”
I do not answer because the truth is worse. The rogue calculated everything about this, from the attack to the distance to the lodge. He wanted the patrol wolf alive long enough to stagger into the clearing and collapse at our feet.
He wanted the pack to see weakness. He wanted them to see challenge.
Ansel reaches for a fresh bandage wrap and begins securing the injured wolf’s chest. His movements remain steady, but the tension beneath his calm is real.
“I will keep him stable,” Ansel says. “You should address the pack before their fear turns into chaos.”
I step back from the table, forcing my breathing into a slow, controlled rhythm. My wolf snarls silently inside me, demanding I answer the challenge with teeth and blood. I give him only restraint, because leadership requires more than instinct.
“Set up a guard at this lodge,” I tell Ciaran. “No one enters without your approval.”
Ciaran’s eyes narrow. “Including council.”
“Including council,” I confirm.
I leave the lodge with my shoulders squared, the scent of blood clinging to my skin. The air outside is sharp with cold and pine, but it does nothing to cool the heat building in my chest.Wolves have gathered in the clearing already, forming tight clusters that break apart as I step into view.
Brynn stands near the central stone, staff planted, face set in grave calm. Marek and Lydia stand close, their expressions hard. Gideon is there too, composed as always, watching me like he expects a stumble.
Ciaran follows a moment later, blood on his hands from holding the injured wolf steady. The sight alone silences the murmurs.
