Moonlight tore through the swaying branches of weeping willows, illuminating the muddy, damp earth below. The hum of the flowing river nearby and the gentle patter of droplets tapping the surface of the water—sounds usually soothing to the soul—now seemed part of an eerie symphony, a warning to those daring enough to witness what was unfolding.

  The Duskbane Pack’s ceremonial grounds scarred the earth like a wound. Dark, oppressive, soul-consuming. Twelve Menhir stones stood tall in a perfect circle, silent sentinels of power, dwarfing all who stepped inside. They made it abundantly clear: no one here was in control. God, no. The stones looked ready to devour any soul foolish enough to attempt the blood-binding ritual.

  Few of the brave hearts who sought answers here never returned. Those who did, came back altered—shocked, paralyzed, or worse... hollow. Menhir Willow wasn’t a place people visited. It was a place they avoided.

  Yet Nathaniel stood there, unflinching. Ready.

  The ritual had begun.

  At the center was a mountain—bizarrely sculpted and made entirely of bones. Whose bones, no one knew. The air was thick with the scent of burnt sage and something metallic, like rusting iron and blood.

  This particular ritual had been outlawed for seven generations. Tearing the veil between worlds was considered madness. Dangerous. Forbidden. But Nathaniel had long since traded his sanity for something else: answers.

  Beta Cole stood beside him, rigid, his face unreadable. But the beads of sweat along his brow betrayed him—he was terrified. To Nathaniel’s other side knelt Mariah, the pack’s head witch, cloaked in midnight-blue robes that pooled around her like a puddle. Her voice chanted steadily, her words sharp as needles, pricking at the minds of everyone who was able to hear her.

  Valdar, the historian wolf, lingered just behind Elara, tense and alert. His eyes flicked between the fire and the woods, ready to defend whatever entity lunged first—or rather, to protect Elara. His glasses caught the firelight, flickering unnaturally. Something about the flames felt… wrong. Like they couldn't be put out.

  Among the few who had gathered, one man stood with arms crossed: Norman. His gaze held no love, only mockery. His presence was not to support Nathaniel—but to watch him fail. Once, he'd been a father bursting with pride, standing outside the infirmary waiting to meet his son, to hold him in his hands for the first time. He’d been elated, heart swelling with love.

  Now, that same heart held only hatred. The silence in his eyes was more cutting than words.

  Oh how time changes people. Transforms something that was ones love into cruel hatred.

  “Weak.”

  “Weakness killed her. Weakness will destroy the pack,” Norman thought to himself.

  “Now,” Mariah commanded.

  Nathaniel’s throat tightened. His chest rose sharply as she poured his blood into the fire.

  Immediately, her head snapped back. Her pupils dilated as the flames roared upward—twisting into ten-foot serpents, writhing and hissing, alive with violent hunger.

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  “Ask,” she said, a voice that didn’t seem her’s.

  “Where is my Luna?” Nathaniel growled. His voice cracked the air, a match to the fire’s fury. The runes etched in the stone circle glowed crimson.

  The flames contorted. A woman’s body began to take shape—face down, soaked in dried blood, her skin deathly pale.

  Nathaniel’s breath caught. His heart slammed to a halt.

  “Gone,” the flames whispered with haunting tenderness.

  “Where?” Cole whispered, cautious.

  “Beyond life. The veil drinks what it claims,” the smoke answered convulsing, scattering ash like morbid snow.

  “No.” Nathaniel snarled. Rage radiated off him.

  Mariah collapsed, blood trailing from her nose as she gasped for air.

  Through the chaos, Norman’s voice rang out like a whip: “Pathetic.”

  Nathaniel’s head snapped toward him as his father moved closer to the stones, with gleaming eyes.

  “Stop mewling you fool. Get up. The pack’s time isn’t to be wasted mourning some weak she-wolf’s death. Stand up, pup.”

  The words hit Nathaniel like a sledgehammer, shattering something deep inside. A wildfire ignited in his chest—raw, primal, unstoppable.

  In three strides, he crossed the circle, his eyes burning with silver light. Cole moved to intervene but halted as Nathaniel growled—low and deadly.

  “You dare speak of my mate?” Nathaniel snarled, his voice deeper than any wolf’s had ever been. He was inches from Norman’s face. “You, who left my mother’s body to rot while you chased your wounded pride.”

  His claws began to form, sharp and trembling with restrained violence. “You didn’t even bury her. The bugs, the insects—they got to her before you did. And you talk to me about weakness?”

  Norman sneered. “She was dead, boy. Nothing to protect. Unlike you, who had a mate living and still couldn’t keep her breathing.”

  Nathaniel flinched.

  His wolf was near the surface—barely restrained.

  Norman smiled—a twisted, hollow thing. Something in him was... off. “I hunted the mutts who killed her while you stood paralyzed. Pathetic. Tell me, boy—if you were there when your mate died, would you have saved her? Or would you have ignored her cries, like you did your mother’s?”

  He leaned closer.

  “Seraphine died a warrior’s death. Your mate died like a fool. Helpless. Weak. Just like you.”

  CRACK.

  Nathaniel’s fist crashed into Norman’s jaw. The old man staggered, then laughed—a guttural, unhinged sound that rippled through the ground.

  Norman spat blood on the Menhir stones. And then they both shifted.

  Bones snapped. Fur tore through skin. Nathaniel’s wolf towered at seven feet—black as night, eyes burning silver. Norman’s was nearly identical, the resemblance a cruel reminder of the bond they once shared. Norman’s frame bore the wear of age, his muzzle scarred from countless battles.

  Their first collision shook the earth.

  Nathaniel lunged, his canines tearing into Norman’s neck. Blood dripped from his fangs, but it was clear—he was still holding back.

  Until Norman slashed open his ribs.

  Blood sprayed in arcs.

  The pack stood frozen. No one interfered in an Alpha’s duel. Not unless they wanted to die.

  “You let her die,” Norman’s voice echoed in Nathaniel’s mind. “You didn’t defend her. You’re nothing but a shadow of what a wolf should be.”

  Mind link. A cruel gift to wolves.

  Nathaniel roared and slammed Norman into a Menhir stone. Cracks spider webbed across its surface.

  Norman retaliated, biting into Nathaniel’s leg. A sickening crunch followed.

  “Still too slow,” Norman spat through the mind link. “Maybe if you’d been faster, your mate and your mother wouldn’t be cold in the ground.”

  “You should have died instead of her,” Nathaniel shot back through the mind link.

  Memories exploded in Norman’s head—Seraphine’s desperate last words, the helplessness in her voice. The promises he broke. The failure he couldn’t erase.

  Norman growled back. “I lived because I had a spine. You? You’re drowning in grief and calling it love.”

  With a final blow, Nathaniel hurled Norman across the ground.

  “Do not challenge me, Father. I am your Alpha now.”

  Norman howled—not in pain, but pride.

  “There’s the pup I raised.”

  Elara and the warriors moved in to help the elder wolf, dragging him away to tend to his wounds. Nathaniel stood, bloodied, panting.

  Only Cole dared approach. The one who had always been there.

  “He’s wrong,” Cole said quietly. “Grief doesn’t make you weak.”

  Nathaniel didn’t look at him. Just whispered,

  “Then why does it feel like I’m dying?”