Page 69 of The Onyx Covenant

Theron follows my gaze, his body tensing beside me. He moves swiftly to the second body, and I follow on unsteady legs, dreading what we’ll find.

It’s Maddox Daruk, one of the Umbra tributes selected for the ritual. His death mirrors Zephyr’s—the same crushing head wound, the same frozen expression of terror. Theron growls low in his throat, a sound so feral and pained that it raises the hair on my arms.

His Omega isn’t anywhere either, and just like Zephyr’s, Maddox’s manacle is dead—no silver threads, no light. The moment its host dies, the magic in it snuffs out, too, like it senses the soul slipping free.

“They died fighting,” he says after a moment, gesturing to Maddox’s bloodied knuckles and the defensive wounds on his forearms. “They didn’t go easily.”

I look around more carefully now, noticing what I missed in my initial shock. Signs of a violent struggle are everywhere—broken branches, trampled underbrush, splashes of blood washed pale by the rain. This wasn’t a quick ambush; it was a battle.

“Trolls. Do you think they’re responsible?” I ask, glancing around frantically.

Thunder cracks directly overhead, making me flinch. The storm is intensifying, the sky darkening to a premature twilight, though it can’t be past midday. But in this gloom, the forest’s predators might grow bold earlier than usual.

“Could be,” Theron replies grimly, scanning the tree line. “And that’s exactly why we need to move… and fast. Trolls are territorial. If they’ve killed once today, they won’t hesitate to do it again.”

I glance back at Zephyr, my heart clenching at the ache of his parents finding out.

Theron’s gaze meets mine, grim determination in their gray depths. “Let’s go. Now.” He nods toward our packs, which we left at the edge of the small clearing when we shifted.

“I can’t just?—”

“You can and you will,” he cuts me off, his voice firm but not unkind. “Zephyr and Maddox are beyond our help. We’re not.”

The rational part of me knows he’s right, but something in me rebels at the thought of abandoning our pack mates to the mercy of scavengers and the elements.

“We’ll come back for them,” Theron promises, reading my hesitation. “Once we’ve won, once we’re safe, we’ll return with others and give them the rites they deserve. But right now, we focus on staying alive.”

A flash of lightning illuminates the clearing again, and in that stark, blue-white light, I see something that sends ice through my veins. Massive, misshapen footprints pressed into the mud—too large for any wolf or bear, with splayed toes that end in blunt, almost rectangular depressions under the trees where the rain hasn’t washed them away yet.

“Theron,” I whisper, pointing to the tracks. “Look.”

He follows my gesture, his expression hardening as he recognizes the threat.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters.

I don’t hesitate. The change tears through me, bones cracking and re-forming as my body contorts into the powerful frame of my wolf. The pain is sharp but brief, and then I’m on four paws, senses heightened despite the storm’s interference. Theron is in his wolf form just as quickly, and we’re off.

The wind howls amid the trees, bending trunks and sending branches crashing down around us.

We’re forced to a slow, cautious pace as we continue upward, hyperaware of every sound, every shadow. As we advance farther, more signs become clear—trees torn out by their roots rather than fallen naturally, strange circular clearings where nothing grows.

Definitely trolls.

Suddenly, a deep rumbling sound carries through the storm—not thunder, but something moving. The ground under our feet trembles with heavy footfalls.

A hulking silhouette appears between the trees ahead, at least eight feet tall and broad as a bear. The figure moves with surprising speed for its size, navigating the slick terrain.

We freeze in the shadows of the trees.

I hold my breath, willing my racing heart to quiet. The troll pauses, its huge head swinging from side to side as it scents the air. Now that it’s closer, I can make out more details—grayish-green skin like weathered stone, knotted muscles bulging, arms so long the monstrous hands nearly brush the ground. A jutting brow ridge shadowing small, deep-set eyes, a flat, almost nonexistent nose with flared nostrils, and a mouth full of blunt, rock-like teeth.

The evidence of Zephyr’s and Maddox’s shattered skulls tells me those stories were, if anything, understated.

The troll takes another step forward, and a twig snaps under its large foot. Its head swivels in our direction, those small eyes narrowing as they lock on to us. At that moment, the wind blows in our direction, bringing its repulsive scent of rot and swamp water. I gag just as the troll’s roar deafens me, vibrating in my ears and chest.

Fear drives us forward, weaving between trees frantically. The mud squelches beneath my paws, sometimes firm enough for traction, sometimes slick enough to send me sliding. Rain pelts my fur, soaking through to my skin despite the protective undercoat. Each breath pulls in the metallic tang of the storm, the mossy decay of the forest floor, and the stone-and-rot smell of troll.

Heavy footfalls behind us send tremors in the ground that I feel through the pads of my paws.

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