Page 15 of To Carve A Wolf

“I promise.”

He held onto me for one more second, then let go.

The guards pulled me to my feet, unchained my ankles, and shackled my hands tighter instead. The door closed behind me with the sound of finality. And as they led me down the long stone corridor, I could still feel Dain’s eyes on my back. Watching. Hoping. Waiting.

They dragged me through a winding corridor of stone and steel, and as my boots echoed off the floor, I tried to keep my eyes open.

This wasn’t just a dungeon tucked beneath some den. It was deeper. Bigger. Older. The walls weren’t crumbling. The torches were freshly lit. Everything was maintained, guarded, watched.

We emerged into a vast inner courtyard, and I blinked at the sudden rush of light filtering in from above. Snow fell lightly, but even that looked out of place here—too soft against the towering black stone that surrounded us.

A citadel.That was the only word for it. A fortress meant not for survival, but domination.

The guards didn’t speak, just marched me forward past wolves who paused to look—some curious, some hungry. I didn’t drop my head. I wouldn’t give them that.

At the far side of the courtyard, beneath an arch of carved obsidian, a man waited.

Taller than most. Heavy with muscle. Thick brown beard, flecked with frost. His coat bore the mark of the Blood Night—silver thread stitched into the black leather like veins. His power rippled under the surface, tightly leashed but unmistakable.

Beta.

I reached for the long-buried knowledge scraped from overheard lessons, whispered politics between sisters. Alpha. Beta. Enforcers. The old structures. Wolves pretending to be kings.

He stepped forward as we approached, his smile too pleasant for this place. “You must be thestray.”

I didn’t reply. I was too busy calculating how many steps it would take to get past him, how many seconds before the guards behind me caught up.

He glanced at the guards. “I’ll take her from here.”

One nodded, hesitated, then released my arm. The weight of the man’s eyes never left me as he gestured toward the inner hall.

“Come,” he said. “The Alpha’s waiting.”

I didn’t move. “Why am I being treated like a criminal?” I asked, voice rough with cold and days without rest. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

He laughed softly, like I’d just told a child’s joke. “Wrong? That’s subjective, darling. Maybe you’re a spy. Maybe you’re bait. Maybe you’re just very bad at hiding.”

I stared at him, my jaw tight. “You think I’m Crescent Moon.”

“I think you’re something,” he said with a grin, “and theAlpha doesn’t like unknowns in his territory.”

He turned, expecting me to follow. I did. Because I didn’t have a choice. The Beta led me through a pair of towering iron doors etched with snarling wolves and bleeding moons. Beyond them, the castle unfolded like something from an old nightmare—grand, cold, and carved from shadow.

The walls were built from dark stone, smoothed and polished to a mirror sheen in places, rough and ancient in others. Torches flickered in silver sconces, casting long, twisting shadows across vaulted ceilings and archways wide enough to drive a cart through. Massive columns lined the halls, each engraved with scenes of conquest—wolves tearing through human armies, packs kneeling before a crowned Alpha.

The air was colder here, but not the kind of cold that came from winter. This cold was something else. Something deeper. It lived in the bones of this place, woven into its stones and silence.

My boots echoed on the marble floors, every step a reminder of my place: prisoner. Stranger. Other. Eyes followed me as we walked. Not many, but enough.

Some guards. A few warriors. But also... humans. Servants. They moved like ghosts, heads bowed, arms full of wood or cloth or trays of food. Silent. Eyes lowered. I smelled fear on them, sharp and acrid. Their lives belonged to the pack, and they knew it.

It wasn’t the humans that made my skin crawl. It was the women.

They gathered like vultures near the grand balcony, draped in silk and furs that shimmered in the winter light. Their skin was flawless, almost too smooth—polished to perfection like glass dolls—and their hair gleamed in rich, pampered waves. Everything about them was calculated: every tilt of the head, every flutter of lashes, every faint, sugary laugh drifting into the air.

They were beautiful in the way display cases are beautiful. Untouched. Untouchable. Empty. I didn’t need to scent the air to know what they were.

Omegas.

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