Page 90 of Fated
The she-wolf’s anguished howl pierced the night—raw grief that vibrated through Caleb’s chest. The unmistakable cry of a mate severed from her other half. She pawed desperately at the fallen male, claws scraping against his cooling fur with frantic urgency. She nudged him with her nose, leaving smears of blood across her muzzle, breath coming in staccato bursts that created small clouds in the cold evening air. The scent of her desperation—sharp and acrid—cut through even the overwhelming smells of death and fire.
Even as Caleb witnessed her grief, Fenrir’s awareness shifted elsewhere.
“She doesn’t see it.”Fenrir’s growl carried both urgency and dread.
A rogue in tactical gear raised its crossbow, aiming at the grieving she-wolf. Fenrir bounded toward her, muscles coiling with explosive power as he closed the distance. He was too late. The crossbow bolt struck her in the side, driving deep into her chest. The she-wolf collapsed beside the male, movements weak and sluggish as blood seeped from her wound. Caleb didn’t know these wolves, but the tragedy of their loss overwhelmed him.
The rogues pushed harder, their coordination unsettling as they began to target Crescent Fang’s warriors. Caleb caught sight of Leif battling two partially shifted rogues—one wielding a knife. The rogue slashed Leif’s side, the blade cutting deep as he had intercepted Leif mid-leap.
Leif yelped in pain, collapsing to the ground as the rogue loomed over him.
Fenrir roared, his fury igniting a primal haze as Caleb’s vision blurred with red and his wolf took complete control. They tore into the rogue ranks with vicious precision, Fenrir’s claws slashing through flesh and bone. He pounced on the knife-wielding rogue, weight driving the feral wolf to the ground before his jaws snapped its neck in a clean, brutal motion.
Urgency tempered Fenrir’s rage. He darted through the battlefield, golden eyes slicing through chaos until they locked on his fallen beta.
The brown wolf lay on his side, breathing shallow and labored. Blood matted his fur where the rogue’s knife had slashed his flank. Fenrir nudged him gently, a low whine rumbling in his throat as Caleb’s thoughts screamed with worry.
Leif. Hold on.
Leif’s golden eyes flickered open. The wolf shifted back to Asher’s human form, gaze meeting Fenrir’s before his eyes closed again. Something cracked in Caleb’s chest at the sight, a physical pain that threatened to buckle his knees.
But Fenrir’s instincts surged forward, filling the hollow space. The massive wolf lifted his head, his howl tearing through the battlefield—a rallying cry that surged through the Crescent Fang warriors. Caleb felt their responses through the telepathic bond: renewed strength and unyielding determination. The Crescent Fang wolves redoubled their efforts, their attacks growing more coordinated and severe as they drove the rogues back.
The tide turned incrementally. First, the feral rogues broke ranks, their wild offensive crumbling against the combined might of Bloodstone and Crescent Fang. Then the partially shifted fighters retreated, overwhelmed by coordinated strikes. Last to withdraw were the tactical rogues, their retreat ascalculated as their assault. Caleb’s mind raced as he watched them disappear into the woods.
No random violence followed such precise choreography. Someone stood in the shadows, directing this bloody performance with unseen hands.
The battlefield fell into an eerie quiet.
The distant pop and hiss of collapsing timbers consumed by flame. Whimpers of injured wolves creating a grim melody. Soft padding of paws as survivors navigated the bodies strewn across blood-soaked earth.
The Crescent Fang wolves began to regroup, their telepathic bond buzzing like static at the base of Caleb’s skull—sharp, urgent thoughts overlapping in a mental cacophony.
Caleb shifted back into his human form, bones cracking and body reshaping. The night air felt ice-cold against his sweat-slick skin, raising goosebumps across his flesh. His body was a map of pain—muscles screaming from exertion, cuts stinging from exposure to air, bruises throbbing in dull, persistent aches.
The taste of battle lingered in his mouth—blood, dirt, and adrenaline forming a bitter cocktail that coated his tongue. He stood tall despite the exhaustion that weighed on him like stone, surveying the carnage through eyes that stung from smoke and unshed tears.
Bloodstone pack members moved through the wreckage, tending to the wounded and extinguishing flames. Caleb’s gaze lingered on the she-wolf, now being carried away by Bloodstone wolves as they fought to stabilize her. He noticed the lifeless body of her mate nearby, a sharp reminder of the battle’s cost.
“Alpha Caleb.” A Bloodstone warrior handed him a pair of sweats.
Caleb nodded in gratitude, pulling them on as he addressed his warriors through the bond.“Return to Crescent Fang.Inform Garreth about Asher’s condition and bring him to the Bloodstone hospital.”
The Crescent Fang wolves acknowledged his command, their forms slipping back into the forest as they began their journey home.
At the hospital, Caleb stood beside Asher’s bed, his beta’s pale face etched with pain. The wound on his side, where the silver-tainted knife had cut deep, was stitched and bandaged tightly. The Bloodstone pack doctor explained that silver poisoning prevented Asher’s wolf from healing the wound naturally, leaving him pale and weak.
“It will likely take the night to purge the silver from your system,” the doctor continued. “If the wound begins to heal by morning, the stitches can be removed, and you can be cleared to return to Crescent Fang.”
“Another scar for the tally,” Asher rasped, voice tinged with humor, despite his pain.
Caleb managed a faint smile. “You’ll wear it well.”
The doctor checked Asher’s dressing one last time. “I advise against shifting for a few days. Your wolf will need to rest to allow your body to heal naturally.”
Asher nodded, thanking the doctor again for his aid.
Caleb waited for the doctor to exit before turning his attention back to his beta.
