Page 47 of The Alpha's Fallen Spell
I enter the palace courtyard at dawn, my squad of soldiers trailing behind me. Blood cakes my armor, and my wounds throb with each step, but I force myself to remain upright. A commander doesn’t show weakness, especially not after a mission like this one.
It lasted a month, and we’ve only just returned. We located two bases of the Silver Ring Organization, hidden deep in the mountains where few would think to look. The fight was vicious—more brutal than anything we’ve encountered before.
“Someone get Jerry,” I order as we cross the threshold. One of my soldiers breaks away, rushing toward the healer’s quarters.
Elina stays close to my side, her hand hovering near my elbow as if she expects me to collapse at any moment. The concern on her face seems excessive. I’ve returned from battles in worse condition before.
“You need to sit down,” she insists, her voice tight with worry. “That gash on your side is still bleeding.”
I wave her off, determined to make it to my quarters under my own power. “I’m fine.”
The lie is obvious. I’m not fine. And beyond the physical injuries—three gaping claw marks across my torso, a dislocated shoulder that was hastily reset in the field, numerous smaller cuts and bruises—there’s a bone-deep exhaustion that has nothing to do with the fighting.
For the past four weeks, I’ve dreamed of returning to the palace and seeing Fiona.
I scan the entrance hall and surrounding corridors as we pass through the building, searching for a glimpse of blonde hair, for those storm-gray eyes that have haunted me since I left. But she’s nowhere to be seen.
Jerry meets us halfway to my quarters, his medical bag clutched in his weathered hands. His eyes widen at the sight of my injuries.
“To your room,” he commands, all formality forgotten. “Now.”
I don’t argue. The world has begun to tilt and sway around me, darkness creeping around the edges of my vision. I’ve lost more blood than I realized, which is hindering my accelerated healing powers.
Elina and two other soldiers help me to my quarters, where Jerry immediately begins cutting away my ruined armor and clothing. The wounds beneath are ugly—jagged tears that reveal the true nature of what we fought.
“What did this?” Jerry asks, carefully cleaning the gashes across my ribs.
“Artificial wolves,” I reply, wincing as he applies a stinging healing potion. “But not like Maya or Fiona. These were...wrong. Mindless. Just killing machines.”
Elina’s hand tightens on my shoulder. “They were monsters,” she says, her voice hard. “They kept fighting even when their limbs were torn off. They didn’t seem to feel pain.”
Jerry’s movements pause briefly before continuing. “How many?”
“Dozens,” I say, remembering the horror of those twisted creatures. “They kept them caged until we breached the facility. Then, they released them all at once.”
“We lost three men,” Elina adds softly. “It would have been more if not for Erik.”
I close my eyes, seeing again the faces of the soldiers who didn’t make it back. I’ll have to write to their families, explain how they died fighting valiantly. Some comfort that will be.
Jerry works silently, his hands moving with practiced efficiency as he starts to heal the worst of my wounds. Elina refuses to leave my side, hovering anxiously despite the healer’s pointed looks.
“You should go rest,” Jerry tells her. “The commander is in good hands now.”
“I’m staying,” she insists.
I’m too exhausted to argue, my thoughts increasingly focused on one question: Where is Fiona?
The door opens, and Griffin strides in, his expression grim. His eyes sweep over my injuries before landing on Elina.
“Leave us,” he says, his tone unusually sharp.
Elina blinks, surprised by his curtness. “Your Majesty, I—”
“Now,” Griffin cuts her off, his voice leaving no room for argument.
She looks at me, clearly expecting me to intervene. When I say nothing, confusion and hurt flash across her face before she nods stiffly and exits.
The moment the door closes behind her, Griffin’s posture relaxes slightly. “How bad?” he asks Jerry.
