Page 44 of Fated Wolf's Redemption

There is no tenderness here—only pure, unadulterated need. It is a forceful claim, an overwhelming declaration of possession, the culmination of an obsession we’ve both circled for far too long.

"Mine," I roar into the sensitive curve of her throat, each word a command laced with desperate desire.

"Always," she gasps, her voice a trembling promise of surrender and affirmation.

Her body convulses around mine in a shuddering climax, her back arching as her nails leave blazing trails down my skin. Moments later, with one final, explosive thrust, I surge over the edge, spilling deep within her as a guttural groan escapes us both.

We remain entwined in the charged silence that follows, our breaths intermingling in the heavy aftermath. I press my forehead against hers, my body trembling with the echoes of our ferocity, holding her close—unyielding, unwilling to let go. And for once, she remains wrapped in the intensity of our shared storm.

Later, I wake in her bed. The room is warm, quiet. She’s curled beside me, hair scattered across the pillow like silver thread. I could stay here. Pretend, for a few hours, that none of the rest exists.

But I can’t. The dream comes for me like fire. I bolt upright, lungs burning, sweat slicking my chest. The image still scorches behind my eyes—Sophia screaming on the other side of a gate of blinding light. Smoke, fire, the scent of death.

I climb out of bed and pull on my pants, pad barefoot down the hall to my room and out onto the balcony.

The night is chilly. Still. But it doesn’t clear my head.

“You saw it too,” Ryder says, coming to stand behind me.

I turn. He’s holding something—an old book, cracked leather, edges worn with age. He steps forward and offers it.

“Found this in the archives after Cain disappeared the first time,” he says. “Didn’t understand the markings until Sophia described what you saw.”

I open the book. There, on the inside page, is the glyph from the lab. The one carved into Cain’s walls. Etched in black ink, surrounded by Windrider runes and something older.

“The glyph,” I say, voice tight.

Ryder nods grimly. “We believed the door—the rift to the Deep Below—was sealed. We were wrong.”

I glance toward Sophia’s window. The dream slams back into me like a punch to the ribs. I don’t say it out loud. But I know. The gate Cain’s trying to open isn’t just a door. It’s a summons, and whatever he’s after, it’s answered.

CHAPTER 12

SOPHIA

Iflip open the journal that Lucas gave me with reverence and dread. The pages are brittle, lined with age, but the ink is still easily legible. A steady, deliberate hand—no flourishes, no sentiment—etched every word. Just purpose.

The Windrider elder who wrote this had seen the War of Mists firsthand. Fought it. Survived it. His entries start like a record—documenting signs of encroachment, elemental imbalances, disappearances. Then it shifts. Or maybe he does. Somewhere around the midpoint, his writing turns frantic. Desperate. Focused entirely on the glyph.

He calls itKith’Tarn. The Final Sigil. A banishment mark that can burn through flesh and the veil that lies beyond the doorway, keeping the world safe from the Deep Below. Windwoven blood is the only thing that can activate it. But not justanyWindwoven. It requires balance—two sources of storm-touched power, anchored in opposite energies.

“One bound to storm, one forged in flame.”

I read that line a dozen times before it hits. He wasn’t talking about fire and weather. He meant polarity. Rage and stillness. Lightning and stone. Lucas and I.

I see sketches—sprawling glyphs, patterns of coiled wind, and branching storm paths—filling the page beneath my fingertips. And in the center, a seal marked in bold strokes. The lines twist as if drawn with agony, not ink. It's not just a glyph—it’s a warning. A ward. A weapon.

Cain must have found it. That’s what Ryder was afraid of. But Cain’s not using it to keep the gate closed. He’s trying to invert it—to turn a banishment into a summons.

My pulse kicks faster. If I can unravel the pattern, I might be able to reverse the reversal. Take back control of the sigil. But it wouldn’t be as simple as redrawing a few strokes. The glyph was designed to seal something ancient behind a fractured veil. It demands equal sacrifice from both wielders—stormblood from each side. Elemental balance.

If I’m right, Lucas and I would have to give it everything. Not just blood. Power. Essence. Whatever thread ties us to the Windwoven bond would have to be used as a conduit. Once. Maybe only once.

I slam the journal shut, breath sharp in my chest. Across the table, Lucas looks up from the comms bead he’s syncing with Ryder.

“You find something?” he asks, voice rough.

I hold up the book. “The glyph. It’s not a portal key. It’s a banishment seal. One of the last used to close the gate during the War of Mists.”

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