Page 45 of Fated Wolf's Redemption

His eyes narrow. “So how the hell is Cain using it to open things?”

“Because he’s twisting it. Reworking the balance.”

Lucas swears under his breath. “What do you need?”

“Stormblood. Two sources.” I look him dead in the eye. “Me. And you.”

His brow furrows. “Why me?”

I flip the journal open again, pushing it across the table. “You’re not Windrider, but the storm answers you. The mist bends for you. You’re marked, Lucas. You always have been.”

He stares at the glyph. Then he nods. Once. No hesitation.

“We’ll do it.”

We barely make it out of the war room before an argument erupts downstairs.

Members of various packs have filled the Nightshade lodge. Two packs just arrived from the western range, and already the air is heavy with accusation. Elder Brant, all bristle and bared teeth, is snarling at one of the Windrider emissaries.

“Your people brought this,” Brant says. “It’s your blood in that glyph. Your kind gave Cain what he needed.”

The emissary, Kael, stands tall but unmoved. “Our blood sealed the gate once before. Your packs have ignored the warnings we offered you for years.”

“Enough.” Ryder’s voice cuts through the noise like a blade. “You want to assign blame? Do it after we survive this.”

I step forward. “The glyph isn’t Cain’s creation. He’s using something ancient—something we only half-understand. Fighting each other over scraps won’t stop him.”

Brant scowls. “We should prepare to strike. Hit the neutral territories. Find his operatives and cut them down.”

“And what if you’re wrong?” I ask. “What if you kill wolves who have no part in this?”

Brant shrugs. “Collateral damage.”

Lucas’s voice cuts in, low and deadly. “Try that near our pack and I’ll put you in the dirt myself.”

Brant turns, but the look in Lucas’s eyes kills any retort he was going to make. The elder mutters something and storms off, his assistant in tow.

Kylie appears beside me, flipping her knife between her fingers like she’s been waiting to use it all morning.

“Well, that was productive,” she mutters.

“Ready for a field trip?” I ask, already grabbing my coat.

Her grin is all teeth. “You know I live for cryptic detours into haunted territory.”

We head southeast on horseback—faster than waiting for transport to be cleared. Rolling fog, the kind that clings to skin and seeps into bone, covers the lowlands. The Windrider historian we’re looking for lives on the edge of an abandoned orchard, a wide, sloping property overrun with gnarled trees and storm bells hanging from every branch. The air hums with latent magic. Familiar. Dangerous.

Her name is Karla, and she opens the door before we even knock.

“I felt you coming,” she says, eyes bright. “Stormborn and blade-bonded. Come in.”

The inside of her house is a maze of scrolls, bound skins, and books tied shut with wire and salt-thread. Kylie immediately finds the liquor shelf and helps herself to a dusty glass of something that smells like pine and melted ice.

“We need to know more about Lina,” I say.

Karla’s face darkens. “Why now?”

“Because she’s not dead.”

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