Page 48 of Fated Wolf's Redemption

The body’s there—twisted, like it fell from the sky instead of being torn apart on the ground. Young. One of ours. Barely past his first run as a scout.

My stomach turns. Not just from the wounds—though they’re bad. Too clean in some places, too savage in others—but because of what’s carved into the tree above him.

The Nightshade crest, inverted. The lines are the same. The flame. The tower. The sigils meant to signify balance and protection. But someone distorted them. Bent inward. A new glyph added to the center—something older, rougher. Something that burns into my vision even after I look away.

“This is for you,” Max says, voice low.

“I know.”

Cain’s message isn’t subtle. He wants us to see what happens when we let our guard down. He’s not only threatening the pack. He’s threatening me, Ryder’s leadership, our bloodline, and maybe more than that.

Back at the lodge, Ryder’s already waiting. I barely step into the war room before he’s tossing me a data slate with a grim nod.

“We caught a Crimson Claw wolf on the northeast ridge this morning. Not alone, either. We took out the other two. He surrendered.”

“Convenient,” I mutter, scanning the intel.

“He’s caged. Wants to talk.” Ryder looks up. “With you.”

Perfect.

We head downstairs, past the lower corridors, to a reinforced room that used to be a root cellar, before Ryder turned it into what it is now. Interrogation-ready. Soundproof. Reinforced doors. No magic channels.

The Crimson Claw wolf is inside—young, lanky, sinewy. He paces in a tight circle before sitting on his haunches in the corner. His coat is patchy, riddled with faint scars and burns, but it’s the eyes that stop me. Too calm. Too empty. The kind of void that comes from surrendering everything, including your name.

He lifts his head when I enter. Ears twitch. Then he bares his teeth in what passes for a grin. “Lucas Stone,” he says, voice gravel-coated and too casual. “The one Lina calls marked.”

I don’t answer. I shut the door behind me, step forward, and lean against the far wall. Ryder takes the opposite corner, arms crossed, boots planted. No table. No false civility.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

The wolf snorts. “Names are for the living. Mine burned when I gave myself to her.”

“Then let’s talk about Cain.”

That gets a twitch. Not fear—he doesn’t have enough soul left for that—but there’s something. A flicker of reaction in the way his claws flex against the concrete floor.

“He’s not in charge anymore,” the wolf says. “You think he’s leading this? He was just the doorframe. Not the storm blowing through it.”

“Then who is?” Ryder demands.

The wolf turns his head toward me. “You already know. You’ve felt her.”

My jaw tightens. “Lina.”

He dips his muzzle in a mock bow. “She doesn’t whisper to the wind like your Windriders. She commands it. Tells it where to scream.”

I take a step forward, slowly. Deliberately. “Why Sophia?”

“She doesn’t want her,” the wolf says. His voice drops low, almost reverent. “She needs her. Lina’s blood’s not strong enough to hold the gate alone. But Sophia’s bond? Your marked blood tangled with hers?”

The bottom drops in my gut.

“She’s going to use the ritual,” I say, more statement than question.

The wolf bares his teeth again. “You don’t even know what you’re carrying, do you?”

I move before I realize it—slamming my palm into the wall above his head, crowding into his space. My other hand fists in the thick fur along his neck, yanking him close. Not enough to kill. Just enough to make sure he understands this isn’t a game.

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