He gathered bandages from the small closet and wrapped the cut on her arm. When he was done, he didn’t move. He stayed where he was, his gaze fixed not on her body but on her eyes.
“This is my fault,” she whispered as guilt and sorrow clawed back in. “All of this.”
“Don’t say that.” Kaldrek reached out, tilting her chin so their eyes met. “Look at me.”
She did.
“None of this was your fault. None of it. Vaelora did this. Do you hear me?”
His words were a tether, something solid in the storm. He leaned in and kissed her forehead, and she breathed again.
“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s get to bed. We’ll have the burials tomorrow. I’ll make sure of it.”
She didn’t argue. She needed his steadiness. But what now? Her thoughts drifted to her mother, to Aurelia, to Seraphine. Oh, how she missed her handmaid, herfriend. Missed her quiet comfort and the way she held her when everything felt too heavy. But tonight, Evelyne could let herself lean on Kaldrek, and for that, she was truly grateful.
Chapter 41
The morning after the attack was cloaked in oppressive silence. The scent of charred wood filled the air, along with remnants of the horrors that had unfolded just hours before. Smoke still clung to the ruins, curling in the early light like ghosts of the fallen. Cindermoor had suffered, and yet, its people stood.
Alaric felt sick. His stomach twisted as he watched them gather, moving with solemn purpose. Every face was drawn. There was grief, but within it, something else. A quiet determination, a shared understanding that this was not the end. That vengeance would come.
The burial pyres had long since turned to ash, their flames having consumed the monstrous remains of the slain Noskari. Now, they needed to bury their own. It was time to lay to rest those who had fought, those who had not deserved the end they met.
Among them was Lord Aron Duskwood.
Alaric’s hands curled into fists as he stood at the crowd’s edge. He could still hear it—Evelyne’s scream, desperate and piercing as she crumbled beneath the weight of her loss. He could still see the blood on the earth, the look in Lord Duskwood’s eyes before one of Vaelora’s monsters sliced through his chest. It had been hell, and he had been powerless to stop it.
A group of elders stood over the freshly dug graves, their voices rising in a rhythmic chant. The words were foreign to him, but the soundwas something he felt in his bones. It was ancient and sacred, and even the earth beneath him seemed to sag with sorrow, as though mourning beside him.
Evelyne stood at the forefront, silent and pale. Kaldrek was beside her, his presence calm and his gaze distant. But Alaric could see the fire in him.
The alpha looked feral. His jaw was tight, his shoulders rigid. The man who had been so gentle with Evelyne, who had carried her through the night like she was the only thing holding him to this world, now radiated something primal and violent. The grief in his eyes had festered into something sharper, deadlier. If anyone so much as breathed wrong, Alaric feared they’d meet the brunt of his fury.
The Noskari had done this. They had taken Kaldrek’s people, his family, and his home. Now, there would be blood.
Alaric let out a slow breath and forced himself to look away. Heidara stood nearby, her face marked with streaks of dried tears. She had made it. Most of the pack had. But not all. Too many lives had been lost, wolves from both Ironwolf and Glaciermaw. Their ranks were thinner now, their strength pushed to the edge. Yet there was no turning back.
They still had to save Cillian.
But how the hell were they supposed to fight these demons again? How could they reach him in time? They couldn’t afford another surprise attack, another massacre. They had to move, and they had to do so carefully. The eastern lands stretched vast before them, and the path to Nerathar was long and treacherous. Vaelora’s numbers were unknown, and she would be waiting.
Alaric needed to speak with Kaldrek. And Obren.
When the burials had ended and the mourners began to scatter, he found himself in the center of a tense meeting. Kaldrek sat at the head,his fingers drumming impatiently against the wooden table. Holden, Ty, Nathan, and Obren were there, along with three warriors from Glaciermaw.
Alaric took his seat and exhaled. “We need a route. The fastest one.”
Obren nodded. “There’s still a lot of land between us and the mountains. The terrain will slow us if we don’t plan carefully.”
“Then we plan,” Kaldrek said, his voice edged with annoyance. “We move north by nightfall.”
“We need to be smart,” Nathan added. “We cannot risk being caught off guard again. We should assume Vaelora has sent more of them.”
“She has,” Kaldrek growled, eyes flashing. “And I don’t intend to let anyone live if they stand in our way.”
A heavy silence followed. They all knew what was at stake. They all knew what had to be done. The road to Nerathar would be long. And it would be bloody.
The dim light of Garek’s tavern flickered over the worn wooden table. The tension among them was almost tangible, the weight of the previous night pressing on every set of shoulders hunched around the map Alaric had spread before them. Holden and Obren were back at it, their voices sharp, cutting through the thick silence of the room.
