One by one, Rhiannon, Conan, Akila, and Xander shift back into human form.
I slide off Branson’s back, my legs nearly buckling when they hit the frozen stone floor. Pins and needles shoot through my feet as blood rushes back into them. Branson shifts into human form beside me, and I avert my eyes out of habit.
“Clothes are in the packs,” Conan calls out, though he’s already tossing garments to the others.
I stamp my feet against the stone, trying to force feeling back into my toes while they dress. A gaping mouth of shadow marks the temple’s entrance. There are no guards or magical barriers. Only that persistent smell of burnt sulfur and an older scent beneath it: sour and just. . .wrong.
Akila peers inside next with a look of suspicion. “It’s empty. I don’t sense anyone.”
We file in with weapons drawn. The interior extends into a vast circular chamber. When we enter the chamber, I stop short.
Hundreds of candles are burning in precise geometric patterns across the floor, their flames unnaturally still despite the draft. A salt hexagon dominates the center, each point marked by a crystal that pulses with inner light: blue, red, green, amber, violet, white. Etched runes cover the stone walls, appearing to crawl at the edges of my vision.
Then it hits me: a deep tremor that starts in my chest and radiates outward. It builds, swells, then recedes like a wave pulling back from shore.
“Shit.” Branson goes pale. “I recognize this from my time with the Gorg Pack. This is Shaman ritual magic. Old magic.”
The vibration surges through us again, stronger this time. The crystals flare in sequence.
Rhiannon scans the chamber. “What kind of ritual?”
“Can’t say, but the pulses are building.”
“How long do we have?” Akila asks.
Branson’s jaw tightens. “Not long. Three more surges. Maybe four.”
“Looking for me?” The voice echoes from the shadows behind the altar. Holden steps into the candlelight, his white robes pristine against the grimy stone. His expression radiates the kind of calm that comes from knowing he’s on his own turf. He belongs here. We don’t.
The bitter tang of Blackroot floods my sinuses. The stench of damp earth and sharp medicine is so strong, I can feel it coating my tongue.
The pack moves as one. Xander takes point, Branson and Conan flanking wide. Akila drifts left. Rhiannon shifts right, positioning herself between me and Holden’s direct line of sight. The move is casual, but deliberate. She doesn’t look at me, but her awareness of me wraps around me like a second skin.
Another pulse hits. The stone groans beneath my boots, and the crystals begin to burn so brightly I have to squint. Thevibration climbs through my legs, my chest, my teeth. Then it fades, leaving a thick stillness behind.
Xander moves closer. Authority rolls off him in waves, and even without being in wolf form, predator radiates from every cell in his body.
“You dare manipulate my pack.” His words come out controlled and precise. But each syllable carries such a threat of violence that it’s enough to root me in place. “Jayme is a good Lycan — a man who’s spent years trying to prove himself. And you twisted his mind. Made him attack those he’d die to protect.”
Holden tilts his head, studying him like he’s examining an interesting insect.
“You treated him like nothing more than a pawn,” Xander continues.
Holden’s lips curve into a thin smile. No flinching. No guilt. Just cold satisfaction.
“The Scarlet was a blunt instrument,” Holden agrees. “But effective, nevertheless. Every attack pushed my father closer to abandoning his precious negotiations.” He spreads his hands, palms up, as if presenting an obvious truth. “Fear is a better teacher than diplomacy. Surely you understand that, Alpha. Your kind always has.”
Akila’s hand tightens around the hilt of her blade. “You’re a coward.”
Holden’s gaze shifts to her. Assessing.
“This temple is sacred to your people,” she continues. “Holy ground. And you’re using it as a base for your scheming? You’ve corrupted everything your ancestors built here.”
The next surge of magic begins to build. It starts in my sinuses first. Pressure thickens the air, pressing against my eardrums. The flames of the candles rise unnaturally toward the ceiling.
Holden’s composure flickers.
A flash of raw, wounded fury bleeds through before he smooths it over. When he speaks again, his voice is flat. Cynical. It’s the voice of someone who made peace with his choices long ago.
