Darkness cloaked Umbra Fortress as the bonfire roared to life in the center of the great hall. The wolves gathered, forming a tight circle around the two figures standing face to face. Their eyes reflected unease—the quiet dissatisfaction that had long simmered beneath the surface.
Orion Nyx stood tall, his shoulders squared, his gaze as sharp as a blade. Opposite him was Ragnar, the former beta who had once been fiercely loyal to Orion's father but had now become a thorn in his side.
"Orion," Ragnar's voice rumbled, thick with fury. "The Umbra Clan is not yours to rule as you please. You took the throne while your father's blood was still drying, without proving that you deserve to lead."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Not everyone believed Orion was a traitor, but the division within the clan was undeniable. Once unshakable, the Umbra Clan now stood on the precipice of collapse.
Orion smirked coldly, stepping forward with deliberate confidence. "Are you challenging me, Ragnar? I have no need to prove myself to a coward still clinging to my father's shadow."
Ragnar's eyes burned with anger. "You think I'm a coward?" he snarled, drawing a dagger from his belt. "Then let's see who truly deserves to lead."
A roar erupted from the gathered wolves. This challenge was inevitable. In the Umbra Clan, only one law reigned supreme—the law of strength. If a beta challenged an alpha, there were only two possible outcomes: victory or death.
Orion unsheathed his own dagger, raising it slightly before murmuring, "Fine. Let's put an end to this nonsense."
The duel began.
Ragnar struck first, his movements swift but not as aggressive as the younger man before him. His blade slashed toward Orion's side, but Orion dodged effortlessly, pivoting with lethal grace before countering—sharp, precise, merciless.
Blood spilled. Ragnar winced as Orion's blade sliced across his arm, but he refused to falter. Around them, wolves whispered among themselves, placing bets as tension crackled through the air.
"Slow," Orion taunted, driving his dagger into Ragnar's shoulder before yanking it back with brutal efficiency. Ragnar staggered, blood dripping from the deep wound.
But he did not yield. With a growl, he lunged again, this time managing to cut Orion's side. Orion glanced down at the fresh wound, then smirked.
"You're bold," he muttered. "But not strong enough."
In one swift motion, Orion caught Ragnar's wrist, twisting it until the dagger slipped from his grasp and clattered to the ground. In mere seconds, Orion shoved him down, pressing a knee against his chest and pressing the cold edge of his blade to Ragnar's throat.
"Tell me, Ragnar," Orion whispered, his voice like ice. "Do you want to die like a dog that barked too much?"
Ragnar's breath hitched. He knew he had lost. Around them, the wolves held their breath, waiting for Orion to finish him.
But Orion only smiled and withdrew his dagger, rising to his feet. "I won't kill you. You don't deserve an honorable death in battle."
He turned to the others, his voice carrying through the hall. "Does anyone else wish to question my place?"
Silence. No one spoke. No one moved.
Ragnar lay on the ground, his eyes filled with hatred, but he could do nothing. The Umbra Clan was Orion's now—at least for the time being.
Yet in the crowd, doubt still lingered. The clan may have submitted, but the cracks in its foundation were growing wider.
***
Theron lay on the rough wooden cot, his body still aching even though his wounds had started to close. The dim lantern light in the corner of the room cast faint shadows on the stone walls. The pungent scent of herbs and potions wafting from the bowl in Lysandra's hands made him want to gag.
"Drink this," Lysandra said, holding out a thick, greenish liquid that looked unpleasantly slimy. "It'll speed up your healing."
Theron narrowed his eyes at the concoction, eyeing it with pure disgust. "I'd rather let my wounds heal on their own than swallow something that looks like swamp creature vomit."
Lysandra scoffed, settling into the chair beside him with a blank expression. "Impressive. You're dumb enough to nearly die, but still arrogant enough to refuse help. I could just let you rot here, you know?" She arched a brow at him, mockery glinting in her eyes.
Theron met her gaze, realizing she had not an ounce of sympathy in her. "Of course. That would suit your cold, insufferable personality perfectly."
Lysandra smirked, lazily stirring the potion with a wooden spoon. "Or… I could make it worse. Maybe add a little something extra to ensure you suffer before you heal. I do have some poisonous roots in the back."
Theron exhaled sharply, snatching the bowl from her hands. "If this kills me, my ghost will haunt you every single night."
"Oh, please do," Lysandra replied dryly. "I could use the entertainment."
He took a sip and immediately regretted it. It tasted like a mix of rotten mushrooms, rusted metal, and something no human or werewolf should ever consume. He coughed, nearly spitting it out, but the victorious glint in Lysandra's eyes made him force the rest of it down with a pained grimace.
Lysandra grinned. "See? Wasn't so hard. The big bad wolf turns out to be nothing more than a whiny pup."
Theron leaned his head back, shutting his eyes in frustration. "It's truly infuriating to know my life now depends on a blood witch with the sharpest tongue I've ever met."
"And it's just as infuriating that I have to heal someone as stubborn and irritating as you," Lysandra shot back without hesitation. "But life is full of surprises, isn't it?"
Theron only let out a low grunt, trying to ignore the nausea creeping in from the potion. Meanwhile, Lysandra stood and walked toward a cluttered table of potion bottles, not sparing him another glance.
Between them, the silence that remained wasn't one of peace, but of tension—a battle no longer fought with claws or blades, but with words that cut deeper than any war wound.