"Better a rightful heir who's still finding his footing," the Omega murmured, "than an ambitious wolf who rules through fear and force."
But before the conversation could go deeper, the sound of footsteps brought everything to a halt.
Heavy steps.
Steps that carried weight—pressure.
The moon peeked through a break in the grey clouds, hanging high in the dark sky like a silent witness to the tension rising in the heart of the clan.
In the moss-covered stone courtyard behind the main hall, a small group of werewolves stood frozen, caught mid-discussion in what was clearly meant to be a secret meeting. Among them were familiar faces: seasoned warriors, two senior trackers, even a young Gamma. But none of them spoke as the sound of those heavy steps drew closer, each one hitting like a hammer on steel.
Orion stopped just a few meters away. His black cloak swayed in the cold wind. His golden eyes glowed faintly in the dark, scanning the faces before him—some looking down, others meeting his gaze with guarded eyes.
"What are you doing out here?" he asked flatly, his low voice slicing through the air like a blade.
No one answered.
From the shadows of the trees, Orion Nyx stepped forward—his cloak trailing, his golden eyes burning like twin embers in the night.
He stood at the edge of the old ruins and looked at them, one by one.
"What are you doing here?" he repeated, voice soft but razor-sharp.
They stayed frozen. Eyes darted from one face to another, panic flickering just beneath the surface, but no one moved.
"This place… is far from my tower. Far from the guards. Far from ears," Orion continued. "Is this where you hide your rotten intentions?"
Still, no answer.
Some exchanged glances. One turned his face away. A tracker's hand gripped the sheath of his blade tighter, as if trying to hold onto something solid while anxiety closed in.
Orion took a step forward—just one, but enough to make two of them flinch. He raised his head slightly, sniffed the air, then let out a thin smile with no warmth behind it.
"Silent?" he whispered, sharp as a knife. "Does your silence mean denial... or confession?"
Tension thickened like fog. The night wind carried the scent of damp earth—and something fainter: fear. Orion's gaze moved from one person to the next, reading every twitch, every breath held too long, every heartbeat too fast.
"I'm asking you," his voice rose slightly, firmer now, "is there a rebellion brewing?"
Still, no reply. The silence now had weight, like a bowstring pulled taut, just a second from snapping.
Finally, one of the warriors—Gerrik—spoke up. His voice was hoarse, like he knew whatever he said next might be his last.
"We… were just talking. About the clan's future. About… stability."
"The future?" Orion repeated, mocking the word. "And you think that future looks better without me? Or maybe… with the 'rightful heir' who couldn't even save his own father?"
He stepped closer, voice barely above a whisper.
"I smell fear," he said. "And buried in it… the stink of betrayal."
He began to circle them slowly, like a predator sizing up its prey.
Orion stopped just in front of Gerrik, so close their breath almost mingled.
"If anyone here thinks they're bold enough to take my place… speak now," he murmured.
"Or would you rather hide in shadows like cowards, whispering plans and hoping I don't smell your treachery?"
Gerrik dropped his gaze. The others followed suit. But behind their fear, something else was starting to flicker—a slow, quiet burn.
Orion let his eyes sweep over them all once more, then turned away. But before he left, he spoke coldly over his shoulder without looking back.
"Say whatever you want. But remember… whispers in the dark always find their way to me. And I… never sleep."
He paused, then added, voice low and deliberate:
"I'll give you a choice—return and submit… or continue whatever this is, and be ready to lose more than just blood."
And with that, he walked off, leaving a silence behind that throbbed in their chests.
Some eyes lifted—some burning with fear, others with fury.
His footsteps faded toward the main hall, but what he left behind wasn't just tension. It was a spark.
And somewhere in the back, one warrior whispered,
"He's onto us. We need to move—before he tears us apart."
And that night, in the eastern shadows of the Umbra Clan, rebellion didn't roar.
It started as a flicker—quiet, cautious... but inevitable.
***
Lysandra sat cross-legged in the center of a deep crimson rune circle, carved neatly into the wooden floor. Candles flickered around her, their flames glowing with a soft, eerie blue, dancing gently in rhythm with the murmured incantation spilling from her lips.
A drop of blood from her fingertip fell into the center of the circle, forming intricate shapes that pulsed like a heartbeat. A red mist began to rise from the floor, swirling like fine fog, slowly morphing into a faint shadow—like a window to somewhere far away.
Through the haze, a face gradually took shape.
Theron.
Standing among trees, his posture looked stronger now, his eyes no longer dull. He was training. His breath came heavy, movements sharp, yet deliberate. No open wounds anymore—just scars, the kind that told stories.
Lysandra watched in silence. Her violet eyes narrowed slightly, as if searching for something hidden beneath the surface.
And then… that smile.
Faint. Barely there. But real.
Whether it was relief… or simply the fact that she wouldn't have to drag his corpse out of the forest—hard to say.
"Tch." She scoffed, rolling her eyes and leaning back against the wall.
"So dramatic... as always. Look at him, with those discount-hero muscles, slashing at shadows like he can outrun fate," she muttered, voice cool but not entirely cruel.
"At least he didn't die like some spoiled brat." She tapped her lips with a finger, then let out a faint, crooked grin. "Though honestly, if he had, I wouldn't be dealing with the mess of covering my tracks right now."
Still, the way she looked at the fading vision… something in her gaze had shifted.
Lysandra knew more than she let on. She could feel it—something different in Theron now. Something growing beneath the skin and bones of that man.
And she knew… it wasn't something to be ignored.
"Just one more step, Wounded Wolf," she whispered before snuffing out the ritual.
"We'll see soon enough… whether you'll be an ally—or the first enemy I'll have to put down."