Not yet.
Around us, the world rushes into motion. Healers press salves to his wounds and administer remedies to flush the silver from his blood. Elias barks orders, forming a shield wall around us as Ryker lies vulnerable.
But I don’t move.
I stay anchored to him, hands on his chest, willing him to live.
“Fight,” I whisper. “Please.”
Chapter
Thirty
RYKER
Darkness.
Not the comforting shadows of my territory but absolute absence. There’s no light, no sound, no sensation beyond floating disconnection. I drift without anchor, without reference point, without certainty that I continue to exist in any meaningful sense.
Am I dead? Is this the void that follows when a wolf’s final breath fades into silence?
I search for panic but find only distant curiosity. If this is death, it lacks the peace promised by the old tales. No reunion with fallen pack mates, no ancient forests to run beneath eternal moonlight. Just... nothing.
Then, a faint but unmistakable tug. A reminder that I remain tethered to something beyond this emptiness.
Kitara.
Her name forms without sound, a thought rather than a word, but it carries weight that pulls me toward the unknown.
The tether strengthens, pulsing with a familiar rhythm—our bond, reaching across whatever separates us. Through itflows not just connection but memory, identity, purpose. I am Ryker Ashmere, Alpha of the Shadowmist Pack. I faced Thaddeus in combat. I fulfilled the prophecy.
I am not finished.
Sensation returns gradually—first as distant awareness of my body, then as localized pain so intense it would buckle a lesser wolf. Every system protests, every cell screams with the damage sustained in combat with Thaddeus. Silver contamination lingers, slowing natural healing and complicating recovery.
But beneath physical distress, the bond pulses stronger with each moment—Kitara’s presence flowing into me, her determination supporting mine, her strength supplementing depleted reserves.
Live. Her voice reaches me, distant but clear.Fight.
The command focuses scattered awareness, providing direction where none existed. I’ve never surrendered a fight in my life—not to silver, not to superior numbers, not to seemingly impossible odds.
I won’t start now.
Consciousness returns with painful abruptness—light piercing closed eyelids, sound crashing against sensitive ears, every nerve ending simultaneously reporting damage. My body feels broken beyond repair, held together only by stubborn refusal to acknowledge defeat.
I force my eyes open despite protest from screaming muscles. Light resolves gradually into recognizable surroundings—not the plateau where I fell but our den’s healing chamber. The air carries familiar scents—healing herbs, pack presence, home.
And strongest of all, Kitara.
She sits beside me, exhaustion evident in every line of her face, the dark circles beneath her eyes suggesting she hasn’t slept in days. Her hand rests on mine. Through our bond, Ifeel her pouring strength into me with single-minded purpose, refusing to acknowledge the possibility of failure.
“Stubborn,” I manage, the word emerging as a barely audible rasp from a throat damaged by battle and transformation.
Her head snaps up, eyes locking onto mine, and in that single moment?—
Hope blooms.
It spills across her features like sunlight breaking through a storm. And then, tears. Unstoppable, silent, and real. Her lips tremble as her breath catches, eyes filling until the tears spill over, trailing down her cheeks unchecked.
