Page 16 of A Sunwoven Ascent

Kaldrek and Obren led the packs through ground drills, Glaciermaw insisting that pairing off in combat would sharpen trust and coordination. The training field at Wrenford rang with shouts, the slap of bodies hitting earth, and bursts of laughter whenever someone was thrown harder than expected. Obren lunged for Kaldrek’s legs, but as he dragged him down, the Ironwolf alpha twisted and whipped a shin into Obren’s cheek with a crack that made those nearby wince.

Alaric squared off with Thorne of the Glaciermaw pack, a man who towered over him by several inches and looked nearly as solid as the alphas themselves. His pulse quickened. The darkness still stirred beneath his skin, a restless presence he did not trust, but if it granted him speed or strength, he would not waste either here.

Even so, his thoughts kept straying. To Beau. The dark-haired male who had seemed far too interested in Heidara. Alaric hated him, and he did not even know why. But he had seen the wounded look on Heidara’s face the other night, and that was reason enough. If she did not want Beau near her, then neither did he. Worse still was the sharp, ugly surge of jealousy that rose in him each time his eyes found the male.

They circled. Thorne feinted, then drove forward. Alaric ducked beneath the first grab, hooked a leg, and with a sharp twist sent the bigger man staggering. They hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, Alaric scrambling into top position. He pinned a forearm across Thorne’s chest, knees braced tight against his ribs. For one brief heartbeat, he had him.

Thorne bucked hard, hips snapping upward. Alaric lost his balance, and the wolf reversed, dragging him down beneath him.

Thorne came fast after that, all weight and motion, slamming Alaric flat onto his back. His shoulders struck the ground with a heavy thud. The demon inside him shifted, eager to roll them and take control, just as Alaric’s palms pressed into the grass.

The blades were damp with morning dew, bending under his hands. And something surged. Not a sensation, but a force. It coursed upward, threading into his arms and spine. The chill raced through every nerve, and for a moment the ground seemed to breathe beneath him. A cool breeze stirred the dawn air, brushing across his cheek like a voice just out of reach.

The darkness within him fell quiet. The demon seemed to retreat from the power now thrumming through Alaric, recoiling like some startled beast that had suddenly remembered fear.

The wind whispered again, not in words he could fully grasp, but in a feeling clear enough to understand. Lightning, wind, rain. A storm is coming.

Alaric’s mind reeled. He had no time to dwell on it before Thorne’s arm locked hard around his neck. The hold tightened, iron-strong, cutting off his air. The demon offered nothing in response to the danger. It did not fight. It only stayed hidden. And then his vision darkened, the world collapsing to black as Thorne’s weight bore him down into the grass, pinned and swallowed by silence.

Chapter 9

It was a wretched night, cold and wet, with mud thick beneath every step. Not the sort Kaldrek would ever choose for prowling Wrenford’s perimeter while the rest of the packs slept. Even so, there was comfort in knowing his people finally had a roof above them after so many weeks in the wild.

The roofs themselves were nothing remarkable. Most topped old sheds and weather-worn cottages left sagging by years of neglect. Still, the village offered something they had not known in far too long: a place to stop. A place with fresh vegetables in the market and a small tavern whose ale had disappeared almost as soon as they arrived. Holden, unsurprisingly, had made for it first and wasted no time flirting with the female from Glaciermaw, the serious one. Pretty enough, Kaldrek supposed, though little else stood out about her. He could hardly fault Holden for trying.

The journey had been unrelenting since the moment they crossed paths with Evelyne and Alaric in the Mokkvyrn Forest. Terror felt too small a word for what Vaelora had unleashed. He still saw her turning on Evelyne, Ty’s death, and the burning wreck of Cindermoor beneath the claws of her Noskari.

Chaos was the only constant. Even Kaldrek had welcomed the burn of ale when the chance came, if only to dull the memories.

Now he stalked through the storm, circling the fragile village while his pack rested. Lightning tore across the sky in harsh bursts, thunder answering in heavy booms. Worry pressed on him as hard as the wind at his shoulders. The cottages groaned, their beams rattling with every gust. Rain slashed sideways, soaking him through, while the clouds above smothered all trace of stars and moonlight.

Then the hail came. Kaldrek planted his feet and held fast against the storm’s pull. Alpha or not, even he felt its force in every staggering gust. This was going to be a long fucking night.

Hail struck his shoulders like thrown stones, each blow a sharp reminder of how little stood between his people and the storm. He adjusted his footing against the wind and scanned the black horizon.

And then—

A low voice slipped through the storm’s roar.

Such strength, squandered on leading wolves when you were meant for more.

Kaldrek’s head snapped up. No one stood near him. Slowly, he turned, his hand tightening around the hilt at his side.

We feel your hunger. It lives in your blood. The magic still sleeps within you.

He knew that darkness. He had felt it before. It had been a while since it last brushed against him, weaker now, as though Vaelora had been the source that fed it. Yet it lingered tonight, circling him all the same, and that alone set his jaw tight.

It remembers your blood, Alpha. The source is waiting for you.

Its whisper brushed his ear, intimate as a lover’s breath. Kaldrek spun, and his gaze caught on a figure standing just beyond the line of cottages.

Alaric.

He stood in the mud, hair plastered to his face, leathers soaked through. His eyes were unfocused, as though he had only just woken to find himself standing in the downpour. Then, in the space of a blink, clarity returned. Confusion flashed across his features, and he staggered back, rubbing his arms against the cold.

“Alaric?” Kaldrek called over the wind, striding toward him. “What in the gods’ names are you doing out here?”

“I… I don’t know,” Alaric muttered. He looked dazed, as though dragged from a dream.