Chapter 41: Ashes of the Past

The air was thick with the acrid scent of burned wood and blood, a bitter reminder of combat that had occurred. Ben stayed at the edge of the ravaged sanctuary, his own breathing slicing through his throat as he surveyed the view before him. A secret sanctuary for wolves, nothing more than burned remains now—burned lumber, shattered stone, corpses scattered all about like discarded pieces of a lost war.

The air was heavy with the acrid sting of smoke, intertwined with the metallic smell of blood. It was a foul tapestry woven from the very material of brutality, a bitter reminder of the cold-blooded stalking by Viktor. The sanctuary, which once had been a haven of peace and tranquility, had been desecrated, its sanctity violated.

Ben's eyes scrolled over the devastation, all the ruined buildings, all the killed wolves, a burning ache in his chest. He saw the devastations of the life lived here, the circles of laughter and friendship now frozen by the cold silence of death. The thriving community he knew was gone, replaced instead by a graveyard of broken dreams.

He remembered the dead, their smiles, their bravery, their unbreakable spirit. Max, true friend, Kieran, dashing protector, and the rest, their lives brutally cut short. The suffocating reality of loss was closing in around him, a burden of sorrow and regret.

His own body hurt, a symphony of bruise and slash, testament to the ferocity of the battle. Even bodily pain followed in the wake of pain of the heart, however. He had let them down. He had not defended the sanctuary, had not stood watch over his pack.

He curled his fists, claws buried deep within their palm in a mad effort to hook himself into being. The fury that had driven him into mutation still burned in him, an enblazed ember to be fanned into flame and devoured in a fire that would reduce all to ash. He craved freedom, to loose his rage on Viktor, to punish the man for his isolation.

But he realized that revenge would bring back the dead. Revenge would not rebuild the sanctuary. Revenge would not heal the wounds inflicted. Something else, something to keep in mind the victims, something to emerge from the ashes, he needed to do. He needed to.

He gazed out into the distance, his eyes scanning the open plains of the wilderness. Ahead of him was only a future full of uncertainty, a place where uncertainty lurked in the shadows. But he understood that he could not help but lose hope. He needed to find means of continuing on, of beginning anew for his people.

He took a breath, the pungent air searing his lungs, and moved on, his boots echoing through the ruin. He walked forward into the unknown, into the future, weighing anchor to the past and the promise of renewal. He would rebuild. He would reclaim his pack. He would learn to recall those who had gone before.

They had defeated Viktor's armies. But the triumph was bitter.

Max remained motionless at his shoulder, arms crossed, looking out to the distant tree line. Kieran and the rest of them picked up through the debris, tending to the injured, retrieving whatever material hadn't been devoured by fire.

Ben's hands quivered at his sides. Not with fear. Not with weariness. But with something else that raged within him—something that gouged up into the middle of his chest and demanded to be heard.

He'd done it.

Not all of it. Not alone. But when he had accepted his power, when he had let it consume him, the battlefield had changed. He had known it. The power of every submission, the way they had lowered their heads—not respect, but fear.

And what they had done to Jack.

The memory itself turned him sick.

"I see that look," Max growled.

Ben didn't answer.

Max breathed out and pushed his dark hair back from his face. "You're overdoing it."

Ben smiled, his voice a sneer, not a chuckle. "You don't think so?"

Max stepped back. "No, I think you're overdoing this."

Ben spun around to face him, his eyes shut. "People died, Max."

Max shook himself out of it rapidly. "There were going to be dead people. That is the kind of world we live in." His voice was level, but not heartless. "And if you had not resisted? There would have been excess parts."

Ben turned his face away in his chair.

Didn't want that Max had been honest.

Didn't want the world had done this to him.

A change in mood stayed him from motion.

A smell—a familiar smell. Light, but distinct.

His body had preceded his mind had, his feet crossing charred ground to the trees. Max followed behind him, his hand close to his knife.

And Ben saw him.

A man leaned against a splintered trunk, his shirt torn, his body bruised, but alive.

Just barely.

Cyrus.

Ben's chest squeezed with his heart as he rushed to him, dropping down beside him. "Cyrus?"

The older wolf moaned, his eyes snapping open. He was white, his chest heaving.

"Shit," he almost whispered over a whisper. "Finally made it."

Ben's relief-filled chest expanded and contracted in a harsh gasp. "You stupid old son of a bastard," he growled, trying to muster a smile.

Cyrus grinned faintly, then slammed his jaws shut. His eyes strayed to the wreckage, to the threads of smoke still clinging to what was left. "It's not over," he snarled.

Ben's stomach roiled. "I know."

Cyrus grasps his wrist, fingers wrapped around more than humanly possible against the weakness upon which he now lies. "No," he croaks, throat's voice even where it would have softened. "You don't." His crossed eyes upon Ben's, blazing with unyielding determination.

"They're coming," he gasped out. "And that? This was nothing compared to what they yet have in store."

Ben furrows his brow. "Who's visiting? What do you mean?"

Cyrus's hold on his gun had tightened, white knuckles tensed. "The Ancients," he gasped, voice barely audible. "They waited, observed. Viktor… was only a pawn."

The sentences hung in the air, dripping with portent. Ben's mind reeled, attempting to process them. "The Ancients? Legends, I thought."

“Legends are born from truth,” Cyrus rasped. “They are the true power, the ones who shaped our world, who gave us our gifts… and our curse.”

He paused, his chest heaving with each shallow breath. “Viktor sought to control the power, to become like them. He failed. But his actions… they’ve awakened them. They’ve seen what he’s done, what you’ve become.”

Ben’s gaze fell to his hands, the remnants of his transformation still lingering. “What I’ve become?”

“You’ve broken the balance,” Cyrus said, his voice strained. “You’ve tapped into something ancient, something they thought was lost. They won’t tolerate it. They won’t allow it.”

“What do they want?” Ben asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"They wish to re-establish order," Cyrus answered, his brow furrowed in solemn comprehension. "And order, to them, is domination. They will try to put you away, to eliminate the threat you pose."

He coughed, wet and splintering. "They will come in power beyond your wildest dreams. They will come in forces that are toys of children rather than Viktor's. They will come. and they will come until you are dead."

Cyrus's hand hung limp, his own slumping to his side. He heaved great gasping breaths of his own, his eyelashes screwed up tightly in resolve. Ben's chest pounded in his chest, the weight of Cyrus's words suffocating him. The fight with Viktor had been brutal, but this. this was different. This was a fight with forces beyond his understanding, forces which would redefine the very fabric of their world.