A Pact

A Pact
Chapter 124:

A pale hand extended into the darkness, the long fingers steady as a crow swooped down from the gray sky. Its black wings beat once before it landed, talons digging lightly into an outstretched arm, it's beak snapping once as if impatient. A low croak echoed through the chamber as it tilted its head, and pecked at a tiny scrap of parchment tied to its leg. 

The hand untied the knot, slow and precise, and pulled the note free.

The bird croaked once again, before taking off, leaving a single black feather fluttering to the floor.

Ilyra’s eyes skimmed the parchment, her expression shifting as she read, twisting tighter and tighter with fury. The parchment crumpled in her fist, the veins in her temple standing out as she hissed through her teeth, “Those incompetent, useless fools!”

“Those bastards failed me!” Her voice ringing out, through the vaulted chamber. “Every single one of them!”

Across the room, Damian didn’t even turn his head. He sat behind a broad table littered with maps and half-drained glasses of wine. A fire roared behind him, throwing shadows across his face. When he finally spoke, the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Judging by the noise,” he said dryly, “I’ll take it the assassins you sent didn’t return with good news.”

Ilyra turned on him sharply, her eyes blazing gold with fury. “They’re dead!” she hissed. “Every single one of them. Cut down before they even could strike one of those fools down.”

Damian took a slow sip of his wine, unimpressed. “You seem surprised.”

“They were trained,” she spat. “They were supposed to be ‘better’ than the rabble you keep in these ruins.”

“Supposed to be,” Damian echoed, setting his cup down with a soft clink. “And yet, they’re not.” He smirked, “Oh sorry, I meant ‘were’ not.”

Her lip curled. “You think this is funny?”

“No.” His tone was flat, calm, infuriatingly unbothered. “Predictable, yes. Funny, no.”

Ilyra whirled to strike at an armory beside her, scattering it to the ground. “They were slaughtered! My finest blades, gone because of her.”

Damian raised a brow, unbothered at the mess. “If they were truly your finest,” he said, “they would have known how to retreat.”

She took a step forward, her body trembling with uncontrolled rage. “You mock me?”

He lifted his glass. “I simply made an observation.”

She stepped closer, her cloak slithering against the floor. Then she laughed, bitterness filled within it.
“You sit there smirking while my resources burn, thinking yourself clever while hiding behind me.” She smiled, “But you’re losing control, boy. Your sister continues to grow stronger every day. Even the rogues stand with her now.”

Something dangerous flickered across his expression at that word, ‘sister’. The light from the fire caught the faint silver sheen in his eyes.

“Careful,” Damian said softly. “You don’t speak her name to provoke me.”

“Why not?” Ilyra’s smile was thin. “She’s the reason you hide in these ruins, plotting instead of ruling. The great Alpha of nothing.”

He moved then, fast enough that she flinched. His hand slammed down on the table between them, the maps shifting under his palm. “Watch your tongue, Elder. You walk a narrow edge.”

Ilyra laughed, low and sharp. “Threats, is it? You can't do anything, boy.” She drawled mockingly, “You need me. Don’t delude yourself into thinking otherwise. 

Damian straightened slowly, “Need is not the word I’d use.”

“Really?” She gestured toward the window, “My army grows while you sit here sipping glasses of wine. The southern packs have already bent to me. The outcasts from the borderlands are mine. Every wolf who’s been shamed by their Alphas comes when I call.”

Damian’s lips curved faintly. “An army of broken things,” he murmured. “They could be useful, perhaps. But loyalty bought with desperation fades the moment someone stronger offers them food and safety.”

She bristled. “They’ll follow the one who leads them to victory.”

“Then I hope your definition of victory is broader than sending mercenaries to die in wet caves,” he said coolly.

Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

Damian rose from his chair, crossing the room with the slow, measured grace of someone who couldn't be bothered about anything. “I admire your efficiency Ilyra, really I do. But your taste…leaves much to be desired.” 

For a moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire between them. Then, slowly, Ilyra smiled, a cold, sharp curve of lips that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Careful, Damian,” she murmured. “You wouldn’t want to forget who came to you when you had no one else.”

He leaned against a shelf, studying her. “I remember,” he said. “You came crawling to me after your little coup failed. Starved, and probably half-mad and looking for someone stronger to hide behind.”

Her eyes narrowed, but her smile didn’t falter. “And yet, here I am. Still breathing. Still useful.”

Damian chuckled softly. “Useful is a generous word. Sufficient, however…that one suits you.”

Ilyra moved, her cloak dragging along the stone floor. “You may mock, but you know you need me. These wolves obey me, not you.”

He tilted his head, unbothered. “Need? No. You’re convenient, I’ll grant you that. You have reach. Resources. But let me teach you a quick lesson.”

He stared into her eyes, “They obey you because they fear you…and let me tell you, fear is a currency that will always run dry.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And what would you buy loyalty with, little prince? Promises? You’ve been gone too long from the packs to remember how wolves think.”

“Perhaps,” he said, turning toward the fire, “but I still know how to break them.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Ilyra’s gaze lingered on him, calculating, assessing. Then she stepped closer again, lowering her voice.

“You want her dead,” she said. “You can deny it all you want, but I see it in you. The same fire I carry. Aria stands between you and the throne you were born for.”

Damian looked over his shoulder, his tone soft, almost amused. “Born for? Please…you flatter me.”

“I state fact,” she countered. “Help me crush her, and I’ll give you what you want, the packs, the power, the legacy she stole.”

He faced her fully now, his expression unreadable. “And in return?”

“In return,” she said, smiling, “I get to burn the rest.”