Chapter 80 81
The Wolfgang Estate, Dawn Before Departure
The sun hadn’t fully risen, yet the Whiteland Mansion was already alive with movement — warriors strapping on armor, loading weapons, sharpening blades that gleamed like cold fire under the faint morning light. The banners of the Wolfgang Pack fluttered against the pale wind, the howls of scouts echoing faintly in the distant forest.
Inside the manor’s west wing, Hamlet stood before his mirror, fastening his chest plate. His reflection looked like a stranger — dark eyes heavy with guilt, jaw tense with unspoken apologies. The same hands that once teased his little sister, once guided her sword grip, had also been raised against her.
He closed his eyes.
Margaux.
No — Marigold, that was what they called her then. Their soft-spoken, stubborn little sister who wanted to fight beside them, who’d begged for trust and got nothing but suspicion. And now she was gone — the sister they thought weak was, in truth, the strongest of them all.
“Still staring at yourself, hoping guilt will fix your hair?”
Hamlet’s reflection glared. Behind him, Alex leaned casually on the doorframe, his uniform unbuttoned and a blade strapped lazily to his thigh. His tone was light, but his eyes were tired — tired in that same haunted way Hamlet’s were.
“You look like hell,” Hamlet said.
“Good,” Alex muttered. “Matches how I feel.”
Hamlet turned to face him. “You don’t have to come, you know.”
“Shut up,” Alex replied immediately. “If I let you go alone, you’ll probably punch the first thing that breathes wrong and get yourself killed before lunch.”
Hamlet exhaled through his nose — something between a laugh and a sigh. “Maybe that’s the point.”
Alex’s smirk faded. “Don’t start that martyr crap with me. You think dying’s going to fix what we did to Margaux?”
“What I did,” Hamlet corrected. “You tried to protect her. I’m the one who—”
Alex interrupted sharply. “No. We both were cowards.”
He stepped closer, his voice quieter now. “We didn’t protect her. We judged Marigold because her hair was black. We mocked her for what we didn’t understand. And now…” He swallowed, eyes flicking toward the window where dawn’s light broke across the trees. “…now she’s—and she doesn’t need us.”
Hamlet looked down at his gloves, flexing them. “Maybe not. But she deserves to hear us say sorry.”
Alex scoffed, halfheartedly. “You think ‘sorry’ will make her forgive us? She probably dreams of punching you in the face every night.”
“I’d let her,” Hamlet muttered. “As long as she comes home.”
Alex sighed and adjusted his blade. “If she even wants to. You saw the reports. She’s with Gregor. And the Queen’s hunting her like she’s the cure to the damn world.”
Hamlet stiffened. “That’s why we have to find her first. Before the Queen does. Before ASA does.”
There was a beat of silence — the weight of unspoken dread pressing between them.
Alex finally said, “You still think we can convince her to marry Prince Leon?”
Hamlet hesitated. “…If she does, it could stop this war. The Queen’s obsession with her blood would fade, and maybe the curse—”
Alex barked a humorless laugh. “You think she’s going to marry Prince Leon after everything? She hates politics. She hates the palace. And she definitely hates us.”
“Then maybe she’ll do it for peace,” Hamlet said quietly.
Alex gave him a long, hard look. “Or maybe she’ll spit in your face for suggesting it.”
“Then she’ll have to catch me first,” Hamlet replied, a small smirk breaking through.
They both laughed — soft, strained, but real.
For a brief moment, they weren’t commanders or brothers burdened by regret. They were just Hamlet and Alex, teasing each other before running into another stupid, glorious disaster.
Their beta and their alpha appeared in the doorway, silent as a shadow. Reinhardt Wolfgang’s expression was grave. “Kill Gregor at all cost. He deserves death after killing my son.”
“Yes, alpha!” Hamlet grumbled.
The alpha continued, “The horses are ready. The scouts have confirmed movement near the northern plains — ASA patrols and Black Fang agents both.”
Alex frowned. “They’re that close to our borders already?”
Reinhardt nodded. “The Queen’s curse is spreading faster than expected. The Black Fang aren’t even fully in control anymore — they’re half-mad, driven by something dark.”
Hamlet strapped his blade to his side. “Then we’ll cut through whatever’s left of them.”
Beta Whiteland eyes softened, pride and sorrow mingling. “Don’t lose yourselves again, boys. Whatever happens… remember, she’s still your sister.”
Hamlet bowed his head. “Yes, Father.”
Alex simply said, “We’ll bring her home.”
Their mother appeared behind Reinhardt, holding a small leather pouch. Her hands trembled as she pressed it into Hamlet’s palm. “For Margaux. It’s the necklace she used to wear as a child — the one with the moonstone.”
Hamlet opened it. The small gem glimmered faintly, catching the sunrise. “She loved this.”
“She still will,” Morgana whispered. “If you can just make her believe you still do.”
Three Days Later — Northern Plains
The plains were nothing but dust, wind, and war.
The sky burned orange with firelight as the first ASA drone crashed into the ground nearby, bursting into flames. The air was thick with the smell of ozone and blood.
Hamlet’s sword swung through an armored soldier, sparks flying. “Move, move, MOVE!” he shouted to his men as another explosion ripped through the grass.
“Damn it!” Alex yelled, ducking behind a ruined wagon. “They’ve got tech — these bastards are using human drones!”
“I noticed!” Hamlet growled, tackling an agent who lunged with an electrified spear.
The ASA soldiers were efficient — terrifyingly so. Their armor was black, plated, humming with anti-magic tech. They didn’t roar or taunt; they moved like machines, faceless and cold.
And worse — there were Black Fang among them, fighting side by side with the humans. The Queen’s curse had twisted them, their eyes glowing red with fury.
Hamlet barely had time to breathe. One of his warriors — a young wolf — was sliced down beside him. Another screamed as a drone’s pulse beam tore through his arm.
“Fall back!” Hamlet barked. “Regroup near the ridge!”
Alex appeared beside him, panting, blood streaking his cheek. “We can’t hold this! They’re everywhere!”
Hamlet’s golden eyes burned as he scanned the chaos — his pack scattered, his men dying, and in the distance, the faint shadows of Black Fang soldiers swarming like locusts.
“Go,” Hamlet said roughly. “Get the survivors out.”
“I’m not leaving you—”
“That’s an order, Alex!”
Alex’s jaw tightened. “You’re not dying here, you idiot!”
“Neither are you!”
A flash of light — a drone exploding — sent them both sprawling. When the dust cleared, Hamlet saw three of his men lying still.
His chest heaved. His world was narrowing — the sound of gunfire, roars, and the bitter taste of failure.
“Marigold,” he muttered under his breath. “If you can hear me… don’t come back for us. Just live.”
The sky thundered again.
The Wolfgang brothers stood back-to-back as the ASA closed in. The metallic hum of the agents’ armor filled the air.
Hamlet looked over his shoulder at Alex, half-grinning through the blood on his lip. “If we go down, we go loud.”
Alex smirked weakly. “Always the dramatic one.”
Then they charged.
Two brothers — one guilt, one defiance — throwing themselves against the storm.
And as the gunfire swallowed the plains, the legend of the Wolfgang heirs began to fade into the chaos — while far away in the cursed northern ravine, Marigold’s wolf howled into the wind.
She didn’t know it yet.
But her brothers were gone.
And she was not sad at all.