Death Await
While Zara and her three spies galloped toward the Northern pack under the veil of night, thinking they were headed into victory, Damian was ten steps ahead.
Standing at the center of the pack’s training field, his jaw clenched and eyes cold, he gave swift and chilling instructions to his elite warriors.
“Scatter the corpses,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Let the blood mark the gates like a welcome banner. Let them see the cost of betrayal the moment they arrive.”
The guards he’d slaughtered earlier—traitors in Gamma’s ranks—were hauled to the entrance. Their bodies, some still twitching in the final throes of death, were arranged with strategic chaos. Blood splattered the stone, blades still lodged in flesh, necks twisted, limbs severed—a masterpiece of destruction. The scent of death was thick in the air, carried purposefully by the northern winds.
Then, he summoned the Elders.
They gathered in the main hall like trembling sheep—aged, respected men and women who once held steady authority, now visibly quaking in Damian’s presence. His rage still lingered in the very walls of the estate, the shadows themselves seeming to recoil in fear.
He sat high above them, on the obsidian-carved throne reserved for the Alpha—his eyes scanning each face like a wolf stalking its prey.
“I want names,” he said coldly. “Who supported the Gamma when he sought to rise in my place?”
Silence.
Dead silence.
A few dared to lower their heads, but most kept their eyes on the floor, hoping to disappear into the stone.
“Who voted to imprison my mate?” Damian’s voice thundered, sharp as a whip.
The room remained still, thick with dread.
With a slow, menacing rise, Damian descended the throne’s steps, each one echoing like a death knell.
“Very well,” he said icily. “Then all of you… are guilty.”
A few gasps escaped trembling lips.
“No—please!” one elder cried. “We were deceived! We thought—”
“Thought what?” Damian snapped. “That a grieving Gamma could wear the crown? That I could be replaced by cowards and manipulators?”
He clenched his fists, and a surge of power pulsed from him, his aura crackling through the air like lightning in a storm. Many dropped to their knees, weeping and begging for mercy.
Just then, the eldest among them, Elder Hwan—a wiry, silver-bearded man who had advised three generations of Alphas—stepped forward with bowed head.
“My Alpha,” he said solemnly. “The fear of your wrath silenced our voices. But if truth is what you seek, I shall give it.”
Damian raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable.
With a shaky hand, Elder Hwan turned and began pointing out those who had supported the Gamma’s rise—those who, out of fear or greed, had cast their loyalty elsewhere.
The accused looked pale, some shaking their heads in silent denial, others sobbing as their names were spoken.
Damian’s eyes were cold steel as he watched them.
But after a long, tense pause, his jaw tightened—and then he let out a breath, the storm in his expression slightly easing.
“You’ve served this pack for decades,” he said, voice low but lethal. “I will not stain your legacies with blood tonight. But this is your last chance.”
He stepped back toward his throne.
“Let it be known—loyalty in this pack is not a choice. It is law. Betray it again… and I will not forgive.”
The elders nodded fervently, their faces streaked with sweat and tears.
“Dismissed,” he said sharply.
The hall emptied slowly, whispers of gratitude echoing through the corridors as they left, shaken but spared.
Then Damian turned to Lucian, who stood quietly by his side.
“We’ll appoint a new Gamma after this storm passes,” he said. “One born of loyalty, not ambition.”
Lucian nodded. “Someone worthy.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed, lifting to the sky beyond the high window where the first glow of false dawn shimmered.
“Let’s prepare. Zara will be here soon.”
And when she arrives, she will not be leaving at all...
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As the first blush of dawn touched the sky, casting long shadows over the blood-slicked ground, Zara and her three spies arrived at the Northern Pack's main gate. Her boots crunched over stone stained in dark red. Limbs twisted grotesquely, faces frozen in terror, the corpses of fallen guards decorated the gate like a grotesque warning.
Zara’s lips curled into a wicked smile.
“Rose… you beautiful monster,” she whispered with glee, her voice like silk dipped in poison. “You did it.”
Her spies exchanged eager glances. Victory was nearly in their grasp. With newfound arrogance replacing the weakness in her step, Zara strolled confidently into the pack, her coat billowing behind her like a queen returning to claim her throne.
They moved quickly, following the directions in Rose’s letter, heading straight for Damian’s estate—the very heart of the Northern Pack.
Zara’s mind was aflame with dark fantasies: Ella on her knees, sobbing, begging for mercy. Damian helpless, Lucian groaning in pain. And then the final image—Ella’s severed head in her hand, the trophy she’d present to Lila with pride.
Her laughter echoed off the quiet stone as she approached the main entrance.
“This is too easy,” she sneered, pushing the door open wide. “Let’s go collect our prizes.”
The estate was deathly still. No servants. No guards. No warriors.
Nothing.
She walked into the grand sitting room, her voice echoing confidently as she taunted, “Damian, you coward—come out and face your new Alpha! Or are you too busy bleeding—?”
She froze.
So did the air.
Seated in the room, waiting calmly like wolves at a feast, were Damian, Lucian, Ella, Selena, and more than a dozen elite guards.
Very much alive.
Zara’s mouth hung open.
“No…” she breathed, stumbling a step backward, heart thudding so loud it drowned out her thoughts. “This… this isn’t…”
Lucian stood slowly, arms crossed over his broad chest, eyes like ice. Selena beside him, face carved in contempt. Ella remained seated, calm, her silver eyes never blinking.
But it was Damian who commanded the room—reclined like a beast just roused from sleep, danger clinging to him like smoke. His lips curled into a slow, mocking grin.
“Zara,” he said, voice smooth and lethal, “Welcome back… home.”
Behind him, Rose lay slumped in chains. Bloodied. Broken. Her face swollen and unrecognizable, her tongue severed, a moan of pain escaping her dry lips.
One of Zara’s spies gasped and staggered back.
Zara’s blood ran cold.
She blinked rapidly, hoping—praying—it was some kind of illusion. A dream. A lie.
But no.
This was real.
The air felt suddenly heavier. Thicker. Fatal.
Damian stood now, slow and towering, the room stretching silent under the weight of his presence.
“You seemed eager to see Ella’s head,” he continued, circling her like a predator. “Why not stay awhile… and see what it feels like to beg for your own?”