Chapter 159: Chapter 159

Rose’s POV

“What do you mean? What don’t we know about Rose?” Tristan demanded, breath ragged, confusion and anger twisting across his face. Damian’s eyes slowly drifted from him… back to me.

“That her blood holds the power to make me a god,” he said, voice smooth and terrifyingly certain.

My mind blanked. Even Tristan looked stunned.

“What are you talking about? Make you a god, as how?” Tristan snapped.

“Yes,” Damian answered simply, as if stating a fact of nature. He walked toward me, heavy boots crushing leaves beneath him, stopping so close I could smell the metallic tang of blood on him. His hand lifted, fingers brushing my cheek and sliding into my hair. His touch felt like poison—cold and violating—and I jerked my face away. He only smirked.

“She is truly beautiful… but the most remarkable thing about her isn’t her face or her perfect body” he said, tone darkening, “but her blood. Just like her mother’s.”

Then he looked back at Tristan.

“You see, her blood is the very fountain of youth itself. With the right ritual, anyone who consumes it would gain immortality—and power beyond imagination.” His eyes flicked back to me, hungry, feverish. “Seventeen years ago, my father sought this by going after your mother—the then Phoenix wolf. He failed. But I won’t. This is my destiny.”

“You are wrong. My blood holds no key to immortality or any secret fucking powers,” I said, shaking my head, voice trembling with anger and fear. “All I can do is heal—that’s all. So please… you need to release me so I can go and heal Kavian.”

He laughed—low, echoing, cruel.

“Oh, how I would love to prove you wrong. To show you how special you are… when I become the most powerful being in the world. A god, thanks to you.” His smile widened. “But sadly, you have to die for me to fulfill my destiny.”

I stared at him, breath caught in my throat.

“You will not touch her or I swear I would—” Tristan began, but one of Damian’s men slammed a fist into his stomach, hard. The air punched out of Tristan’s lungs as he collapsed to his knees, choking. More blows followed—cracking against his jaw, his ribs, his back.

“Don’t hurt him!” I screamed, trying to break free, but the men holding me only tightened their grip.

“Arrgh…” Tristan groaned, coughing as he struggled to breathe. When the beating finally stopped, Damian walked toward him, each step deliberate and filled with contempt.

“You have always been weak, young wolf. And you will always be,” Damian said, voice dripping venom. “I want you to remember this day—because it will be the last day you ever see Rose. And know that her death… is on your hands. You were not strong enough to protect her.”

Tristan’s eyes burned—rage, anguish, humiliation all twisting together.

“You are still that little pup who hid when I tore up your elder brother seventeen years ago,” Damian continued. “Yes, I know you remember that day. The black wolf that severed the head of your beloved, elder brother Richard while you hid like a coward.”

Damian leaned closer, voice dropping to a chilling whisper.

“I was that black wolf. I took the one you loved… and history is about to repeat itself.”

Tears slipped from Tristan’s eyes—angry, broken tears—and my heart clenched painfully. I had never seen Tristan look so shattered, so stripped of everything he believed he was.

And still, Damian smiled.

“Please… don’t hurt her,” Tristan struggled to force out, his voice barely more than a broken rasp. Damian only laughed—a cruel, echoing sound—before shoving him down. Tristan hit the ground hard, collapsing in a weak heap, body trembling from the blows.

“Let’s leave. Bring her along,” Damian ordered casually, as if this was nothing more than a simple errand. His men grabbed me roughly, dragging me toward a horse. My feet barely touched the ground before they lifted and forced me onto the saddle.

“Tristan! Tristan!” I screamed, twisting, fighting against their grip, my voice tearing from my throat. The horse beneath me shifted nervously, already being pulled away.

Tristan tried—he truly tried—to rise. His arms shook violently as he pushed against the dirt, but his body wouldn’t obey. He couldn’t lift himself even an inch. All he could do was stretch a trembling hand toward me from where he lay.

“R–Rose…” he whispered in pain, reaching for me with everything he had left.

His voice broke.

And so did something inside me..

Author’s POV

Alpha Stefan was still on his knee, swaying unsteadily, blood spilling from the sword wound in his chest. His breaths came out ragged and thin as Alpha King Armon, his sons, and their men finally reached him. One of Armon’s warriors stepped forward immediately, grabbing Stefan by the shoulder and pressing a blade to his neck, ready to end it.

“Stop.”

Alpha King Armon’s voice cut through the chaos, cold and absolute. The man instantly withdrew.

Armon stepped closer, studying Stefan like a dying animal. “He can’t survive that wound,” he said calmly, then added, “I want him alive long enough to watch his beautiful city burn, and hear the dying cries of his people before he finally takes his last breath.”

Alpha Stefan tried to speak, but only a wet choke escaped him. His fading eyes drifted to Armon’s sons—his daughter’s mates—searching for even a flicker of recognition, of remorse. But they looked at him blankly, like he was a stranger, then walked past him without a word.

Screams, blood, and smoke filled the air, all blending into one horrifying symphony as Armon’s men tore through the city. They slaughtered anyone in their path like a swarm of locusts, setting buildings ablaze and leaving nothing but destruction behind.

“Come on, we have to move fast!” Elder Freya urged, her voice shaking as she and the other elders pushed the terrified residents toward the escape routes.

Beta Marcel and the surviving warriors finally reached them. Elder Freya immediately asked, “What about the Alpha?”

Marcel hesitated, glancing briefly at the men behind him before answering. “He is dead. Fell like a hero, fighting for this pack and this city,” he lied smoothly. The men shifted uncomfortably but said nothing.

The news sent a heavy, heartbreaking silence over the people. Shoulders slumped. Some began to cry. It felt as though all hope had been crushed along with their home.

But Marcel stepped forward quickly, raising his voice. He reminded them that they still had families, children, futures worth fighting for. That giving up now would only ensure their deaths.

And then, subtly but firmly, he placed himself in command.

“Since the Alpha is no more, it is now my responsibility—as his Beta—to ensure this pack survives. Listen well: a pack is not a city nor the walls surrounding it. A pack is its people. As long as we stay together, even if this city burns to the ground, we will survive… and we will rise again.”

His words stirred the crowd. People straightened, wiping tears, clinging to this sliver of hope. They praised him and hurried to continue the evacuation.

Marcel’s daughter, Laura, rushed to him, worry etched across her face. “Where’s Rose? Is she safe?”

“Last I saw her, she was riding off with Tristan,” Marcel said, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. “But they were being chased by a good number of the enemy.” His voice softened. “We hope for the best… but I don’t think they’ll be able to outrun them.”

Laura’s face crumpled. “No…” she whispered, eyes filling with tears. Marcel pulled her into a tight embrace.

“Let’s go. They’re coming. We can't be here,” he said firmly, guiding her as they joined the others...

Meanwhile, Kavian lay lifeless on the ground, surrounded by a scatter of dead corpses—the aftermath of the battlefield his brothers left behind. The deep sword cuts carved across his chest were still visible, raw and ugly, and blood seeped slowly from them, darkening the dirt beneath him. Everything had fallen eerily silent now; the fight had moved into the heart of the city, leaving this stretch abandoned.

The first scavengers arrived.

Vultures, crows, and other flesh-eating birds circled above in widening spirals before descending one by one, hopping over bodies, wings rustling, their shrill cries cutting through the stillness. They began tearing into the fallen without hesitation.

One vulture landed directly on Kavian’s torso. Its talons gripped his flesh, and it lowered its head toward his closed eyes, ready to bury its beak into the softness.

But Kavian’s eyes snapped open.

In a sudden blur of movement, his hand shot up and clamped around the bird’s neck. The vulture screeched, wings flapping wildly, before he flung it aside. The nearby birds scattered instantly, flapping back to a safer distance, watching him warily.

Kavian pushed himself upright with a groan, blood running down his chest, vision unsteady—but his mind locked on one thing.

The first word that left his mouth was a breath, a prayer, a vow:

“Rosemary.”