Chapter 40
THIRD PERSON POV
(BEFORE ELARA WAS BORN)
(The Blackthorn Haven, Palace of the Rogues)
Darius, the Rogue Alpha, occupied his throne, a sharp fragment of gloom within a fortress hewn from equally foreboding stone. No one knew the origins of this perilous leader—he had no traceable roots, no history, emerging like a specter from the void. Still, his might, fury, and mercilessness instilled terror in all who heard of him.
The atmosphere was dense with the aroma of storm-charged air and another undertone, something subtly ferrous that lingered on the breeze and clung to the fortress walls. His image glared back at him with predatory intensity: a lean figure with piercing, bird-of-prey eyes, bordered by disheveled dark hair threaded with silver. He resembled a phantom, forged from obscurity and driven by wrath.
He strode to and fro, his wide shoulders rigid, his mandible set in a firm contour. His lupine shape—a colossal beast of ebony pelt and eyes akin to glowing embers—was confined within a mortal shell, scarcely restrained. His energy emanated outward, an overwhelming force that compelled the attendants along the walls to lower their stares, their forms quivering with dread they wouldn’t dare reveal.
“I require a stroll,” he declared, rising and directing his steps toward his daughter’s quarters. He inhaled deeply while grasping the handle, pausing initially. He grew weary of witnessing her in such a dire condition. After several seconds, he turned the knob and entered.
Her attendants recoiled the instant he arrived, the ambiance transforming into one of stifling oppression.
“We shall depart now, Alpha,” the senior maid stated, inclining her head while motioning to the others. Darius paid them no heed as they passed him and left the space. He advanced toward his daughter, a crease of displeasure on his mouth.
His daughter, Celeste, reclined on the bed, her pale locks a vivid opposition to the overwhelming darkness of the chamber.
She retained her loveliness, even amid her ailment and waning vitality. She resembled a delicate china figurine teetering on the edge of fracture. The affliction gripped her like a poisonous viper winding about her, choking the vitality from her gaze.
This year, the malady struck with greater ferocity, her labored inhalations growing increasingly frantic.
Darius recognized, with a frigid certainty, that this could mark her end. Her final exhale.
A grim truth he dreaded and beseeched never materialized.
He had devoted years to pursuing every blood healer across the territories. His vows as empty as his soul, he’d proffered them vast fortunes, inconceivable riches and authority, anything to rescue his daughter permanently.
Yet, those who faltered—and they all did—he dispatched with ruthless efficiency. Executing them pitilessly, slaughtering them en masse, unleashing carnage. He wandered far, detecting their scents in search of a varied result, but each proved identical… and so did his responses. A savage demise for every failure.
He had evolved into a myth, a tangible horror. Stories circulated in subdued murmurs. The Rogue Alpha, they dubbed him, but the murmurs also recounted the Slayer of Healers, the Despot of Blackthorn Haven. A lupine who materialized from obscurity and erected a colossal dominion. His forces were as grotesque as he.
Darius embodied wickedness, unadulterated malevolence. His deeds stemmed from a frantic, distorted devotion to his daughter, a devotion that had twisted into something so abhorrent, it terrified all.
A snarl burst from his throat as he moved beyond Celeste; he cast one final look her way. His features gentled. “I’ll rescue you,” he whispered faintly, “Even if it’s my final act.” His fingers balled into tight knots; he spun on his heel and departed, bound for his study. Upon arrival, he called for his elite sentinel, Varek.
As he settled into his chair, a memory assaulted him.
The demise of his mate, Lyra, lingered as an open lesion, a raw, suppurating sore that intensified the drive behind his every move. He recalled her mirth, the comfort of her palm in his, the manner she tempered his savage disposition. Now, merely the resonance of her recollection endured.
He had forfeited her in a ferocious clash; only Celeste endured. That was when she was preserved by a healer, only to suffer annually from an episode that stripped her of restraint and nearly claimed her life each occurrence.
That ignited Darius’s torment and loathing toward the healers, yet he pursued them relentlessly, aiming to eradicate the loathsome hex on his daughter.
“Alpha!” Varek’s call sliced through the void, yanking Darius from his reverie. Darius’s gaze jerked upward. Varek advanced, a grave expression upon him.
Much like his Alpha, Varek was a beast that instilled fear in everyone. He was renowned as the execution engine, a lupine who dispatched without hesitation, sparing no one… not even the young.
“We’ve yet to receive any news, Sire,”
The utterance from Varek’s mouth nearly unhinged him. “Yet to?”
Varek lowered his head in remorse. “I beg pardon for my failure to fulfill your command. But I won’t cease until I’ve scoured every corner and unearthed all blood healers to preserve Lady Celeste,” his hands shook at his flanks; he expelled a breath from his mouth, perspiration dotting his brow. He dreaded Darius above all else. And that compelled him to satisfy Darius by any means.
Darius had rescued him from destitution, molded him into a warrior, devoid of mercy and fear. He admired and honored Darius as a paternal figure, but it paled against the terror he harbored for the Alpha. A terror so potent that if Darius demanded his life, he would surrender it without protest. His existence belonged to the Alpha. Varek reminded himself daily.
“Two days.” That was all Darius uttered. With a further incline, Varek exited his study, abandoning Darius to his contemplations.
At this juncture, Darius understood that even if it entailed obliterating all, he would proceed to safeguard his daughter, heedless of the repercussions.