Chapter 32 The Fury's That Walks
Alberto moved through the north tower with the caution of a shadow slipping between the torchlight. The corridors stood empty, the usual guards absent, their attention drawn to the chaos surrounding Elder Torin’s death. He carried a basin of warm water, folded linens draped over one arm, and a small vial of soothing oil. The climb to Fernando’s chamber left his legs trembling, but he pressed onward, driven by the steady thrum of the bond that pulsed between them.
The Alpha’s room lay wrapped in silence, broken only by the faint crackle of the hearth and the shallow rhythm of Fernando’s breath. The great bed dominated the space, wolf pelts and heavy quilts heaped over the still figure. Black veins traced faint, retreating patterns across Fernando’s skin, but his face remained slack, eyes closed, body locked in the relentless struggle of the soul bond.
Alberto set the basin on the bedside table and dipped a cloth into the steaming water. He wrung it carefully and began to work, drawing the damp linen across Fernando’s forehead, down the sharp ridge of his cheekbones, along the line of his jaw. Each pass was deliberate, as though warmth alone could coax the Alpha back from the depths.
“Wake up,” Alberto whispered, voice rough from disuse and desperation. “Please. The pack fractures without you. They fight and accuse and turn on one another. I cannot hold them together. I cannot be what you are.”
He lifted Fernando’s hand, heavy and unresponsive, and wiped the skin between the faded veins. The bond vibrated with shared sensation, faint echoes of pain and exhaustion flowing both ways.
“You have to wake up,” he continued, moving the cloth to Fernando’s chest, parting the quilts to reach the taut planes of muscle. “I am no leader. I am no Alpha. They will tear everything apart, and there will be nothing left for you to return to.”
The words spilled out unfiltered, raw and pleading, as he worked methodically across collarbones, shoulders, arms. Sweat gathered on his own brow, the physical effort compounding the emotional weight. He paused only to refresh the cloth, water pattering softly into the basin, then resumed, tracing every inch of skin as if touch alone could summon Fernando back.
The door opened without a knock.
Mira entered carrying a small clay cup and a bundle of dried roots. She crossed to the bedside and tilted Fernando’s head back, coaxing a thick, dark liquid between his slack lips. Most of it dribbled down his chin, but enough slid down his throat to make his pulse stutter and steady.
She straightened, wiping her hands on her apron, and frowned. “The bloodroot distillate. I left it in the lower stores. It binds the remaining poison and keeps the bond from fraying.”
Alberto set the damp cloth aside and stood. “I will get it.”
“Take the east stair,” Mira instructed. “Third shelf from the floor, sealed jar marked with three red bands. Do not delay. The timing matters.”
He nodded and left without hesitation, moving as quickly as his battered body allowed. The lower stores lay buried beneath the keep, a labyrinth of stone-walled chambers filled with barrels, crates, and shelves of jars and pouches. He found the bloodroot distillate on the specified shelf, the jar heavy and cold in his hands. Turning back toward the stairs, he hurried through the dim passages, footfalls echoing off damp walls.
The attack came without warning.
Five figures emerged from an alcove, blocking his path. Slave wolves, their bodies marked with the faded brands of those who had been captured and broken in earlier raids. Their eyes burned with hunger and hate, faces gaunt from months of labor and deprivation.
“You,” the largest snarled, a broad male with a scar splitting his left eyebrow. “The Alpha’s death is your doing.”
Alberto stopped, jar clutched to his chest. “Fernando is not dead.”
The scarred wolf spat on the floor. “He lies wasting because of you. The soul bond drags him down with your weakness. The pack starves and bleeds while he clings to your worthless life.”
The others closed in, a ragged circle of bared teeth and clenched fists. “You poisoned him,” a wiry female hissed. “You and your lies.”
Alberto backed against the wall, the jar digging into his ribs. “He lives. The bond holds. Killing me will only tear him apart with me.”
The scarred wolf seized his shoulder and slammed him against the stone. Pain exploded through ribs still tender from earlier beatings. Fists followed, boots, knuckles. They struck without formation, a storm of blows that drove him to his knees. Blood filled his mouth; his vision swam with the impacts. The jar fell from his grasp and shattered, dark liquid spreading in a widening stain.
One of them, a lean male with eyes like chipped flint, drew a short knife from his belt. “End it. Kill him here, and the Alpha goes with him. No more weakness. No more waiting for a corpse to rise.”
Alberto crumpled against the wall, blood dripping from his split lip, breath coming in ragged gasps. He made no move to defend himself, no attempt to rise or fight. The wolves closed around him, the knife gleaming in the torchlight. He closed his eyes and turned his thoughts inward.
Moon goddess, he prayed silently. Keep him safe. Let him live even after I am gone.
The knife rose.
Everything stopped.
The scarred wolf’s arm locked in place, muscles straining uselessly against an invisible force. The others froze mid-step, faces contorted with effort, unable to close the final distance. Silence descended, absolute and suffocating.
Alberto pried his eyes open, vision blurred with blood and pain.
A hand closed around the scarred wolf’s wrist, iron fingers grinding bone. Fernando stood in the center of the frozen tableau, eyes blazing pure molten gold, the wolf fully risen beneath his skin. Fur bristled along his shoulders and the backs of his hands; claws extended from every finger. His breath came in thunderous bursts, filling the corridor with the scent of rage and raw power.
The scarred wolf whimpered, knife falling from nerveless fingers.
Fernando wrenched the arm down and back until the joint tore free with a wet snap. The wolf screamed, collapsing to his knees. Fernando released him without a glance and turned his gaze on the others. They dropped where they stood, bellies flat to the stone, throats bared in absolute submission.
No one moved. No one breathed without permission.
Fernando’s eyes locked on Alberto, fury giving way to something deeper, more primal. He crossed the space in two strides and dropped to one knee, one massive hand cupping the side of Alberto’s bloodied face. The touch burned with shared pain, every bruise and cut echoing through the bond, but it anchored him all the same.
“You will not die,” Fernando said, voice rough and absolute, carrying the dual timbre of man and beast. “Not while I draw breath.”
Alberto stared up at him, trembling, the world narrowing to the gold fire in those eyes and the hand holding him steady.
Fernando had woken.