Chapter Forty Two — The Knife in the Pack

Chapter Forty Two — The Knife in the Pack
The corpse was in the center of the hall like an accusation that could not be ignored.

The knife remained stuck in his spine, the hilt glinting from the light of the flames. Our own signature was etched on it—the sigil of the Nightfangs. Proof that death did not only come from the rivals at our doors but from within us.

The air was heavy with the scent of blood and distrust. The wolves gathered close, their voices hushed, sharp, menacing. I saw the fault lines of fissure running through the pack like shards of broken glass.

"This wasn't an accident," a senior wolf growled, his own voice quivering with age and rage. "No rival carries one of our blades, it is impossible."

"Then who?" a younger wolf snarled. "Who among us stabbed us in the back?

Eyes glinted like knives across the room. Unspoken accusation hung in every glance.

And then, quietly as poison, Roran's voice insinuated himself into the silence. "Must we be shocked?" he said, his tone careless, almost contemplative. "Weakness is caused by division. And what further division than to trust one not born of wolf to lead us?"

The words struck like talons to my chest. All eyes on me. Some slit with suspicion, others flashed with automatic, instant denial. But the poison had been sown, and I could see how easily it seeped into the crevices.

Lucien moved before I could. His presence swept down the hall, his voice a knife. "Mind your words, Roran. You question my Luna, you question me. And I do not take that lightly."

For a moment, silence. And then Roran bowed—tongue-in-cheek, lying. "Of course, Alpha. I merely utter what some already whisper, I speak for the people and I mean no disrespect."

A whisper ran among the pack, half-hidden, dangerous.

I moved forward. My ribs ached from the battle, blood spilling on the edge of my tunic, but I remained standing. "That is enough," I declared, my voice steady though my insides raged. "This death will not stand between us any more. Whoever killed us wanted just that. We will not grant it to them. We need to stick together, now more than ever."

The words were momentary for the time being, but I could sense the uncertainty there.

When finally the hall had cleared, I was left with Lucien. The fire burned down to coals, dark shapes stretching taut on the walls. The corpse had been taken away, but the absence of the knife felt like a phantom weight.

Lucien leaned against the table, his arms crossed. His eyes glowed silver in the dying light. "He is pressing way harder now," he said. "Roran knows this will shake them and make them doubt where they stand."

"He wants them to look at me," I whispered. "To notice a weakness, so that they won’t see me as their Luna."

Lucien's face relaxed, but only slightly. "Then you show them the opposite and you stand your ground."

I exhaled slowly. "I need to know. That knife—it wasn't stolen or misplaced. Whoever discarded it knew exactly what it would say. This wasn't betrayal. It was performance."

Lucien nodded briefly. "I'll have the warriors track the forge marks. That hilt was unique."

But I shook my head. "No. If it is conspiracy, it's deeper than the paw of one wolf. If the wrong ears pick up we're on the trail, they'll cover their tracks further. This. I'll handle myself."

His jaw closed firmly, but he said nothing. He knew me well enough not to push.

The investigation began in whispers and silences. I roamed under the light of night, listening. The pups gossiped too freely, their anger new and untested. There were those who blamed the Ravagers. There were those who blamed Kerr, who had lost in combat. And there were those—much too many—who echoed Roran's doubt, not aloud but as biting mutters.

It was not only Roran's voice sowing discord. He had allies. I could feel them as cold fingers down at the base of my neck.

I arrived at the forge, my fingers tracing out the lines of blades, making impressions in steel. Each hilt bore the smith's seal, unique as a fingerprint. And I, no smith, knew enough to see that the blade in the body's back hadn't been a discarded byproduct. It had been chosen.

"Intentional," I told myself. "Someone meant that mark to be seen."

Lucien found me there, hours later, the heat of the forge steaming off both of us. "You think this was arranged."

"Yes," I said. "And if so, the betrayer isn't some crazy outsider. It's someone who knows our traditions, our iconography. Someone who knows what will hurt the most."

His eyes went cold. "Which means not just Roran."

I stared at him. "Which means more than one.".

For the first time in the struggle, fear writhed in my stomach—not of the Ravagers pounding at our gates, but of the rot within our gates.

The next evening, I was alone in my quarters when a folded piece of parchment fluttered under my door. I froze. Few had ventured into the Alpha's quarters unbidden.

I opened it, my heart pounding. The writing was sloppy, imperious:

Luna. See me after the moon is up at the spot where the old well is. I know who holds the knife. But they will kill me if they find out I am speaking with you. Come by yourself. Do not ignore this condition.

I read it again and again, the letters burning into my memory.

A wolf in Roran's circle. A wolf willing to risk their life to share the truth with me.

But was it the truth—or a trap?

Moonlight seeped thin across the window, and I felt the weight of the choice pressing down on me.

If I went to meet this person, I might finally tear off the mask of lies.

If I went away, I might never come back but one theory outweighed the other.

And still I knew I had to because it was time to put all this to bed.