Chapter 122 The Art of War (And Lawn Sculptures)

Chapter 122 The Art of War (And Lawn Sculptures)
Forrest's POV

It started with an explosion.
Not the literal kind—though that had definitely happened before—but the kind that usually came after Forrest had a little too much time and zero supervision. Which, to be fair, was often.
He was supposed to be checking the perimeter. Boring. Lifeless. Snooze-fest. Instead, he was stacking logs into the shape of what could generously be called "modern art" near the patrol border, just to see if Ash would blow a blood vessel.
"Art," Forrest muttered, wiping dirt off his hands as he squinted at the lopsided, vaguely phallic structure. "The misunderstood language of genius. Eat your heart out, Picasso."
Then—
A scent hit him.
Rot. Blood. Fur. And something else. Something wrong
.
He froze, nostrils flaring.
The trees were too quiet. The wind had stilled. No birds. No frogs. No forest sounds at all.
His hackles rose.
Rogues.

He turned slowly, heart hammering in his chest.
Glowing red eyes blinked at him from the shadows.
One. Two. Five. Ten.
They crept from the trees, claws dragging through leaves, moving in a way that felt off
—like puppets on strings.
Forrest's humor dropped like a rock.
"Rogues. South border. Red eyes. Not normal. Get here now,"
he barked through the mind link.
Almost instantly, his siblings locked in.
Ash:
"Don't engage until we're there."

Opal:
"Hold on. I'm coming."

Brooks:
"Be smart for once, Forrest."

Ridge:
"We'll flank. Hold tight."

"Too late," Forrest growled, teeth bared as he dropped his clothes and shifted mid-lunge.
His body exploded into silver fur and bone, muscles stretching as his paws hit the forest floor in a low crouch. His wolf howled in joy—finally
, something worth biting.
The first rogue pounced.
Forrest met it in mid-air, claws slicing across its chest before he sank his fangs into its neck and ripped
. Blood sprayed. The rogue gurgled and went limp.
The fight began.
More poured out from the trees—twenty, maybe more. Their eyes glowed brighter than firelight, their mouths open in silent snarls. No voices. No howls.
Just death.
Then the pack arrived.
Ash slammed into the clearing like a missile, his massive wolf tackling two rogues with terrifying ease. Bones cracked beneath his jaws.
Opal was a blur of silver-white fury, darting between enemies with precision. Every strike was calculated, every movement lethal. Her growls echoed like war drums.
Brooks and Ridge followed, flanking the rogues with practiced force. Ridge's strikes were surgical. Brooks was pure power, his wolf tearing through limbs and torsos with terrifying focus.
And Forrest—
He was chaos.
He darted between rogues with reckless speed, teeth flashing, claws slashing. At one point, he leapt off a boulder just to body-slam a rogue into the ground. "Surprise, ugly!" he howled midair.
A claw caught his side—he barely felt it.
Another rogue lunged at his back—Brooks took it down in two bites.
Ash snapped a neck. Ridge crushed a skull. Opal's jaws clamped on a spine.
The ground was soaked in blood.
The fight lasted minutes.
But it felt like forever.
When the last rogue fell, twitching on the forest floor, silence returned—thick, ominous.
Forrest shifted back, breathing hard, blood dripping from a gash across his arm. "Holy shit," he muttered, glancing around as he put on a pair of shorts Ash tossed to him. "We just played whack-a-wolf with a damn demon parade."
Opal stood nearby, panting, covered in blood. "Everyone okay?"
"Still alive," Ridge muttered, wiping blood from his face.
Ash, still in wolf form, snarled and kicked a limp rogue for good measure before shifting back. "What the hell was that?"
Forrest crouched beside one of the bodies. Its eyes still glowed faintly—unblinking, glassy.
"They weren't alive," he said, voice low. "Or not fully. These weren't just rogues. They were controlled
."
"Witch," Opal whispered.
Ash nodded grimly. "She's probing our defenses."
Brooks stepped over a corpse, brow furrowed. "Trying to see how strong we are. How fast we respond."
Ridge added, "And who to target next."
Forrest stood, drenched in gore, hair wild, his chest heaving.
"Well," he said, clapping his hands together with a wet squish, "I think we passed the test with flying colors. Mostly red."
Ash glared. "You were goofing off
when this started."
"I was being creatively vigilant," Forrest corrected, grinning. "And I'll have you know my highly strategic lawn sculpture distracted them for at least two seconds."
Opal rolled her eyes. "You're impossible."
"Forbidden arts, remember?" Forrest smirked. "But I'm also the guy who spotted them and bought us time."
Ash looked like he wanted to argue—but then sighed and muttered, "Fine. You did good."
Forrest blinked. "Wait, what? Say that again, I think I blacked out from shock."
Opal laughed. Ridge snorted. Even Brooks cracked a grin.
Forrest just looked around at the corpses and said, "Now, someone please
tell Dad that I did something helpful before
he finds the remains of my lawn statue. I am this close
to being disowned."
But as they stood there, bloodied and victorious, Forrest's smile faded.
Because the rogue bodies weren't fading like they usually did.
They remained.
Solid. Soulless.
And watching the pack from the trees, high above—
Another crow.
Glowing. Red.
Unblinking.
Waiting.
Watching.
And Forrest, for all his bravado, felt the first real tremor of fear crawl down his spine.
"Yeah," he whispered to himself. "We are so
screwed."

Opal's POV
The training field was quiet.
Twilight brushed soft purple over the treetops, and the scent of grass and distant firelight clung to the air. Most of the pack was inside by now, eating or resting or pretending they weren't bracing for whatever darkness was creeping closer.
Opal sat on the edge of the old wooden bench near the archery range, knees pulled to her chest, her chin resting on them. The grass beneath her bare feet was still warm from the sun.
Ridge dropped onto the bench beside her, stretching out his long legs with a quiet sigh.
Neither of them said anything for a while.
They didn't need to.
The silence between them was easy — not like the silences she sometimes shared with Ash, tense with unspoken worry, or the ones with Kael, thick with too much wanting.
This was the kind of silence that had existed since they were kids. Safe. Familiar. Like leaning against a wall that never cracked.
Ridge tilted his head toward her. "You okay?"
Opal gave a dry, half-laugh. "That's a dangerous question these days."
He nodded like he understood. Because he did.
She drew a slow breath, her eyes on the horizon. "I think I'm going to have to choose him."
Ridge didn't pretend to misunderstand. He just glanced at her, waiting.
"Kael," she clarified. "As my mate."
He nodded again. "Figured."
"I love him," she said softly. "I do. It's not fake. It's not forced. It's real. But…"
Ridge raised an eyebrow. "But?"
She looked down at her hands. "Part of me still wonders what it would've been like. To have a fated mate. To feel that pull. That bond. That moment where everything just clicks
and you know.
"
She hesitated. "Kael and I… we've had to work for it. It wasn't fate. It was choice."
Ridge was quiet, thoughtful. "Maybe that's stronger, though."
She gave him a side glance. "Maybe. But it's still hard. Knowing I'll never know what it feels like to have someone walk into my life and instantly be mine
. Like the universe hand-picked them for me."
Ridge exhaled, slow and steady. "You're not alone in that."
She blinked at him.
"I think about her sometimes," he said. "My future mate. What she'll be like. If she'll understand me. If she'll be the calm to my temper, or the fire to match it."
Opal smiled softly. "Like Seraphina balances Ash."
"Exactly," Ridge said. "He's all control and pressure and expectations. She's quiet power. Keeps him human."
"Brooks and Nyx, too," Opal added.
Ridge snorted. "She keeps him from becoming a smug disaster. Or worse, another Forrest.
"
They both laughed at that — a much-needed break in the emotional weight.
Ridge leaned back, his voice turning a little more thoughtful. "It's hard not knowing. Not knowing if she's out there. If I've met her already and don't know it. If I'll ever meet her."
"You will," Opal said gently.
He nodded. "Yeah. I hope she's got teeth."
Opal raised an eyebrow. "Teeth?"
He grinned. "You know. Fire. A little fight. Someone who won't let me bulldoze over her when I'm being a jackass."
Opal smirked. "So… basically Seraphina."
"She's taken," Ridge deadpanned. "Also, terrifying. I need someone who scares me just enough.
"
They sat in silence again, more comfortable this time.
Then Ridge sighed. "You know who I don't
feel bad for?"
Opal tilted her head, curious.
"Forrest's future mate."
Opal snorted
.
"She's going to need the patience of a saint," Ridge continued, mock serious. "The stamina of a warrior. And probably a personal therapist."
"She'll need to sleep with one eye open," Opal added, grinning.
"She'll wake up covered in frogs. Or find her shampoo replaced with maple syrup."
"Glitter in her socks."
"Love notes in her cereal box that he didn't even write."
Opal was laughing now, the ache in her chest easing just a little. "You know what the worst part is?"
"What?"
"She's going to love
him anyway."
Ridge shook his head in defeat. "Poor woman."
They fell quiet again, the stars just starting to prick through the sky overhead.
And even though nothing had changed — no decisions finalized, no guarantees given — Opal felt… steadier.
Maybe love wasn't always fate.
Maybe sometimes it was laughter in the dark.
A choice.
A bond built slowly.
And maybe that kind of love was just as powerful.
Maybe stronger.