Chapter 41

Chapter 41
Alena hid the parchment fragment, now neatly folded and tucked into a leather layer of her vest. The ancient energy emanating from the word PRIMORDIAL felt cold against her skin, a constant reminder that the secret she carried was far greater than the rejection she endured. The decision to seek out Lyra had been made. If the Elder had access to ancient texts, she was the only bridge between Alena's wild power and the desperate control she needed.

She knew Lyra usually ate dinner early, in the communal dining hall, separate from the Alpha and Beta's table. Alena had to take the risk. Isolating herself would only hasten Draven finding her, or Orion deeming her an internal enemy.

Stepping out of the isolation wing felt like walking out of a warm prison into a freezing arena. The air in the Great House was filled with the scent of burning wood, food, and, most dominantly, thick tension. She could feel the wolves' eyes on her before she even crossed paths with them.

As she stepped into the main corridor, she caught the strong residual scent of Orion—pine forest, adrenaline, and suppressed fury. Alena quickened her pace, wanting to avoid a confrontation with the Alpha. If she met Orion now, she feared the wild energy within her would react to the inevitable sting of destiny, and that would be a disaster.

She arrived at the Communal Dining Hall. The room was large, with long wooden tables and benches filled with warriors and other pack members. The sound of conversation, forced laughter, and clinking plates abruptly subsided into a simultaneous whisper as Alena stepped in. The silence was so sudden and total that it sounded louder than the noise it replaced.

Alena ignored them. She took a tray, helped herself to a small portion of roast meat and vegetables, and moved toward the quietest corner. Her eyes scanned the room, searching for Lyra. She spotted the Elder sitting at a back table, accompanied by some older she-wolves, her expression serious.

Just as Alena was about to step toward Lyra's table, a large shadow fell beside her. She didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The smell of sweat, arena dust, and wounded arrogance radiated from the figure.

Caleb.

The formidable warrior stood there, hands on his hips, his wide shoulders still tense from Orion's brutal training session. There was a purplish-blue bruise on his cheek, a remnant of Orion's strike, which only fueled his anger.

"Go back to your den, monster," Caleb hissed, his voice loud enough to be heard by those at the nearest tables.
Alena paused, her food tray cold in her hands. She did not turn. "I wasn't aware you were appointed doorkeeper, Caleb. As far as I know, you're just a warrior. And not the most accomplished one tonight."

A ripple of suppressed amusement spread from some of the younger warriors who witnessed the scene, but Caleb did not find it funny.

"You shouldn't be here. The Alpha only allows you to stay because you're an anomaly, a weapon," Caleb sneered, stepping closer, forcing Alena to turn. "Do you think because you returned with new power, we'll forget how you were banished? You're rejected trash, a cast-out Omega, and now you come back, spreading tension throughout the pack!"

Alena looked into Caleb's eyes. She felt no fear, only exhaustion from the endless drama. She knew, her instincts knew, that Caleb wasn't challenging her out of heroism, but out of his own pain. Orion had crushed him in training, and Caleb needed a weaker target to vent his frustration.

Alena set her tray down on a nearby table with a soft thud. She didn't raise her hands, didn't summon her energy. She simply spoke, but every word that left her lips felt sharper than a dagger.

"Is this what you do when Alpha Orion makes you kneel? You look for someone weaker to intimidate?" Alena asked, her voice calm, but with a piercing, cold layer. "I saw you in the training yard. Orion hit you, not because of Draven, but because he's frustrated. And you, instead of challenging him, come here to challenge the 'rejected trash.'"

Caleb's face flushed. "You know nothing about loyalty!"

"I know about fear," Alena cut in. "I know about wolves who use loyalty as a shield, not as a principle. You are afraid of the power inside me, not because it can destroy the pack, but because it can destroy your image of yourself."

She stepped forward slightly, forcing him back half a step. It was a small psychological victory. Alena's eyes gleamed with brutal intelligence.

"I was cast out. I was rejected. I never pretended to be an angel, Caleb. But at least, I know what I want. I haven't spent my life trying to earn the approval of an Alpha who will never value you beyond your role as a second Beta."

The words hit Caleb harder than Orion's punch. Caleb's title as the strongest warrior was often overshadowed by Liam as the primary Beta, and Alena had just stabbed right into his solar plexus.

"Shut up, you witch!" Caleb roared, finally losing control and raising a hand as if to shove her.

Just at that moment, Alena did not move. She simply stared, allowing the raw, pulsing energy beneath her skin to permeate the room. It was not a physical threat, but a promise: if you touch me, the entire world will burn.

Several nearby warriors gasped and flinched back. Even Caleb, in all his rage, froze in mid-air. His hand hovered, trembling, caught between attacking and withdrawing. He didn't see the weak Alena; he saw something more ancient and more dangerous, using only her eyes as a weapon.

"You called me a weapon," Alena continued, her tone lowering, breaking the suffocating silence. "You are right. And I won't waste my ammunition on a threat that can't even control himself. Now, move out of my way. I'm hungry."

Caleb stood there, humiliated, angry, and most importantly, utterly defeated. He opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. He merely grunted, turned on his heel roughly, and walked away, disappearing into his now-silent throng of warriors.

The room erupted back into whispers, but this time, the tone was different. There was a measure of respect mixed with the fear. Alena had demonstrated that she possessed not only terrifying physical power; she also possessed a deadly wit and courage. She had won the first round of the psychological war.

Alena retrieved her tray. As she walked toward Lyra's table, she saw the Elder watching her, not with judgment, but with a look that was intensely sharp and calculating. Lyra seemed to have been waiting.

"You are brave," Lyra said, her voice dry as dead leaves, as Alena sat down opposite her.

"Bravery is a luxury, Lyra. I call it necessity," Alena countered, starting to eat, even though she felt nothing in her stomach. She had to maintain the facade of normalcy.

"You came for a reason. Not just for dinner, after every eye in the pack was on you," Lyra surmised, her wrinkled hand clutching her teacup.

Alena leaned forward, lowering her voice so only Lyra could hear. "I came to find out about my mother. And about a symbol. A symbol related to the ancient blood."

Lyra didn't flinch, but her old eyes narrowed, reflecting a surprising comprehension. "A symbol? Where did you see it?"

Alena knew she couldn't tell the truth—that the symbol was on an ancient parchment fragment she found. Lyra would demand it immediately.

"It was an emblem I saw in a vision, when my power first surged. It felt... old. Like before our time," Alena lied smoothly. "A circle with three curved lines meeting in the center, and the accompanying word: Primordial."

Lyra's expression shifted, her long-held composure cracking. She drew a sharp breath, and the teacup in her hand trembled slightly. "Primordial. That is not a word used by modern wolves, Alena. That is the language of the ancestors."

"What does it mean?" Alena urged.
Lyra looked around, ensuring no one was listening, though everyone had already returned to their conversations, afraid to get involved. "I will have to check the texts. There is a legend about... the Old Bloodline. Those who communicate directly with the Moon Goddess. But it's considered superstition, a bedtime story."

"Please find it, Lyra. I don't know what is inside me. But I know, whatever it is, Draven is looking for it too. He sent his eyes. He wants this power," Alena said, injecting truth into her lie.

Lyra stared at her, gauging her honesty. Finally, Lyra nodded slowly, her old head heavy. "I will look into it. Come to the west wing library tomorrow morning, before dawn. Just you and me. Bring no one."

"Thank you," Alena whispered, a cold relief spreading down her spine. She had gained an ally, albeit a reluctant and secretive one.

That night, back in her isolated room, the silence was deafening. Alena sat on her bed, replaying the verbal spar with Caleb. The words she used—so sharp, so precisely aimed at Caleb's deepest insecurity—were not her usual words. They felt alien, driven by a colder, more calculating emotion.

She took out the parchment fragment. Moonlight streaming through the small window fell directly onto the paper. The word PRIMORDIAL seemed to faintly glow. Alena touched it, and a wave of cold energy flowed through her finger.

She realized that since she found and carried this fragment, her vision had become clearer, but so too had her language skills, which now felt like sweetened poison. Was this power not just about summoning lightning or cracking the earth? Was it also about granting the ability to manipulate, to cut into others' souls with words?

As she considered this, the parchment's energy pulsed. Suddenly, she felt a powerful urge to tear it, to discard it, because she feared anything that could control her. But at the same time, she felt a stronger pull—the promise of knowledge and absolute control.

Right at the corner of the parchment's tear, where the paper ended, Alena saw something she hadn't noticed before. It was part of a longer inscription. Beneath the word PRIMORDIAL, there was a truncated letter, barely visible, but clear enough to read: 'D'.

Lyra would help her find the truth about her lineage. But Lyra didn't know that this fragment was only one piece of the puzzle. And tonight, Alena was certain that the torn piece hadn't ended in the woods, but in the hands of another.

Alena turned the paper over, trembling. The rough, torn edge felt like a razor blade. She observed the tearing pattern, sharp and uneven, and realized she held the irregular edge, while the missing piece might be much larger, much more significant. This torn fragment was a map, and if the truncated letter 'D' was the beginning of a name, then she wasn't just searching for knowledge—she was being hunted by the one who held the rest.

The torn paper now felt hot in her hand, a compass pointing straight toward an invisible threat.