Jamie's POV
The Horn of Sorrow hadn't just rung through Furstone—it had shattered it.
Its echoes still clawed at the walls of my mind, a sound so final it felt like the end of a legacy… and the beginning of something darker.
Alpha Jackson's body lay cold on the earth.
His blood mixed with the soil, his lifeless eyes still half open… still staring like he hadn't finished speaking.
Andrew hadn't moved.
He was still kneeling beside him, one hand pressed against his father's chest like he could somehow hold the life in.
But it was gone.
He was gone.
And me?
I stood there trembling—not from fear, but from fury.
From heartbreak.
From the weight of everything now resting on my shoulders.
We had won the battle… but what kind of victory leaves your strongest man dead?
I could feel every eye on me.
Patrol guards bruised, bloodied, half-shifted. The Warriors are trying not to fall apart.
They were looking at me like I had answers. Like, I was already Alpha.
But all I had was grief… and rage.
"Get the fallen home," I said.
The words came out raw, hoarse. Like, I didn't recognise my voice.
But they moved. They listened.
Because they needed someone to.
We brought him home wrapped in silence.
Not even the wind dared to speak.
By the time we reached the packhouse, the entire territory felt… different.
Darker. Colder. Like Furstone was mourning, too.
Andrew hadn't said a word since the battlefield. He disappeared inside the Alpha wing of the estate and didn't come back out.
So, I did what needed to be done.
I checked on the wounded. I walked through the halls like a ghost with a spine of steel, making sure the pack didn't crumble under the weight of what we lost.
I held a mother whose son didn't make it. I reassured a child whose father was still missing.
I didn't cry.
I couldn't.
Because leaders don't get to break in public.
But when night came, and the doors were shut behind me, I did.
I fell to my knees in the shower, hands bloody, water burning, and I cried until my wolf stirred again.
He didn't howl. He didn't rage.
He just… watched.
Like he knew this wasn't the end of something—this was the start.
Meanwhile...
Oona
The horn had barely faded when Maelin grinned.
"It's done," he said with dark satisfaction, swirling a glass of something red and vile. "Alpha Jackson's dead."
She didn't answer immediately.
Because she wanted to feel joy.
She wanted this to be a win.
But all I felt was dread.
"And the boy?" She asked carefully.
Maelin scoffed. "Alive. Unfortunately. But not for long. We've cut off the head. The rest will fall."
Her fingers twitched. She hid them behind her back.
He didn't know.
He didn't know what she'd done. What was she still doing
He didn't know about the seed she'd planted.
He didn't know she didn't want the Jackson line gone.
She wanted it… bonded.
Specifically, to her daughter.
So she smiled. "Then… may your plans succeed."
But inside, she was already plotting a way out.
Because Maelin's rise meant ruin.
And she had no intention of going down with him.
*****
Back in Furstone
Three days later, we laid Alpha Jackson to rest beneath the Iron Tree, where only the Alphas of Furstone go.
The ancient bark was silvered with age, and its twisted roots had carried the legacy of bloodlines long gone. Today, they would carry his.
The entire pack turned out for him.
No one spoke. Not even the wind.
Even the pups, who didn't understand death yet, were still—like something sacred was passing through.
Andrew stood beside me, dressed in black, his face hollow but his spine… unbroken. He hadn't cried in public. He wouldn't.
But I'd seen him break.
I'd felt it.
And now, as we stood together at the edge of that grave, I felt something else rising from him. Something old. Something Alpha.
He looked at me once—only once-and nodded.
Together, we stepped forward and lowered the final branch of Furstone's greatest Alpha into the earth as the priestess whispered the rites.
Off to our left, Ann stood like carved stone.
She wore her warrior's leathers, a black band tied around her arm, and her sword strapped to her back even at the funeral.
Her face didn't crack. Her tears didn't fall.
But her silence… screamed.
She didn't need to sob. Didn't need to speak.
Just the fire in her stance, the clench of her jaw, the way her eyes never left her father's casket—that told me everything.
She was mourning the only way a warrior could. By standing. By remembering.
And when I caught her gaze across the crowd, she gave me a subtle nod.
We were in this together.
She had my back.
As she always had.
Next to her stood Laurette, Jackson's eldest.
She arrived the night before with her mate, a stoic Alpha-in-training from a distant allied pack.
Her eyes scanned the crowd like a soldier counting enemies, but when they landed on me, on Andrew and me side by side, something flickered.
Surprise?
Uncertainty?
Resentment?
I couldn't tell. But she said nothing.
Just stood there, a storm brewing behind her otherwise calm demeanour.
Her mate rested a hand on her lower back, grounding her, but I could tell—Laurette didn't like what Furstone had become in her absence.
And maybe… she didn't like me in it.
To the side, Caroline stood among the mourners, eyes red, lips pressed tightly.
She looked the part of a grieving friend.
And yet… a chill curled through my spine when our gazes met.
There was something there. Something she was hiding.
I didn't know what yet, but my wolf stirred like it sensed a shift in the shadows.
And Caroline looked away too quickly.
After the rites ended and the body was lowered, the pack slowly began to disperse, whispering prayers, promises, and goodbyes.
Andrew stayed behind, kneeling before the grave with Ann beside him, their hands clutching each other like lifelines.
Laurette said nothing still.
But her eyes never left the tree.
I turned to leave, only to be pulled aside by one of the surviving patrol guards. His face was pale, hands were trembling as he reached into his coat.
"I saw something," he said lowly, eyes flicking around. "One of the rogues… he wore something under his fur. A crest. Not Rufus."
I frowned. "What kind of crest?"
He handed me a bloodied scrap of torn cloth.
The symbol etched into the fabric was jagged and strange. Unfamiliar. But it made my skin crawl.
It wasn't Rufus.
It was something older. Something more… deliberate.
Like it had teeth.
Like it had eyes.
A symbol that didn't just speak of violence—it commanded it.
My grip on the fabric tightened.
This wasn't some rogue ambush.
This was a message.
A warning.
And maybe even… a declaration of war.
If what I suspected was true, then Rufus was just a pawn.
And someone else—something bigger-was—was pulling the strings of this war.
I stayed behind after the burial.
Everyone else returned home.
I stood alone before the grave of a man who had called me son… and meant it.
I whispered, "I'll lead them right. I swear it."
The wind moved then. Not cold. Not harsh.
Just… still.
But before I could leave, a shadow moved behind me.
Councilman Rhys.
He looked pale. Scared. Almost breathless.
"There's been movement," he said.
I turned slowly. "Where?"
"South border," he rasped. "Rufus territory."
My spine tensed. "What kind of movement?"
Rhys swallowed hard. "Someone has claimed the Alpha seat of Rufus. Said the name aloud."
I stepped forward. "Whose name?"
His eyes locked on mine.
"Cassian," he whispered.
"And he says he's coming for Furstone."