Ending the Tri-Pack War
Amber Whiteclaw stood before the twin coffins, her hands curled into fists at her sides. Her father's lips were twisted into a permanent grimace, his pride and stubbornness etched into death itself. Her mother lay beside him, her eyes stolen, sockets hollow reminders of cruelty.
Adonis shifted beside her, shoulders taut, jaw locked. He was her brother, her father's Beta—now hers. They had been forged together in this war, steel hammered on steel. Amber's breath came deep and measured, each inhale a battle, each exhale a command to her wolf not to break free.
She had not agreed with her father's choices. She had not agreed with this war at all. But to see him cut down by another's hand… that was sacrilege. No Whiteclaw would die except by their own choosing.
"We should tear down the hall," Adonis muttered, voice low so only she could hear. "Let the stones fall on the Darkhowl and Silvermoon both. They deserve nothing but ruin."
Amber's lips barely moved. "And what will we have left to lead? Ashes and bones?"
"They already made ashes of us." His amber eyes burned as he turned to her. "Don't tell me you mean to sit in silence while—"
"I mean," she cut him off, voice sharp as a blade, "to lead. Not to wallow like cubs robbed of milk. I am Alpha now. You are my Beta. We will not be broken."
For a moment they glared at one another, old sibling fire rising—but then Adonis inclined his head, the acknowledgment there. He would stand at her side, though his rage would simmer until blood quenched it.
The great doors groaned open behind them. The council awaited.
---
The war room smelled of salt and steel. Black stone walls pressed in around a long table carved from obsidian, its surface gleaming with faint torchlight. Elders, Thetas, Epsilons, and Omicrons filled the benches. All eyes lifted as Amber entered, her brother at her side.
One of her aunts—Sybella, from a side branch of the family—leaned forward first. Her smile was a thin cut across her face. "A girl Alpha. Perhaps your father should have prepared us better. Strength does not pass through blood alone."
A murmur ran through the chamber. Another elder, older than most of the fortress walls, added, "And grief makes the young reckless. Perhaps a steadier hand—"
Amber's wolf surged up in her, hot and wild. Her lips peeled back, revealing the lengthening points of her fangs. Her pupils burned molten gold. Claws slid from her fingertips with a metallic scrape against the table as she planted her hand flat upon it.
"Enough." Her voice cracked like thunder.
The murmurs died.
Amber's gaze swept the room, meeting each eye, daring each soul. "I am the Alpha of Starfire now. If any here believes they should stand in my place, they may fight me for it. Right here. Right now."
Her claws flexed. Her fangs glinted. No one moved.
Slowly, deliberately, she forced her wolf back into its cage. Her claws retracted, her features smoothed, though her golden eyes lingered, burning, before dimming again. She straightened, regal and commanding, and lowered herself into the Alpha's chair at the head of the table.
Silence weighed the room until at last an elder cleared his throat, his voice cracking with age. He reached for the jug of water before him, hand trembling. "The Psi have already spoken. They have seen it—Silvermoon falls, its proud line shattered. And the decadence of Darkhowl spreads like plague through their halls. Their rot will consume them."
Amber tilted her head, considering. Yes. She could believe that. Kristof had always hated her—perhaps even feared her—but his excesses, his greed, his hunger for pleasures would weaken him in the end.
A slow, malicious smile curled her lips. "Then this war's end is already assured. The only question left is how much blood must be spilled before it comes."
Not one soul dared answer.