The Silvercrest Pack House vibrated with restless energy, as if the walls themselves felt the tension brewing beneath Alpha Roran's skin. He paced across his office, half feral, the air dense with the scent of frustration. Every step thudded like a threat.
"Nothing," he growled, slamming both palms onto his desk. "Nothing from Blackridge. No retaliation. No warning. No messenger. They're toying with me."
Beta Garrick stood by the door, his shoulders stiff, jaw tight. He had anticipated this storm—Roran never handled silence well. Especially from an enemy he expected to bite back.
"Alpha," Garrick said carefully, "perhaps that's the point. Kael Thorn wants you to strike first."
Roran snapped his head toward him, eyes gleaming with irritation. "Do you think I'm a fool? Do you think I don't know what that brute of an Alpha wants?"
"I think," Garrick answered steadily, "that Kael is unpredictable. And waiting could be a strategy, not cowardice."
Roran scoffed. "Waiting? From Kael? He's known for crushing obstacles the moment they breathe wrong. If Elara was truly theirs, they would have stormed our walls last night."
A flicker—panic, guilt, anger—crossed Roran's gaze. He hated the idea that he might have miscalculated Blackridge's intentions. Or worse, that Kael wasn't reacting because he already had an advantage Roran couldn't see.
Garrick braced himself. Roran's pride was a dangerous beast.
"Perhaps," the Beta offered slowly, "they recovered the girl already."
Roran froze.
It was a moment—sharp and cold—before the Alpha inhaled.
"Impossible."
A second inhale.
"Impossible, Garrick."
Garrick held his tongue. The Alpha was spiraling.
"They would need someone inside," Roran continued, pacing again. "Someone foolish enough—weak enough—to betray their own pack."
The Beta swallowed. A shadow of Amara's bruised face passed in his memory. He hid it quickly.
Roran stopped again, eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Someone like—"
Before he could finish, the door burst open.
A young omega, trembling, holding a sealed scroll.
"Alpha R—Roran," she stammered. "A message… from the Higher Table."
The room fell silent.
Even the air seemed to recoil.
Garrick's stomach dropped.
The Higher Table—the Great Elders, the governing council of all wolf packs—did not send messages lightly. When they intervened, it was either to stop a disaster or punish one.
Roran snatched the scroll and tore it open. His eyes swept over the lines once… twice… then again, rage and fear sharpening each breath.
"What did they say?" Garrick asked quietly.
Roran's hands shook.
"They said," Roran hissed, "that there has been… talk. Rumors. That Silvercrest has acted against a wolf with an unclaimed divine mark."
Garrick's heart punched against his ribs.
They knew.
"They warned," Roran continued, voice dropping into something close to a snarl, "that harming a blessed wolf is an offense of the highest degree. That any… mishandling… of such an individual will force them to intervene. Personally."
Even Roran, drunk on ego and greed, understood what that meant.
The Higher Table could strip an Alpha of his title.
Could dissolve a pack.
Could eradicate a bloodline.
The Alpha's face drained of color.
"This is your fault," he snapped suddenly, turning on Garrick. "You should have stopped the Elders from spreading anything. Or the omegas. Or whoever opened their stupid mouths!"
Garrick held his ground. "With respect, Alpha, the pack is restless. They saw her dragged to the dungeon. They saw the Elders rushing a marriage arrangement. Humans gossip less."
Roran bared his teeth.
"And now you expect me to abandon my plans?" he growled. "Elara belongs to Silvercrest. Her power—"
"Her power," Garrick interrupted with rare boldness, "is the reason the Higher Table is watching us."
Silence.
Cold.
Heavy.
Roran's eyes twitched, fury trembling beneath the surface, but even he understood Garrick's logic.
If the Higher Table believed Elara had a divine blessing, or a rare lineage, they would never allow her to be used as a tool. They would protect her—actively, aggressively.
"Alpha," Garrick said gently, shifting tactics, "right now… we should step back. Just a little. The council is watching. If we continue the marriage plan or make another move, they'll think we're trying to weaponize her."
Roran's nostrils flared.
He hated retreating.
Hated being told what to do.
Hated that the universe seemed to revolve around one girl he once dismissed as worthless.
But he also knew he couldn't afford the wrath of the Higher Table.
"Fine," he spat at last. "We pause. For now."
Garrick exhaled slowly.
Not victory.
Just survival.
Roran sank into his chair, rubbing his temples.
"But make no mistake," he murmured, eyes dark with obsession. "I will get her back. I don't care what it takes. I don't care who stands in my way."
Garrick bowed slightly, hiding the dread clawing up his spine.
Behind his calm exterior, his mind was racing.
Silvercrest was collapsing from the inside.
Roran was losing control.
And the Higher Table was circling like wolves scenting blood.