Moonlight cut through the trees in hard silver slashes as the sound of hooves and armored men shattered the forest's uneasy quiet. A carriage, flanked by tall, dark-clad riders, rolled into the clearing, and at its head stood the Alpha of Ravenmoon, tall and composed as a carved statue.
Lucien Hale's presence alone seemed to pull the night taut. His eyes were steel, his voice low and precise as he took in the scene. Bodies lay scattered among the ferns, assassins crumpled in grotesque poses, some still breathing in shallow, ragged gasps, others already drained of life.
The air smelled of iron and smoke, of fear and haste. In the center of it all was a single, ragged shape, a man half-hidden by mud and blood, unconscious and broken on the cold earth. Lucien's gaze slid over the stranger once, then twice, lingering on the foreign lines of his face, on the way his chest rose and fell with shallow, stubborn breaths.
But the thing that tightened Lucien's jaw was the absence of the child. The little boy who should have been here, the boy for whom they had sent guards and prayers, was nowhere in sight. Lucien's lips thinned. He turned, cold and immediate.
"Search," he ordered, every syllable like a blade. "Split into pairs. Take the ravine and the northern trail. Do not spare them. Kill any who resist, and leave no trail unturned."
A captain saluted, already barking commands. Riders melted into the trees like shadows obeying a single dark will, leaving Lucien standing amid the carnage.
He crouched beside the motionless man and lifted his chin to study him, the rough hands, the ragged breath, the faint scent of herbs, and the metallic tang of blood. There was a stubbornness to the stranger, an injured animal refusing to let go. Lucien's expression softened, only a fraction, before the steel returned.
"Bring him," he said to the nearest guard. "He is not the one we hunt tonight."
The men moved with efficient, silent brutality. Two guards rolled the unconscious man into a cloak and hoisted him between them. As they began to carry him towards the carriage, Lucien gave one last command, voice low and uncompromising.
"Continue the search until dawn. Kill every assassin you find. Sweep the forest. We will not leave a blade of grass untouched until my son is found."
As the riders vanished into the black like knives through cloth, the carriage's lanterns cast a small, shaky pool of light over the fallen.
Lucien stepped back into the shadows and watched them go, every muscle coiled for news that would not come easily. The forest swallowed the echoes of hooves, and for a long moment, he stood alone with the injured stranger, a borrowed heartbeat in the hush before the hunt resumed.
The forest was restless. The night wind carried the scent of blood, damp leaves, and smoke from distant torches. Ravens scattered as the Ravenmoon warriors advanced, their armor whispering against the brush.
Lucien Hale, Alpha of the strongest pack in the northern lands, stood motionless at the edge of the clearing, head tilted, listening.
His men had spread wide, their howls and shouts echoing through the trees. Still no sign of his son. His heart, though disciplined and cold, beat harder beneath his chest. He could almost hear the faint laughter of a small boy echoing from memory, his only child, his heir.
Then, from the dark came a voice, "Alpha! We found him!"
Lucien's head snapped up. The sound came from the eastern ridge. He moved fast, a blur in the shadows, boots crunching over fallen branches until he reached the call.
There, under the shelter of a broken log and tangled roots, one of the soldiers knelt. In his arms, a small figure stirred, a boy, barely five years old, his blonde curls tangled with leaves, his face streaked with dirt and faint bruises. His eyes, when they fluttered open, were the exact same blue as the Alpha's, clear, cold, and piercing even through tears.
"Father…" the boy croaked softly, his small hands reaching.
Lucien dropped to one knee beside him, the harsh lines of command softening for the first time that night. He swept the boy into his arms, cradling him close, his hand running down the child's back to check for injuries. The boy whimpered, but he was alive, breathing, warm, whole.
"Minor bruises," the healer confirmed after a quick inspection. "He must have fallen when the carriage was ambushed. No broken bones."
Lucien exhaled, the tension bleeding from his shoulders in a rare, human moment of relief.
"Good," he murmured, pressing his forehead briefly against the boy's hair. His voice dropped, deep and cold again, as he looked at his warriors. "Take him to the carriage. Double the guard. None of the assassins leaves this forest alive."
"Yes, Alpha."
As the boy was carried away, still half-asleep in the guard's arms, Lucien's eyes drifted back toward the man they had found earlier, the battered stranger his men had hauled into the carriage. He had risked his life in this blood-soaked forest, near where his son was found.
Coincidence? Or fate's strange hand?
Lucien's gaze darkened.
"And make sure the wounded man survives," he ordered quietly. "I want to know who he is, and why the blood of assassins stains his hands."
The moon hung high above, casting pale light over the carnage. The Alpha stood in silence for a long moment, his son safe, his mind turning, not just on vengeance, but on the unknown man who had crossed his path in the night.
A stranger who may have saved his heir… or been the reason they nearly lost him.
The following morning, a soft warmth pressed against Devon's skin.
For a moment, he thought he was dreaming, that the cold forest, the blood, and the endless pain were all fading into something unreal. But then the faint scent of herbs and smoke reached his nose, and he realized this wasn't the forest at all.
He blinked.
Above him was a ceiling of dark wood, smooth and clean, lit by the steady glow of lanterns. A window stood open nearby, curtains fluttering gently with the night breeze. Somewhere outside, he could hear faint voices, disciplined, distant, not the mocking tones of Redstone packmates.