The morning after Darius's appearance felt like waking from a fever dream—except the ache between my thighs and the fresh claw marks on my palms proved it real.
I avoided the central fire, sticking to the edges of camp. Rogues whispered; word traveled fast. Kira found me sharpening a blade near the training ring, her expression unreadable.
"He came for you," she said flatly. Not accusation—just fact.
I nodded, not meeting her eyes. "He scented the pup. Offered to 'ease' my heat."
Kira snorted. "And you didn't rip his throat out?"
"I almost did." My voice cracked. "But my wolf… hesitated."
She sat beside me on a fallen log, unusually gentle. "The bond doesn't die easy. Especially not when you're carrying his blood. But hesitation can kill us all."
She pulled a small, worn leather pouch from her belt. Inside: a faded parchment scroll, edges crumbling. She unrolled it carefully.
"Silver lineage markings," she explained. "I traded a rogue trader for this last winter. Look."
The drawing showed a she-wolf with a crescent-and-claw symbol on her chest—identical to mine. Below: ancient script I couldn't read, but symbols of moons, shadows, and crowns.
"Moon Priestess descendants," Kira continued. "They could command shadows, link minds across distances, heal packs with a touch. But power like that draws enemies. Packs hunted them to near extinction. Your mark appeared after rejection—trauma triggered it. The pup might carry it too."
My hand drifted to my belly. A soft kick answered, almost in affirmation.
"If it's true," I whispered, "I'm not just surviving. I'm… meant for more."
Kira rolled the scroll. "Meant to lead. Or destroy. Train it. Control it. Because if Darius knows you're rising—he'll come harder next time."
Training intensified. Ronan sparred with me daily—his quiet strength a steady anchor. Lira and Mara taught stealth; Tor and Gage showed brute force counters. I practiced shifting mid-motion, calling shadows to cloak myself (at first just faint wisps, then denser veils). My wolf grew bolder: We command. They obey.
One afternoon, during a mind-link drill, something snapped open. I reached—not with words, but intent. Ronan froze mid-punch, eyes wide.
"Your voice… in my head," he said, awed. "Clear as if you spoke aloud."
Kira watched from the ridge. "Shadow command and pack link. It's awakening."
That night, around the fire, I shared the lineage truth. No secrets. Rogues listened—some skeptical, others hopeful.
Sev, the young girl, spoke up. "If you're priestess blood… you could unite us. Make a real pack. No alphas throwing us away."
Murmurs rose. Kira raised a hand for silence.
"We're Forsaken," she said. "But if Elara leads… we follow."
Eyes turned to me. I stood, heart pounding.
"I won't promise safety," I said. "But I promise no one here gets rejected again. We rise together. Or we fall fighting."
Cheers erupted—raw, hungry. For the first time, Forgotten Camp felt like the seed of something unbreakable.
But sleep brought no peace.
The bond flared—hotter, sharper. Visions: Darius pacing his study, maps marked with rogue sightings. His beta reporting: "The leader's a black wolf female. Pregnant. Matches the banished omega."
Darius's fist clenched. "Elara."
His voice—tortured. Regret? Obsession?
I woke gasping, skin feverish again. Heat echoes lingered, body aching for his touch.
My wolf snarled: He suffers too. Good.
But deep down, a traitorous whisper: He's ours.
I pressed fists to my eyes. Revenge first.
The bond could wait.
End Of Chapter 7