Alaric and Jamie Return
The tension in the war room was suffocating as Alaric and Jamie entered, their faces etched with weariness and frustration. The faint smell of the wilds clung to them, mingling with the cold air of Crimson Fang’s stone walls. Isla and Draven stood at the head of the room, their expressions a mixture of hope and dread.
Alaric placed a weathered map on the table, the edges curling from weeks of use. His golden eyes met Isla’s as he spoke, his voice low and heavy. “We’ve covered every lead, every whisper. Questioned rogues, scoured alliances, and combed through forbidden territories. There’s nothing, Isla. No trace of Micah, the twins, or whoever took them.”
Jamie, standing beside him, nodded grimly. “It’s like they vanished into thin air,” she added, her tone sharp with frustration. “Even the wolves we questioned—those who’d usually sell out their own packs for coin—didn’t know anything.”
Draven leaned over the table, his claws pressing into the wood as his amber eyes scanned the map. “Nothing doesn’t make sense,” he growled, his voice edged with fury. “No one just vanishes.”
Alaric straightened, his expression hardening. “It doesn’t add up because it’s not natural. Whoever did this is covering their tracks with something far beyond the ordinary. Magic, or worse.”
The word hung in the air like a storm cloud. Isla’s chest tightened, her silver eyes narrowing. “Unnatural,” she echoed, her voice trembling with both anger and certainty. “Eira. She’s the only one with that kind of power. She’s behind this—I know it.”
Draven’s jaw clenched as he slammed a hand on the table, the sound echoing through the room. “Then we stop wasting time out there,” he growled. “If the answers aren’t in the wilds, they’re closer than we thought.”
The room fell into a tense silence as Isla stared at the map, her resolve hardening. “We bring them home,” she whispered.
