The crisp morning air of the sanctuary clearing rang with the sharp song of steel. Connall drove forward, his practice sword a blur of controlled power aimed at his captain's chest. Cathal, a veteran whose scars told the story of a dozen campaigns, parried with an economy of motion that belied his strength. The impact was a jarring shockwave, a thunderclap of force that shot up Connall's arm to his shoulder.
"You're telegraphing your lunge," Cathal grunted, his feet already resetting on the packed earth. "You're thinking of the endpoint, not the path. It's leaving your left side open, my prince."
"My left side is your only opening," Connall countered, a grim smile touching his lips as he circled, the tip of his blade never wavering. "It's an invitation."
"A foolish one," Cathal rumbled, but his eyes held a glimmer of approval. He was testing not just Connall's skill, but his temperament. A king had to be more than strong; he had to be cunning.
Before Connall could press the attack, a desperate shout ripped through the clearing, shredding the morning's disciplined rhythm. A scout, Fendrel, stumbled from the forest path, his face a ghastly mask of exhaustion, his leg dragging uselessly behind him. He didn't make it to the center of the yard, collapsing against the rough bark of a pine, his chest heaving with ragged, painful breaths.
"Fendrel!" Connall was at his side in three long strides, his practice sword forgotten in the dirt. Cathal was a step behind, his own blade sheathed in a single, fluid motion.
"Patrol," the scout gasped, his hand clamped white-knuckled around his thigh where dark blood had soaked through his leather trousers. "Bloodfang. A full dozen of them. They're sweeping the eastern woods." He coughed, a wet, rattling sound. "Less than a day's ride from here."
A cold stillness, heavy and absolute, settled over the clearing. The illusion of safety they had clung to for weeks evaporated into the cold air. "Are they lost?" Connall asked, the words feeling hollow even as he said them. He knew the answer.
Fendrel shook his head, his eyes wide with a terror that went deeper than his wounds. "No. It's a search grid. Methodical, patient. They're closing the net." He swallowed hard, the sound raw in the sudden quiet, his gaze finding Cathal. "It's Stigr. Beta Stigr is leading them."
At the name, Cathal's weathered face turned to granite. A low, dangerous sound rumbled in his chest. "Stigr doesn't track," the captain said, his voice a hard, unforgiving thing. "He unearths. I once saw him follow a man for two days across sun-baked rock where not even a lizard could leave a trail. If he has our scent, he will not rest. He will not eat. He will tear this forest apart one tree at a time until he finds us."
***
Drawn by the sudden spike of alarm that lanced through the camp, Althea emerged from the main longhouse. She moved with a quiet purpose, her senses already mapping the scene: the wounded scout, the grim-faced warriors, and the coiled fury emanating from Connall—a feeling she recognized as intimately as her own heartbeat through their bond. She listened to the last of Fendrel's report, her face a mask of intense concentration.
When the scout fell silent, she stepped forward, her gaze fixed on Connall, ignoring the suspicious stares of the others. "I know him," she stated, her voice clear and steady, cutting through the rising fear. "I know how Stigr thinks. He's arrogant. He favors the old, forgotten hunting trails along the northern ridges because he believes his knowledge is unique. He won't expect us to use them."
She took another step, her presence commanding the space around her. "Let me take a small party. Two others, no more. We can lay a false trail, a convincing one that plays to his pride. We'll lead him on a chase so far north it will take him a week to realize he's been chasing ghosts."
"No." The word was a sharp crack from Cathal. He physically moved to stand between Althea and Connall, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. His distrust was a palpable force, a shield raised against her. "It's a perfect trap."
His voice dropped, but it was pitched to carry to every listening warrior in the clearing. "She is Bloodfang born. This is a ruse. A way to lead our Alpha, our only hope, into a prepared ambush." He looked directly at Connall, his eyes pleading. "My prince, we lost your father because we trusted those who wore a friendly face. Do not let her lead you down that same path."
A low murmur of agreement rippled through the assembled royalists. Suspicious eyes, once softened by weeks of shared struggle, hardened as they fell upon Althea. The old fears, the deep-seated hatred of her bloodline, had returned with a vengeance.
Althea didn't flinch. She held her ground, her gaze never leaving Connall's, silently begging him to see past their prejudice. "Waiting is the trap, Connall! Hiding in this forest is the one thing Stigr expects. He is too good to simply miss us. Discovery is not a risk; it is an absolute certainty." Her voice rose with passion, a desperate, defiant fire. "My plan is a gamble, but it gives us a chance to control our fate. Cathal's caution offers only a slow, certain death. You have to trust me."
***
A heavy, suffocating silence descended on the clearing. Every warrior, every scout, every soul in the sanctuary held their breath, their eyes locked on their prince. Connall stood frozen between two impossible poles. To his right was Cathal, the embodiment of his father's army, of military reason and the bitter, bloody lessons of their past. To his left was Althea, the face of a dangerous future, a fated bond that defied all logic, her plea a raw cry of instinct.
He felt the conflict tear through him. Cathal's logic was sound, forged in loyalty and loss. Protect the pack. Barricade the den. It was the safe play, the one his father would have made. But the bond, that undeniable current between them, screamed a different truth. It wasn't just her words; it was the fierce, unwavering certainty he felt pouring from her, a torrent of conviction that drowned out the whispers of doubt. He saw past her Bloodfang name to the strategist beneath, the she-wolf who knew her enemy's mind.
A new thought crystallized, sharp and clear as glass. True leadership wasn't about avoiding risk. It was about choosing the *right* risk. Hiding was the choice of the hunted. Attacking, even with a feint, was the choice of a predator.
He raised a hand. The murmuring stopped instantly.
"Cathal," he said, his voice calm but resonant. "Your caution is wise, and it comes from loyalty. But it is the caution of the hunted. We will not wait for the wolf to come to our door."
He turned, giving Althea his full, undivided attention. His gaze was intense, a burning affirmation that silenced every doubt in the clearing. It was a public declaration, a shield he placed around her. He saw the flicker of shocked hope in her eyes as he made his decision, taking her gamble and making it entirely his own.
"Pick two of your best scouts, Cathal," he commanded, his voice ringing with a finality that left no room for debate. "You and I will ride with our Luna. We leave within the hour."