The main cavern of the hidden sanctuary was a cage of tension. Cathal and two other Silvermoon loyalists stood armed, their stances aggressive, their energy a low hum of violence waiting to be unleashed. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and hot steel.
"A pre-emptive strike is our only move," Cathal insisted, his knuckles white on the hilt of his sword. His gaze was fixed on Connall, burning with impatient loyalty. "We hit them now, hard and fast, before they get the scent of the main entrance. Letting them get closer is suicide."
Althea stepped forward, her calm a stark contrast to the warriors' barely-leashed aggression. "A direct fight is a mistake," she said, her voice even but carrying an authority that made the men pause. "It's exactly what they want. It confirms our presence, our numbers, and our location. You'll be fighting every patrol Guntram can muster by week's end."
She turned her attention fully to Connall, her eyes dark and serious. "I can lead them away. I know their lead tracker, his patterns, the specific scent markers he trusts. I can lay a false trail so convincing he'll thank the Moon Goddess for the lead, and it will take him miles east on a futile chase."
Cathal scoffed, a raw, ugly sound. "A Bloodfang witch's trick," he spat, the words dripping with venom. He took a step toward Connall, his expression a mask of desperate appeal. "My prince, this is a choice of loyalty. Trust your own sworn swords, the wolves who bled for your father? Or the word of the one whose pack put him in the ground?"
The other loyalists shifted, their agreement a silent, heavy weight in the cavern. Their eyes, like chips of flint, pinned Connall, demanding the answer they already knew was right.
"Enough." Connall's command was sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. The cavern fell silent. He looked from Cathal's furious, pleading face to Althea's steady, strategic gaze. Cathal offered a bloody, uncertain battle. Althea offered a risk, a gambit built on knowledge he couldn't deny she possessed. She was not a Bloodfang witch, but a weapon his enemies had unknowingly handed him. His decision was instant.
"We do it her way."
Cathal stared, stunned into silence. A look of raw betrayal flashed across his face before a cold, furious mask replaced it. He gave a sharp, brutal nod that bordered on insubordination. He felt the warmth of their loyalty extinguish, leaving the air frigid with resentment as the other warriors lowered their swords, their eyes sliding away from his.
***
Night fell on the forest like a black shroud. Every snap of a twig, every rustle of leaves was magnified in the oppressive silence. Connall moved behind Althea, a shadow tracking a shadow. She took the lead without a word, her focus absolute. She crushed a cluster of moon-herbs and smeared them on a tree trunk, the scent mimicking a lone, wounded rogue. She broke a series of branches in a distinct, three-part pattern, a signature she claimed the patrol leader favored. At the edge of a shallow creek, she scooped up handfuls of thick mud and handed him a portion, a silent command to smear it over his boots and erase their own scent. With each clever deception, his apprehension bled away, replaced by a grudging respect.
A low whistle, like a nightjar's call, echoed through the trees. Too close.
They froze, melting into the deep shadow of a rocky outcrop. The proximity of the hunters ignited the volatile bond between them. It was a flash fire of agony. A thousand tiny, sharp needles seemed to erupt under Connall's skin, a chaotic static that threatened to cripple him. Althea's back arched, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a gasp.
He reached for her, pulling her back against the cold stone, their bodies pressed together. It wasn't enough. The pain intensified, a nauseating wave of pure energy tearing them apart from the inside. They needed more. They needed to be closer. It was a primal, non-negotiable command from their very blood.
His hands found the laces of her tunic, his fingers fumbling in a frantic race against the agony. She understood instantly, her own hands working at the buckles of his trousers. He pushed her against the rough bark of an ancient oak, her leathers parting under his urgent hands. She wrapped her legs around his waist, an instinct born of pain, pulling him closer.
He found her entrance, slick and ready. Positioning himself, he covered her mouth with his own, swallowing the cry that tore from her as he pushed inside in one deep, desperate, grounding stroke. The chaotic agony in their blood was annihilated, replaced by a clean, searing heat that was pure connection.
He held himself still, buried deep inside her, forehead pressed to hers. Their breath mingled, hot and ragged. A low murmur, the patrol leader's voice, drifted from just beyond the rocks. Every muscle in Connall's body screamed to move, to claim her in the way his wolf demanded, but he held rigid.
She shifted beneath him, a tiny, involuntary writhe. The friction was exquisite torture. A choked sob of both pleasure and despair vibrated against his lips. He felt her inner walls clench around him, a silent plea he couldn't deny. He began to move, slow, deep strokes that were utterly silent but sent shockwaves through their joined bodies. This wasn't a choice. It was survival. It was destiny. And it was a betrayal of everything they were supposed to be.
The patrol leader gave a sharp command, and the sound of their footsteps receded, heading east. As the danger passed, the last thread of Connall's control snapped. He drove into her one last time, a guttural sound torn from his throat as he poured his release deep inside her. Her own climax was a silent, shuddering wave, her body convulsing around him. They pulled apart, hastily dressing in the charged, heavy quiet, the intimacy of their act clinging to them more tightly than the forest scents.
From the ridge, they watched the patrol's torchlight follow the false trail. Althea allowed herself a small, grim smile of victory, one tainted by a far more complicated triumph.
***
When they returned to the sanctuary's entrance, the remaining loyalists were waiting, their anxiety a tangible scent in the air. The news of their success sent a wave of relief through the small group. Cathal stepped forward, his face a mask of carved stone. He ignored Connall, his gaze locking directly onto Althea.
"Your Bloodfang tricks saved us tonight," he said, his voice low and laced with a profound reluctance. "But a blade that sharp cuts its wielder if they aren't careful. This doesn't change what you are." He turned without another word and stalked back into the shadows.
The immediate tension was broken, but Althea's expression remained troubled.
"What is it?" Connall asked, his own voice rougher than he intended.
She didn't answer right away, instead retrieving something from a small pouch on her belt. She held it out on her palm: a small, crudely carved piece of wood, weathered and dark with age.
"This is a Bloodfang survey marker," she explained, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "It's old. From before my father… before the coup. They weren't just sweeping for rogues, Connall."
She looked up, her eyes meeting his, the victory of the night completely forgotten, replaced by a new and chilling certainty.
"They were looking for something specific. Something they believe is hidden in this territory."