The glass nearly shattered under my fingers. The blue outside thickened, turning into an inky murk that swallowed the silhouettes of the watchtowers.
"Sector Five," Damian threw the crumpled report onto the oak table. "They passed through the crevice by the stream. The very one we reinforced three days ago."
I didn't turn around. The scent of burning candles mingled with his overly calm, calculated aroma of pine.
"A coincidence?"
"Three times in a week is a strategy, Cale. They know the shift schedules. They know where our blind spots are during the rotations."
I spun around abruptly, bunching the heavy fabric of my cloak. The wolf inside stirred, clawing at my ribs from within. He didn't like this tone. He didn't like Damian.
"Who was on duty in the west wing the night of the leak?"
"The same as always. Loyal wolves. Proven over the years." Damian approached the window, stopping at the very edge of my personal space. "The leak isn't in the ranks. The informant is in the castle. Someone who hears conversations in the corridors. Someone... new."
"Speak plainly, Damian. I don't have time for your wordplay."
"The Omega."
"She is locked away."
"Doors are just wood and iron." He shrugged, glancing at his perfectly clean nails. "Information is smoke. It seeps through the cracks. You've harbored a Silverclaw snake against your chest, and now you're surprised their patrols bypass us like ghosts?"
"She knows nothing of the crevice."
"She knows you." Damian looked up, a calculating spark glinting in his eyes. "And through you, she knows everything. The bond is a two-way street, Alpha. Or have you forgotten how she tried to steal the keys? Or that ambush at the stream, when we nearly lost half the squad?"
I grabbed him by the collar of his doublet, jerking him upward. The leather creaked.
"You forget yourself."
"I am the only one telling you the truth while you're drooling over her scent." He didn't even flinch. "Will you increase the guard?"
"Remove the men from the west wing corridors. Completely."
Damian narrowed his eyes, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touching his lips.
"Leaving her a path?"
"I'm leaving her the rope to hang herself with. Post a double perimeter outside the walls. If she tries to send word—I want the head of whoever receives it."
"As you wish, Alpha."
He left without looking back. The door slammed shut with a heavy thud, leaving me in a silence that smelled of burning and my own paranoia.
"Kill her," the wolf growled. "Sever this thread. She is draining our strength. She is rot."
I sank into the chair, closing my eyes. In the darkness of my mind's eye, a thin, barely visible thread pulsed. Golden-grey, it stretched somewhere downward, into the dungeons, to her. I felt her steady, weak breath. I sensed her dull, submissive despondency.
Or was it a masquerade?
"You're happy, aren't you?" I whispered into the empty office. "You can feel your brothers drawing closer."
The thread did not answer. Only a slight flicker, like a draft.
I focused on that connection. I didn't want warmth. I didn't want her fragile submission. I gathered all my irritation toward Damian, all the fury from the failed patrols, and that sticky, suffocating jealousy burning my insides. I compressed it into a single, dense, white-hot mass.
"See what happens to traitors."
I struck the bond. Sharply, without warning, pouring concentrated pain and rage directly into her consciousness.
The silence of the office exploded with her scream—not a sound, but a mental surge of pure agony. I felt her lungs spasm. Her heart skipped a beat, then hammered in the frantic rhythm of a cornered bird.
A wave of her terror washed over me. Cold and oily, it tasted of steel and cellar dampness.
I didn't stop. I pressed harder, relishing the way she writhed at the other end of that invisible chain. My own fingers trembled; an itch woke in my claws. This was better than wine. Better than victory in battle. Absolute power over another's suffering.
"You won't be smiling at your spies anymore."
When I finally broke the contact, a ringing hum lingered in my head for a long time. I was breathing heavily, feeling sweat roll down my back.
I stood up and went to the door. My legs carried me down of their own accord, past empty posts, past guards frozen in the shadows.
At the door of her cell, two soldiers snapped to attention, nearly pressing themselves into the stonework. I snatched the key from one of them, nearly flaying the skin from his palm.
The lock clicked.
The cell was cold. Alina lay on the floor, curled into such a tight ball she looked like a broken doll. Her grey dress was hiked up, revealing pale, scratched knees. She was shivering violently, and that sound—the chattering of teeth—was the only noise in the room.
I stepped close. The shadow of my cloak covered her entirely.
"Get up."
She didn't move. Only a convulsive breath, like a sob.
I leaned down and grabbed her by the hair, jerking her up. She shrieked, clutching at my hand with thin fingers. Her palms were ice-cold.
"Look at me."
I squeezed her chin so hard that white spots remained on her cheeks. Her face was grey. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead, and her lip was bitten through—a thin trickle of blood had already dried, leaving a dark trail.
In her eyes, there was no triumph, no cunning. Only a bottomless, primal fear. And pain. So much pain that for a moment, my own wolf whimpered and hid.
"Who were you passing information to?" My voice sounded like the cracking of bones.
"I... I didn't..." her voice broke. She coughed, tears springing from her eyes. "Cale, please..."
"Who?!" I shook her, making her head snap back.
"No one... I swear... it hurts... so much..."
I searched her pupils, looking for even a shadow of a lie. There was nothing there but the reflection of my own cruelty. She was empty. Burnt out by my strike.
I abruptly released my grip. She collapsed to the floor, failing to catch herself, her shoulder hitting the stone.
"You smell of fear, Alina. That is a poor scent for one who claims loyalty."
I wiped my palm on my trousers as if I had touched something unclean. The sensation of her skin still burned my fingers.
"It... it hurts so much," she whispered into the floor. "Inside... as if everything burned away..."
I stopped at the threshold, not turning back.
"Get used to it. This is your new reality. Every time Silverclaw takes a step toward my lands, you will feel this. Every thought of theirs, I will turn into white-hot iron for you."
"I didn't do anything..." came a faint rustle behind my back.
"Then you will suffer for what they do for you."
I stepped out and slammed the door with a crash. The iron bolt lunged into place, cutting off her moan.
"No one enters," I snapped at the guards. "And do not feed her until morning."
I walked down the corridor, feeling a heavy, cold satisfaction stirring inside. But the thread of the bond was still trembling, transmitting her quiet, soul-wracking weeping to me.
Damian was right. She was the weak link. And I would strike it until it turned to dust or became steel.
The office still smelled of pine. I went to the table and splashed wine into a chalice, watching it tremble in my hands.
"She'll break before they arrive," I thought.
"Or you'll break yourself against her," an echo answered from the depths of my mind.
I drained the chalice in one gulp, feeling the bitterness settle on my tongue. The night promised to be long. And quiet. Too quiet for someone who had just declared war on his own soul.