[POV: Dominic]
I entered the clearing of the Nightmaw pack with carefully measured steps, keeping my chin high and my shoulders squared. Their Alpha stood near the tree line, his powerful form leaning casually against an old oak, eyes coldly assessing me from head to toe.
Despite the casual stance, his aura filled the space between us like a wall of pressure, silently challenging me to flinch.
I didn't.
"Alpha Damian," I greeted him smoothly, inclining my head in respect. I couldn't afford to show weakness.
"Dominic," he replied coolly, a thin smirk touching his lips.
He pushed away from the tree, approaching me with a slow, deliberate stride that made the muscles in his shoulders roll beneath the leather of his jacket.
"I admit, I was surprised when I received your message. It's been a long time since the Midnight Crest pack showed any spine, let alone ambition."
I clenched my teeth at the jab, forcing a composed smile. "Times have changed. So have our ambitions."
He stopped just a few feet away, piercing eyes sharp and scrutinizing. He was a tall man—taller than me, broader through the chest, with jet-black hair and harsh features that spoke of countless battles.
The scar bisecting his left eyebrow only sharpened the menace. I understood why he'd been Draven's rival for years. Power radiated from him, tangible and dangerous.
"Indeed, times do change," Damian drawled, folding his muscular arms across his chest. "Which brings us to our common problem—Draven and his Crimson Fang pack."
At the mention of Draven's name, hatred surged within me, bright and hot, but I masked it the way I'd been masking things my entire life.
"Precisely," I said firmly. "Draven has become a threat we can no longer ignore. His power grows daily, and his newly bonded mate has given him even greater influence: silver wolf blood, if the rumors are true."
Damian tilted his head, watching me with the patient, predatory focus of a wolf deciding whether to attack or wait.
"I'm familiar with my own reasons for hating him. But Midnight Crest has always preferred to hide in the shadows. Why risk everything now?"
"Now I have something I didn't have before." I held his gaze, letting the silence stretch.
Then I reached into the satchel at my hip and withdrew a leather-bound journal, its pages swollen and dark-stained, reeking faintly of old blood and burned herbs. "It changes everything."
Damian's eyes dropped to the journal, then lifted back to mine. The smirk faded. Good. I had his attention.
"I've been working with a witch named Maren, old bloodline, older magic." I continued, keeping my voice low and deliberate.
"She's been teaching me things the packs forgot centuries ago. Blood magic, Alpha Damian. The kind that was used before the Moon Goddess imposed her laws. The kind tied to prophecy."
Damian's expression didn't change, but I saw it: the faintest flicker of interest behind those cold eyes. He was a pragmatist. Power was the only language he respected.
"The prophecy speaks of the rise of an Alpha born of dual blood," I said, the words falling from my lips like a prayer I'd memorized long ago. "Who would lead the fractured packs into a new era and cleanse the bloodline. Reign through fire and glory."
I tapped the journal with one finger. "Atlas is the silver wolf heir. The last of a dead lineage. His power is the key—and the prophecy demands it be taken from him through sacrifice and blood."
Damian studied me for a long moment, arms still folded. "You believe in fairy tales now, Dominic?"
"I believe in what I've seen." I opened the journal to a page covered in symbols that seemed to writhe in the dim light—Maren's handwriting, sharp and angular.
"There's a lunar eclipse approaching. Three weeks from now. Maren has shown me the ritual. If Atlas is brought to the Hollow Stones, and his blood is spilled during the eclipse, his silver wolf power transfers. Not to the earth or the Goddess." I closed the journal slowly. "To me."
The clearing went quiet. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Damian unfolded his arms. "And you trust this witch?"
"Her motives are her own: she has some obsession with the silver wolf bloodline that I neither understand nor care about. But her magic works. I've already used it."
I flexed my fingers. Damian's gaze tracked the movement, and for the first time, I saw something sharpen in his expression that wasn't skepticism.
It was hunger.
"Interesting parlor trick," he said carefully. "But shadow tricks won't breach Crimson Fang's walls."
"That's what your warriors are for. My pack alone can't break through Draven's defenses. But with your numbers behind us, we overwhelm them. You take the lion's share of their territory. Midnight Crest takes a smaller portion to rebuild, and I get Atlas."
"Alive," Damian said. Not a question.
"Exactly," I confirmed. "Until the eclipse. After that, the power he carries becomes mine. An Alpha fueled by ancient blood magic, allied with the largest pack in the western territories. Imagine what we could do."
Damian began walking slowly around the clearing, and I fell into step beside him. His silence was calculating, not dismissive. He was turning it over, weighing risk against reward, the way all Alphas did.
"What assurances do I have that you won't turn on me once you have this power?" he asked.
"Turning on you would be suicide. My pack would never survive it, and neither would I. All I want is Atlas destroyed and the prophecy fulfilled. Beyond that, Midnight Crest has no quarrel with the Nightmaw."
"Crimson Fang is no easy target. Draven's warriors are loyal, disciplined, and skilled."
"True, but I have an advantage there as well." I allowed myself a thin smile.
"I have someone inside Crimson Fang. A wolf named Talia is ambitious and desperate enough to feed me everything I need. When the time comes, she'll disable their border protections from within."
Damian stopped walking and turned to face me fully. The calculating look had sharpened into something like respect—grudging, but real.
"You've been busy, Dominic."
"I've been patient," I corrected.
He considered me for another long moment, then extended his hand. His grip, when I took it, was iron. Mine matched it.
"Then we have an alliance," Damian said. "My warriors lead the frontal assault. Your pack exploits the chaos. And you get your twin brother on those altar stones before the eclipse."
"Agreed."
His eyes glinted. "But understand this—if your witch's magic turns out to be smoke and delusion, our arrangement ends. Badly. For you."
"It won't," I said, holding his stare without a flicker. "You'll see for yourself soon enough."
We parted at the edge of the clearing, and I didn't look back. The triumphant smile I'd been holding broke across my face the moment I stepped into the tree cover, wide and sharp and savage.
The shadows curled around my fingers, eager and obedient. The journal pressed warm against my hip, Maren's blood-dark symbols pulsing faintly through the leather, as if the magic itself could feel how close we were.
Three weeks. That was all I needed.
Until the eclipse and until Atlas bled on the altar stones. Three weeks until the prophecy crowned me and every miserable, crawling year I'd spent in my twin's shadow was erased forever.
Soon enough, Atlas and Draven's world would burn to the ground. And I would savor every glorious second of their downfall.