Chapter 42
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
T hat evening, from a forested ridge overlooking the temple, I stand with Stark and several other Bonded, poring over a map of the ruin below.
We’ve gone over the plan a dozen times at Stark’s command. Everyone knows their part.
The wolves will circle the temple’s outer wall to cut off escape routes while three smaller teams infiltrate through its three vulnerabilities—a crumbling section of wall, an old sewage tunnel, and a partially collapsed bell tower.
This is a time-sensitive covert operation. The strike team—both soldiers and Bonded—were chosen specifically for their superior stealth capabilities. The Bonded on each team will coordinate precisely timed attacks through their pack connection. Stark will lead one team, and two Kryptos Bonded will lead the others.
We’ve had spies watching the ruins for hours, tracking the Siphon guard rotations and sending reports back to our temporary camp here in the forest. We have the intel we need.
It’s almost time to move.
We gather on the ridge, keeping low and strictly to the shadows as dusk settles into night. The temple is a dark scar cut into the hillside below us, its narrow windows lit dimly with lamplight. My heart pounds every time I look at it, wondering if Saela is inside. If she’s hurt. Scared. Alone.
Every muscle in my body itches to move—to fight. To kill every last motherfucker who dared to take innocent children from my country.
Anassa’s anticipation radiates along our bond, too. She’s more than eager for our first taste of real battle.
Stark, meanwhile, has coordinated this whole operation.
I find myself mesmerized by him, here in this cold mountain wilderness, closed in on every side by darkness and danger.
He’s the consummate Alpha—no trace remains of the man who seemed so worried about the scars on my thighs yesterday. I almost don’t believe it happened at all, watching him now.
His aura holds none of the malice and impending violence to which I’ve become so accustomed. There’s no bellowing of commands. No bloodthirsty gleam in his eyes.
He’s centered. Calm. Completely focused. Coldly efficient.
The perpetual scowl is gone, too, which is more disconcerting than I’d like to admit. His face is ridiculously handsome when he’s not scowling. Beautiful, even.
This man isn’t Stark the Rawbond combat instructor, my personal tormentor. This is Alpha Stark of Daemos , the warrior who earned every one of his kill marks. The commander trusted by every soldier in the king’s army.
He turns to me as the soldiers begin making their final preparations. “You and Anassa are with me,” he says, voice pitched low. “This is your first time in Siphon territory—you follow my lead, understand? You do exactly as I say.”
I bristle, insulted to be thrust back into the role of trainee. Haven’t I proven myself to him yet? Why does he insist on babysitting me?
“Listen to him,” says Anassa. “He knows what he’s doing.”
“Traitor,” I grumble at her.
Stark is staring at me, eyes narrowed, waiting for me to protest.
“You haven’t fought like this yet,” he says with quiet intensity, “Siphons are faster than humans, Cooper. They’re stronger, capable of making you see things that aren’t real. One mistake and—” He makes a sharp slashing motion with one hand across his throat.
“I know ,” I grate. “I’ve been studying them for weeks, Stark.”
“And I’ve been fighting them for a fucking decade,” he growls. “ Listen to me, Cooper. You stay close to me, you follow orders , and you don’t. Take. Risks. Do you understand ?”
“Alright!” I hiss, taken aback by his intensity. “I understand!”
Before he can say more, a Kryptos scout melts out of the gathering darkness. Stark turns without surprise and says, “Report.”
“Movement in the east wing,” the scout says, gaze flicking to me. “They’ve shifted the guard rotation.”
Shit . That throws a wrench in our plans.
But Stark shows no hint of stress. I watch him silently absorb the information, his tactical mind working rapidly through the possibilities. He could have easily been a Strategos rather than a Daemos. In mere seconds, he settles on a solution, adjusting our strategy and redirecting resources with impressive efficiency.
Again, I’m struck by the difference in him. Command sits so naturally on those broad, muscular shoulders. There’s something almost regal in the way he carries it. He’s truly the Sovereign Alpha’s son in this moment. The soldiers and Bonded alike respond to his commands without hesitation—with absolute faith.
While everyone is making their final preparations, I check my own weapons for the dozenth time.
Sword secured. Check. Daggers dipped in poisonous herbs that slow Siphon healing. Check.
My hands tremble slightly as I work, though whether from fear or anticipation, I’m not sure. My blood is pumping, but my mind is calm. Focused.
Despite my irritation with Stark’s babying, I know I’m the weakest link on the team. Everyone else has copious battle experience. They’ve fought Siphons before. They’ve seen war.
I will not fuck this up—the rest of the team is counting on me. If I make a mistake, their lives will be at risk, too, not just mine.
When the sun finally sinks below the horizon and the sky turns black and starless, Stark commands the teams to take position, coordinating with lethal precision using hand signals alone.
He nods to me just before we mount our wolves. “Remember, stay close to me. Egith will never forgive me if I get her new Alpha killed.”
Something in his tone makes me look at him sharply, but his expression tells me nothing.
Without another word, Stark leaps onto Cratos’s back. I follow suit as the other two teams peel off into the night, taking their positions.
Anassa’s anticipation builds as Stark signals for our team to move. I take a deep breath, forcing my hands to steady, then lean hard into our connection. The bond swells, enveloping me in Anassa’s heightened senses.
Suddenly I can see into the night far better than I could before. I can hear every rustle in the woods, every crackle of leaves underfoot. The breeze moving up from the valley below us carries the scent of moist earth, woodsmoke, and countless living things.
I’m going to survive this , I tell myself as we follow Stark and Cratos into the night. I’ve survived the fighting pits, the Ascent, the training—I’ve survived everything this brutal world has thrown at me. I’ll survive this too—and find Saela.
Whatever it takes .
Anassa’s fierce approval washes over me. We’ll survive this together .
The descent to the temple takes a handful of minutes, and then we’re approaching the southwest entry point, Stark in the lead and me just behind with half a dozen soldiers on foot bringing up the rear. I spot the crumbling section of the wall just as Stark turns to give me the signal.
Everyone is in position. The time is now.
I lift one hand, echoing Stark’s signal to the soldiers behind me.
At once, we burst into action. Cratos leaps through the breach, a massive black blur against the night. Anassa swiftly follows, the soldiers spilling into the temple courtyard behind us.
Nothing could have prepared me for what follows.
I catch sight of the first Siphon guard an instant before Stark strikes, moving with his wolf like a force of nature. His blade flashes. The guard’s head spins away, separated from his body before he can draw breath to call the alarm.
That’s the only way to ensure Siphons die; you need to behead them.
I watch in slow motion as the guard’s head tumbles to the ground, his face frozen in shock, fangs bared. The body crumples with unnatural grace, beautiful even in death.
Before it hits the ground, Stark and Cratos are leaping toward the temple steps. Anassa follows like a silver shadow, mirroring every movement with stunning precision. She and Cratos seem to be coordinating effortlessly.
Another Siphon falls at the arched doorway to the temple, shredded in an instant by Cratos’s snapping jaws. And then we’re racing down the narrow corridors, weaving through twists and turns that make me dizzy. The wolves move with impossible stealth despite their massive size, radiating power through our bonds, heightening our senses further. They smell the enemies ahead long before we burst into an open chamber and fall upon them.
Stark and Cratos lunge first, scattering two Siphons in opposite directions. The creatures move like nothing I’ve seen before—supernatural speed blurs their attacks even as those angelic faces morph into masks of pure horror, fangs extended.
To my eyes, the brutality that follows plays out in total chaos, but through the bond, every strike is anticipated, every movement almost choreographed. Cratos lunges left, Stark’s sword flashing right. Anassa dodges right, my sword swings left. The two Siphons fall—one to Anassa’s teeth, one to Stark’s sword.
The soldiers flow after us, falling upon the bodies and hacking them to pieces with poison-coated blades.
We move into the circular gathering hall at the heart of the temple. Stark draws Cratos to a stop at the center of the room, his head swiveling as he assesses our position. I get a ripple of awareness from Anassa that something isn’t right, and then we’re ambushed.
Three, four, five, six Siphons pour out of the doorways surrounding us, rushing the team in a coordinated attack.
Stark and Cratos unleash a powerful wave of Daemos magic, throwing the Siphons against the walls. The strength of it is easily ten times what Jonah used that day he broke my nose. It’s unbelievable. Stark isn’t just strong—he’s godlike.
Then, Stark moves faster than should be possible, his blade singing through the air as he dismembers the Siphons, their heads crashing to the ground one after another.
Blood sprays across ancient stone as he tears through their ranks, Cratos ripping the Siphons to pieces even as Stark’s blade hacks away. I catch sight of Stark’s face as Anassa dances along beside them.
His expression never changes—that cold, deadly focus remains unbroken even as he commits absolute brutality.
The sight makes me feel oddly triumphant. From the first day I saw him, I knew he was a psycho, bloodthirsty monster, and here’s my proof. He’s so much worse than I’d ever imagined.
And for once, it doesn’t disgust me. Because this unhinged killer is on my side.
Anassa and I stay glued to Stark and Cratos, positioning ourselves at their back as the remaining Siphons close in around us. My direwolf’s focus spirals in, and for a moment, I see the room—the soldiers, the Siphons, the wolves and their riders—in crisp detail, like a moving diagram. Calculations flow through my head, rapid-fire, assessing the Siphons for weakness, noting their formations and tactics with insane speed.
A strategy clicks into place. These creatures know their enemies well. They expect practiced military strikes—coordinated attack and defense.
They’re not prepared for a street fighter from the slums.
Anassa’s mind ripples with violent delight as we shift from defending Stark and Cratos to an all out attack.
As one, we maneuver into a position of apparent vulnerability, drawing the Siphon in. Anassa lunges, feinting expertly, dodging Siphon fangs as my sword darts in to defend her.
Now!
I swing at the Siphon and miss. Anassa takes the swipe of a dagger to the neck—she yelps, drawing back. The Siphon grins in fanged glee just before it launches at us in a pale, deadly blur.
In the same instant, Anassa drops low to the ground, bringing me level with our attacker. My sword is already swinging up again—with all my strength behind it.
The Siphon dies in a spray of black blood, its head tumbling past on one side, its body on the other.
Anassa lets loose a howl that thunders against the stone walls all around us. At our back, Cratos howls in answer.
The remaining Siphons sense the tide turning against them. I’m not sure how I know they’re afraid, but I do. Anassa becomes a silver blur of pure aggression, my blades flashing around her in staccato bursts as we take down another Siphon, and then another.
All at once, the room falls still and silent. Bodies lie everywhere. Eight Siphons and three soldiers have fallen. The smell of blood and terror coats the inside of my nose and fills my mouth with a copper tang.
Stark turns to me, his face decorated in a fine spray of blood, chest heaving from exertion. His gaze scans my body briefly for wounds. Finding none, he nods once and signals the team forward again.
We descend into the bowels of the temple, following dark corridors and picking off a few more Siphons until at last, we find the basement holding cells.
The smell hits me first—fear, excrement, unwashed bodies, and something else. A sickly sweet scent that sparks in my nose like champagne. Through the bond, Anassa bristles. Her hackles rise.
“Siphon magic,” she says. That’s what the smell is.
What have these monsters been doing to the children?
My heart hammers in my head as we near the cells—something is wrong. It’s too quiet. Too still.
Stark dismounts his wolf and glances up at me with a look that sends my heart plummeting into my gut.
The cells are empty. Every last one of them.
The children aren’t here.
My boots crunch on the dirty stones as I slip from Anassa’s back and peer through the bars beside Stark.
“They were here not long ago,” he says quietly.
I nod. There are scraps of children’s clothing inside the cells. Food bowls, a battered doll. A single stained blanket.
“They knew we were coming,” I hear myself say.
My voice sounds hollow. Dead.
I’m numb.
Stark turns as though to speak, but one of the Daemos soldiers interrupts.
“Sir, we’ve captured one of the Siphon guards,” he says.
The numbness inside me darkens into sharp and savage. There’s a flicker of shadows around the edge of my vision, urging me toward further violence.
“Good,” I say. “I have questions for them.”