Deep beneath the city, the last robed body hit the floor in pieces.
The underground facility no longer resembled a ritual site. It was a slaughterhouse.
Walls were clawed open. Steel doors bent inward like tin. Blood coated the floor in thick, sticky layers, pooling around shattered sigils that still smoked faintly with dying magic.
In the center of it all stood Iris.
Or what used to be her.
Grey fur matted with blood clung to a body that no longer resembled anything human. Her spine was wrong—too long, too curved. Her jaw hung heavy with elongated fangs, dripping red. Her glowing blue eyes burned with something far more dangerous than rage.
Clarity.
Every scream she'd heard while tied down.
Every second of pain as the demon's presence tore through her soul.
Every memory of being watched, judged, dismissed.
They weren't random anymore.
They had a name.
Elena Cromvell.
Her mother.
The Alpha.
The reason she was "weak."
The reason she was hidden.
The reason she was never enough.
Iris lifted her head slowly.
She sniffed the air.
No more robed figures. No chanting. No demon.
Only the city above.
And somewhere within it—
The Cromvell household.
Her claws dug into the concrete.
With a single, explosive leap, Iris tore through the remaining exit tunnel, bursting out into the night like a living curse.
She didn't run aimlessly.
She ran towards home.
Meanwhile
Mark didn't bother standing.
The moment the decision was made, his body answered before his mind could argue.
Bones cracked again—louder this time. Not clean. Not healed. Forced.
Muscle tore and reknit imperfectly, magic grinding against magic like rusted gears.
He welcomed it.
The wolf tore out of him in a violent surge, blood spraying across the asphalt as Black fur exploded from his skin. His injuries didn't vanish—magic wounds never did—but they were contained, wrapped in raw mass and rage.
A massive shape slammed onto all fours.
Golden eyes snapped open.
The road shattered beneath his first step.
Mark ran.
Not like an animal fleeing.
Like a weapon finally released.
Cars blurred. Streetlights snapped past in streaks of white. Every breath burned, every stride sent pain screaming through his frame—but speed drowned it out. The underground facility lay ahead, buried beneath concrete and lies.
And Iris was already gone.
Mark knew it was pointless so he started following her smell as a wolf.
It was different then when she was a normal human.
Night wrapped the Cromvell estate in unnatural stillness.
Elena paused mid-step.
Her nostrils flared.
There it was.
Wolf.
Not one of hers. Not a guest. Not a subordinate moving carelessly through her territory.
This scent was raw, unstable—newly awakened magic mixed with pain, blood, and something feral that hadn't learned restraint yet. It was tearing through the wards she had placed decades ago, not sneaking, not hiding.
Challenging.
Elena's expression didn't change, but the temperature of the room dropped.
"Everyone out," she said calmly.
The servants froze for half a second—then moved. Doors closed. Footsteps vanished. The estate emptied itself like a body holding its breath.
Elena stepped onto the balcony as the air itself began to tremble.
Then she heard it.
A howl.
Not a call for dominance.
Not a declaration.
A scream.
The trees at the edge of the property snapped apart as a massive grey shape burst through them, landing in the courtyard with bone-cracking force. Stone fractured beneath its claws.
The wolf lifted its head.
Grey fur soaked dark with blood. Eyes glowing an unnatural, violent blue. Its body was wrong—too aggressive, too unrefined, power packed without discipline.
Elena stared down at it, unimpressed.
"So," she said, her voice carrying absolute authority, "you are the one who dares violate the vow I placed on this land."
The wolf answered her with a low, vibrating growl—thick with hatred, grief, and something dangerously close to madness.
Not fear.
Not submission.
Elena's eyes narrowed.
No words. No hesitation. Just intent.
"This is not a plea," she continued coldly. "This is a challenge."
The wolf's lips curled back, fangs fully exposed.
That was all the answer she needed.
"As you wish."
Magic rippled outward from Elena's body like a shockwave.
Her bones shifted smoothly—perfectly—no hesitation, no pain. Darker grey fur flowed over her skin like liquid shadow. Her frame grew larger than Iris's, broader, denser, every movement refined by centuries of dominance.
When she landed on the stone courtyard, the ground did not crack.
It submitted.
Elena Cromvell—Alpha of Alphas—lowered herself into a flawless fighting stance, eyes glowing with cold, ancient authority.
Two wolves faced each other beneath the moon.
One born of control and legacy.
The other born of pain and rage.
And neither intended to walk away.
The Cromvell estate trembled the moment the grey wolf stepped onto the grounds.
Elena didn't wait for words.
She lunged first.
Two beast bodies collided like colliding storms—claws ripping stone, shockwaves tearing through the courtyard. Elena moved with terrifying precision: angles perfect, strikes economical, power restrained but lethal. This wasn't rage. This was discipline sharpened over decades.
The grey wolf answered with pure fury.
No technique. No restraint. Just teeth, claws, and pain screaming to be answered with more pain.
They tore at each other—Elena ripping fur, Iris slamming her bulk forward, refusing to fall, refusing to yield. Every blow Iris took only made her hit harder, faster, more recklessly.
"Enough," Elena growled mid-exchange, authority laced into her voice.
The grey wolf didn't listen.
She lunged again—aimed straight for the throat.
And then—
Something hit the ground between them.
The impact cracked the stone.
Both wolves skidded back.
Standing there was a third presence—larger, broader, scars still glowing faintly where magic had torn into flesh. A black-furred wolf rose slowly, breathing heavy, blood dripping from wounds that should've already healed… but hadn't.
Elena froze.
She knew that scent.
"…Mark?"
The name left her before she could stop it.
The black wolf didn't answer her.
His eyes were locked on the grey one.
Iris snarled and charged instantly.
No hesitation. No recognition. Just instinct screaming enemy.
Mark moved.
Not like a royal wolf.
Not like an alpha.
He fought like something forged in hell.
He let her hit him.
Let her claws rake his chest as he stepped inside her guard, slammed his shoulder into her ribs, and sent her flying across the courtyard. She crashed, rolled, sprang back up with a feral howl.
She attacked again.
Mark didn't retreat.
He absorbed, redirected, countered.
Every strike Iris threw was powerful—but wild. Every strike Mark returned was placed. Calculated. Brutal.
He caught her mid-leap.
Twisted.
Slammed her into the ground hard enough to crater it.
She tried to bite.
He took the bite—teeth sinking into his shoulder—and headbutted her.
Once.
Twice.
Her grip loosened.
Mark roared—not in anger, but command—and pinned her with his full weight, forearm across her throat, claws digging just enough to hurt, not enough to kill.
She thrashed.
He didn't let go.
"Stop," he growled low, voice vibrating through bone and earth.
She fought him anyway.
So he ended it.
Mark struck her pressure point—precise, brutal—and slammed her head into the stone.
The rage broke.
Not gone.
But cracked.
The grey wolf collapsed beneath him, breathing ragged, body trembling, fury bleeding into pain and confusion.
Mark stayed over her, shielding her without realizing it.
Elena stood frozen.
Her eyes moved between them slowly.
The stronger wolf wasn't attacking her.
He was protecting the one who had tried to kill him.
"…Who is she?" Elena asked, voice tight.
Mark didn't look back.
"She's not your enemy," he said.
The grey wolf growled weakly beneath him.