Chapter 237
Wyrmhold wasn’t on any modern map.
We followed the old route by moonlight—no lanterns, no torches, just the silver gleam of the moon and Roman’s innate sense of direction guiding us through thick underbrush and forgotten trails.
The team was small.
Roman, Wyatt, Nessa, Ella, and me.
We didn’t speak much as we moved, but I could feel the unspoken thoughts swirling in the air. Every one of us had risked our life in the last month, bled for the pack, burned away pieces of who we used to be. Now, we were walking into the belly of something older than any of us.
And maybe more dangerous.
The trees eventually gave way to a crumbling hillside. Roman stopped in front of a twisted iron gate, nearly overtaken by ivy.
“This is it,” he said quietly.
Wyrmhold.
It looked like nothing more than the remnants of a ruined chapel. Fallen stones. Rotting beams. Vines tangled through what remained of an old altar. But the energy here—it was off. Too still. Like the wind had been told not to breathe here.
We stepped inside.
Nessa found the first clue.
A jagged stone near the back wall had a groove too clean to be natural. She pressed it. The earth shuddered slightly—and the altar split open, revealing a spiral staircase descending into blackness.
Of course it had to be stairs.
Ella sighed. “Nothing good ever comes after a spiral staircase.”
I gave her a flat look. “You’re free to stay up here.”
“Oh no, I love imminent death,” she said, adjusting her grip on her dagger. “It’s my favorite kind of cardio.”
We descended in silence.
The further we went, the colder it got. The air thickened, stale and metallic. The walls were carved stone, old and cracked—but not abandoned. Not entirely.
Torch holders lined the spiral, and a few still held melted remains of wax.
Someone had been here recently.
At the base, the tunnel opened into a vast underground chamber.
We stopped dead in our tracks.
Dozens of bones—wolf and human—hung suspended by rusted chains from the ceiling. Not displayed like trophies. Arranged. Deliberate. Like art.
I felt Nessa shiver beside me.
“Stay sharp,” Roman murmured.
We moved carefully, eyes scanning every shadow.
At the far end of the room stood an old door. Heavy, iron-banded. It looked ancient—but its hinges had been oiled recently.
Roman pushed it open, slow and steady.
The room beyond was smaller. A war room. Crude maps were scattered across the table, parchment stitched with red thread connecting key outposts across our land.
And in the center of the table…
A wax-sealed scroll.
Wyatt picked it up, examined it. “It’s addressed to you.”
He handed it to me.
The seal wasn’t familiar. Not Council. Not Elder. A jagged insignia—two overlapping crescents and a fang. A forgotten house, maybe.
I broke the seal and unrolled it slowly.
To the Luna who thinks herself sovereign—
You uprooted a council built over blood and sacrifice, and now you expect peace? You removed the infection, but left the wound open. You let compassion blind you. The ones you saved will be your undoing.
You’ve woken us.
You’ve given us purpose again.
We were the silence beneath the throne. Now we rise.
When the roots rot, the forest burns.
I read the words twice.
Then handed the scroll to Roman.
His jaw tensed. “They’re not just watchers. They’re planning something.”
“They’ve been planning it for a long time,” I whispered.
Ella scanned the room again. “This place… it’s not just a base. It’s a temple.”
“To what?” Nessa asked.
“To survival,” Wyatt said grimly. “Or revenge.”
I moved toward the back wall, where something glinted beneath a layer of dust. I wiped it clean.
A carved mural.
Not paint—blood-etched stone. Wolves in chains. A figure in a black cloak, hand raised above them like a puppeteer.
Beneath it, an inscription.
He who breaks the chain must bleed in its place.
Roman’s voice was low. “They think the pack betrayed them.”
“And they want retribution,” I added. “But not in the open. They want to rot us from within.”
Wyatt swore softly. “They’ve probably already started.”
“We need to get back,” I said. “Now.”
But as we turned to leave—
A sound echoed through the chamber.
A whistle.
Short. Sharp.
Then silence.
And then—
A blast.
The ground behind us exploded, sending rock and flame outward. I hit the floor hard, Roman’s arm around me before I even registered the impact.
Smoke.
Screaming.
Ella’s voice through the dust: “It was a trigger seal!”
We scrambled to our feet.
Debris blocked the tunnel back up. The entire staircase was gone.
“Alternate route?” Nessa choked out, coughing.
Roman scanned the wall, then pointed to a small alcove near the side. “There!”
We ran, ducking low, barely making it before more stone came crashing down behind us.
The tunnel twisted for what felt like hours, lit only by the weak glow of the emergency flares Wyatt snapped to life.
I didn’t realize I was bleeding until Roman touched my temple and frowned. “You hit your head.”
“Can we panic later?” I muttered.
He gave a tight smirk. “Fine. But I’m adding this to the list of reasons you owe me tea.”
Eventually, we emerged through a narrow shaft beneath the southern ridge—miles from where we’d entered.
We were dirty. Bruised. Angry.
But alive.
And we weren’t alone.
Smoke rose in the distance.
From the packhouse.
We raced back.
The sight stopped my heart.
Not flames. Not blood.
But a banner.
Hung on the training tower.
The same crescent-and-fang sigil from the scroll.
A message.
Roman tore it down without a word. Crushed it in his fist.
“They were watching,” Wyatt said grimly. “They knew we were gone.”
I scanned the area. “No bodies. No signs of attack. Just… intimidation.”
“They wanted us to know they could touch us,” Nessa whispered. “Whenever they want.”
I looked at the banner again.
This wasn’t war.
Not yet.
But it was a declaration.
And now, we would have to answer it.
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