Chapter 17: The Crimson Clearing
The wind whispered through the treetops, a soft sigh above the steady rhythm of Rowan’s boots on the forest floor. He had taken to patrolling alone lately, needing the silence to clear his mind—a mind too often filled with thoughts of Giselle, the Elders’ warnings, and the fragile peace within the pack.
Then it came.
A sharp, frantic pulse through the pack-link.
“Alpha—help! We’re under attack—south ridge—rogues—too many—”
The mental voice broke off in a scream, searing through Rowan’s head like a knife. He stopped mid-stride, heart hammering.
Another voice cut in—strained, panicked.
“Beta Lyle is down. Karsen’s bleeding bad—Alpha, we need you!”
Rowan didn’t respond with words. His wolf exploded forward with a snarl, seizing control. One moment, he stood two-legged under the canopy, and the next he was barreling through the forest on four powerful paws, shadows slicing past him as he ran.
Pine needles scratched at his legs, damp soil kicked up behind him, and the taste of blood already filled the back of his throat—his pack’s blood. It spurred him faster.
‘Hold on’, he sent back through the link, voice low and feral. ‘I’m coming.’
He tore through the underbrush, paws pounding the earth, his wolf form a blur of obsidian fur and raw fury. Scouts ambushed near the southern ridge were dangerously close to the heart of their territory. The rogues had never ventured this deep before.
The forest blurred around him, towering trunks streaked with green and gold. The sun, once warm above, now burned red as it filtered through the trees—casting the world in a hue too close to blood for comfort.
He could smell it now.
The copper sting of blood.
The foul, rancid stench of rogues.
The sound of snarling reached his ears a second before the screams did.
Rowan pushed harder. His muscles burned, lungs straining, but he didn’t slow. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t let another one of his wolves die. Not today.
The trees thinned, revealing a narrow clearing—and chaos.
As he burst into the clearing, the scene unfolded like a nightmare. Two of his warriors lay wounded, their bodies marred by deep gashes. A third was cornered, fending off a trio of snarling rogues. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of rogue musk.
Snarling bodies collided, blood sprayed across the forest floor, and his warriors were struggling. A scout lay crumpled at the base of a tree, unmoving. Another knelt beside him, clutching a gaping wound at his side, trying to drag the body to cover.
Rogues—five at least—moved like shadows among the trees, snapping jaws and gleaming eyes fixated on their prey.
A thunderous growl erupted from Rowan's throat, a sound that silenced the chaos for a heartbeat. The rogues turned, their eyes gleaming with malice, but hesitation flickered in their gaze.
Rowan launched himself at the nearest rogue, his massive frame colliding with bone-crushing force. Teeth met flesh, and a spray of blood painted the air as he tore into the rogue's throat. The body crumpled, lifeless, before it hit the ground.
Rowan didn’t slow. He was fury in motion.
Another rogue lunged, claws extended, but Rowan twisted mid-air, evading the attack with predatory grace. He retaliated with a swipe of his powerful claws, raking across the rogue's flank and sending it yelping into the trees.
The remaining rogues hesitated, their formation faltering. Rowan's presence was a tempest, his aura of dominance suffocating. He advanced, each step deliberate, his eyes locked onto his prey.
With a final, unified snarl, the rogues attempted to flee, but Rowan was upon them. He moved like a shadow, swift and lethal. One by one, he dispatched them, his fury unrelenting until the clearing was silent once more.
Blood soaked the earth, mingling with the fallen leaves. Rowan stood amidst the carnage, chest heaving, his fur matted with gore. His warriors approached, eyes wide with a mix of awe and relief.
He shifted back to his human form, the transformation seamless despite his exhaustion. "Tend to the wounded," he commanded, his voice a gravelly rasp. "We need to figure out how they were able to get this close.”
As his warriors moved to obey, Rowan's gaze swept the treeline. He knew how the Elder’s would look at this attack and he didn’t like it. The rogues had never gotten this close to their territory before, and they would try to pin it on Giselle and her family, wiping away weeks of progress they were making with the pack.
Rowan knew without a doubt that his mate wasn’t involved with this most recent attack, but he had no idea how to prove that to the Elder’s and to his pack mates.
Thankfully none of his pack members lost their lives in this fight, with many of the rogues fallen on the ground around them. Rowan was hopeful that this would soften the Elder’s and their accusations that were soon to come, but he didn’t have much hope.
With everyone safe, and the rogues taken care of, Rowan left the clearing and made his way around the outskirts of his borders, on the lookout for possible threats.
As the doubt began to sink in and the consequences of this attack took root inside of him, a call from the elders came through, adding more weight to the situation.
Rowan was halfway down the eastern ridge trail, blood still drying on his hands from the rogue ambush, when the familiar pressure brushed against his mind—a firm mental tug that tightened like a noose.
‘Alpha Rowan,’ came Elder Merek’s voice through the pack link, clipped and cold. ‘The council requires your presence. Immediately.’
Another voice followed without waiting. Elder Vessa. ‘We trust the skirmish is over. There are matters more pressing than spilled rogue blood.’
Rowan’s jaw clenched. The urge to ignore them flared bright and hot in his chest, but the pull of tradition was heavier than pride. The Elders didn’t ask for attendance. They commanded it.
With a low growl in his throat, he replied through the link, ‘I’m on my way.’
He turned back toward the packhouse, the weight of the summons pressing against his shoulders like a storm rolling in. Whatever they wanted—it wouldn’t be good.
And he was already in no mood to play their games.
This attack was no random incursion—it was a message. And he would ensure that the rogues understood his reply.
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