Chapter 50 – Forked Paths and Feral Trails
The war room smelled faintly of cedar and parchment, the long table in the center cluttered with maps, reports, and a few scattered blades that hadn’t made it back to the armory. Rowan stood at its head, eyes scanning the hand-drawn sketches of their territory while the storm outside whispered against the windows.
Charlie leaned back in her chair across from him, arms folded and a knowing look on her face. Her mate, Luther, stood at her side like a shadow cut from granite—silent, dangerous, and always watching.
Beta Kalen stood near the door, ever alert.
“Tell me again,” Rowan said, voice low, “what exactly did you find?”
Luther stepped forward, dropping a weather-worn scrap of fabric on the table. It was nearly scentless now, soaked by the rain and wind of the forest, but Rowan still caught the faintest trace of lavender and something... sour underneath it.
“Elia,” Beta Kalen muttered, nose wrinkling.
“She’s clever,” Luther said in that quiet, graveled voice of his. “Too clever. Most of her scent trails led nowhere. Deliberate. But this one? It wasn’t meant to be found. Half-covered near the old southern ridge. And fresh. Three days, maybe less.”
Charlie tapped the map. “That spot’s just outside the western hunting zone. We almost missed it.”
Rowan’s jaw clenched. “That ridge is too close to the boundary where we lost Giselle’s trail.”
Luther nodded. “Exactly.”
Beta Kalen stepped forward. “You think Elia’s been hiding out near there all this time? Why?”
“She’s working with someone,” Rowan said flatly. “We already know she’s been in league with Elder Malric. Maybe she was helping cover the rogue’s movements. Maybe she knows where Giselle is.”
Charlie’s expression darkened, but she didn’t interrupt. Rowan looked between her and Luther.
“Can you two follow this trail? Quietly. If she’s out there, I want her found and brought back. Alive.”
Luther inclined his head. “We’ll find her.”
Rowan turned to Charlie. “Don’t engage unless you have to. If Elder Malric is tied into this, we don’t know how deep the rot goes. And if Elia knows she’s burned, she might run again.”
Charlie smirked. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep him on a leash.” She jerked her chin toward Luther, who didn’t dignify it with a response.
Kalen stepped beside Rowan, arms folded. “And what about us?”
Rowan rolled up the map. “We’re going to visit the witch again.”
Kalen raised a brow. “You think she has more to give?”
Rowan’s jaw tightened. “She has to. There’s magic involved that she didn’t recognize the first time. The shifter blood we sensed near the tree markings—she missed that. Or ignored it.”
Charlie’s gaze sharpened. “You think she’s lying?”
“I think she’s hiding something,” Rowan said. “And with the full moon drawing closer, we’re out of time for half-truths.”
Charlie rose to her feet, expression now serious. “Be careful.”
“You too,” Rowan said. “Bring her back. And if she runs…”
“We’ll be faster,” Luther said, his voice like cold steel.
Rowan nodded once and moved toward the door, Beta Kalen already at his heels.
The war was stretching them in every direction—dividing their forces, their trust, even the pack itself. But if they were going to win this, if he was going to bring Giselle home, then they had no choice but to chase every thread. Even if it led them deeper into the dark.
—
The late afternoon sun bled through the clouds in golden slashes, but the shadows beneath the trees were already thick with tension. The forest path narrowed the farther they went, roots gnarling across the trail like twisted fingers grasping for their boots. Rowan barely noticed. His focus was straight ahead, a storm brewing behind his eyes.
Kalen walked beside him, ever alert, his steps light despite the weight of his weapons. “Do you really think the witch knew more than she said?”
Rowan didn’t answer at first. His jaw worked as he stared into the dense woods, heart pounding with an edge of restlessness that hadn’t dulled in days.
“She’s lived out here for decades,” he said finally. “Hiding from packs. From rogues. From anyone with a claim to power. That doesn’t happen by chance.”
Kalen nodded. “So either she’s smart…”
“Or dangerous,” Rowan finished. “And I need to know which one before the full moon rises.”
They continued in silence, the wind stirring the treetops in a quiet warning. A bird called once, then went still. Even the forest seemed to be holding its breath.
When they finally reached the clearing, the same one where Giselle’s scent had vanished weeks ago, Rowan paused.
The air was still thick with the hum of old magic. Something about this place—it crawled beneath his skin, settled like frost in his bones.
“She’s close,” Kalen murmured, scanning the treeline.
Rowan tilted his head—and there it was. A flicker of movement just beyond the brambles. He stepped forward, voice steady.
“We need to speak.”
The witch appeared as if called by the wind itself, her long dark hair wild and her cloak heavy with herbs and smoke. She studied them both from beneath her hood, lips curved in a knowing smirk.
“You came back.”
Rowan’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t tell me everything last time.”
Her expression didn’t shift. “And you think demanding it now will change that?”
He stepped closer. “We found shifter blood mixed with the spellwork near where my mate disappeared. That’s not rogue work alone. That’s someone from inside my territory. Someone who shouldn’t have access to that kind of magic.”
Her brow arched slightly. “And what would you have me do about it?”
“Tell me what you know. All of it.”
For the first time, something flickered in her expression—hesitation. Rowan caught it, and pressed harder.
“If there’s someone in my pack working with the rogues… if they used you to hide her trail, or worse… then you’re already part of this, whether you like it or not.”
The witch stared at him, silent.
Then, slowly, she pulled her hood back, revealing a face older than it first appeared, lined with age and shadowed with knowledge.
“There are spells that require sacrifice,” she said quietly. “Blood. Willing or not. I didn’t cast them, but I smelled the work when I came across that clearing weeks ago.”
“Who did?” Rowan asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t know their name. But the spell was crafted with an older tongue… not something any average rogue could pull off. Whoever helped them, they studied. Or were taught.”
Kalen stepped forward. “You can track it? The spell?”
“I can try,” the witch said. “But it will require blood. Yours. Again.”
Rowan didn’t flinch. “Fine. Just get me closer.”
The witch smiled faintly. “Then let us begin.”
She turned and began gathering herbs and bone-carved trinkets from a small satchel at the base of a gnarled tree. Rowan didn’t move, didn’t blink. Whatever it took—no matter how much it cost—he would find Giselle.
Even if he had to wade into the darkness to do it.
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