But the beta only trembled. Then, slowly, he raised a hand again—this time pointing to the wall of stone where I had once been tied. “Th-that’s… her…”
Rydan’s gaze snapped to the rock—and what little denial remained in him shattered.
The stone surface was marred with deep, ragged gouges. Claw marks—wild and desperate—scarred the wall. The scent of wolves still hung in the air, strong and unmistakable. He inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring.
My scent was still there—faint, but lingering. Even in death, I remained.
Then came the scream.
One of the warriors stumbled backward, pale as death, his hand raised, pointing at something behind them.
Rydan turned—and froze.
There, between the twisted roots of a tree, half-buried in dirt and shredded cloth, was a severed head.
A snarl tore from his throat.
My head.
My vacant eyes stared toward the sky, unblinking. My tangled hair was soaked in blood, fanned out in the dirt. My mouth was open, frozen mid-scream. The wound at my neck was jagged and unmistakable.
I had been devoured.
Torn apart by wild wolves alive.
