Chapter 9 - SHADOWS OF THE PAST
Months passed, and the Northern Territories flourished under the joint leadership of King Rowan and Queen Maya. The old caste system of brutal dominance and silent subjugation was systematically dismantled. Packs that had once warred for scraps now traded freely, and the forgotten omegas were given land, protection, and a voice in the new high council.
Yet, peace was never something that settled easily over the jagged peaks of Frostmir.
Deep within the high-security cells beneath the royal citadel, far away from the warmth of the sun and the light of the moon, a lone figure sat in absolute darkness.
Grant Holloway stared at the damp stone wall of his cell. His once-proud posture was permanently curved, his hands scarred from the rough stone. He had lost everything—his title, his wealth, his influence, and his freedom.
Footsteps echoed down the stone corridor.
Grant didn't bother to look up. "Are you here to gloat, Captain Mercer?" he rasped, his voice ruined by dampness and bitterness.
The footsteps stopped outside his iron bars. But the voice that replied was not Ethan’s.
"Gloat? No, Alpha Holloway," a smooth, unfamiliar voice whispered from the shadows of the corridor. "Gloat is what fools do when they win a battle. I am here to discuss the war."
Grant slowly raised his head, narrowing his eyes against the dim torchlight.
Standing just beyond the bars was a tall, cloaked figure wearing the insignia of the Southern Bloodmoon Pack—a faction long thought neutral in northern politics. A faint, wicked smile played across the stranger's lips.
"Who are you?" Grant muttered.
"A friend of an old enemy," the stranger replied, tossing a heavy leather pouch of gold coins onto the stone floor of the cell. It landed with a heavy, promising clink. "The girl thinks she has cured the North. She thinks the moon protects her forever. But blood like hers... blood that awakens ancient altars... is a prize every southern warlord would kill to possess."
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Grant stared at the pouch of gold, a slow, venomous grin spreading across his face, replacing despair with a dangerous, burning hunger for revenge.
"Tell me," Grant whispered, leaning toward the bars, "what do you need me to do?"
