Chapter 94: Alpha of white stone
Chapter 94
The circle waits.
It is dusk now, the last slivers of sunlight fading into the treeline, the sky bruised purple and red above the forest. A hush rolls over White Stone as wolves gather in a wide ring, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, eyes locked on the stretch of bare earth in their midst. The soil there is not like the rest of the land. It is a cursed red-brown, stained by centuries of blood. Nothing grows here, not even weeds—the ground itself remembers death too well.
Tonight, that memory will be fed again.
Cameron steps into the circle. His boots crunch on the brittle dirt, his shadow long under the silvering light. He looks calm—too calm, some think—dressed not like a wolf at war but like a man leaving his office: dark shirt rolled up at the sleeves, slacks neat despite the dust.
He doesn’t radiate the brawler’s hunger, but there’s something else about him. A steadiness. An aura that prickles at the skin of those who watch.
Opposite him, Alric Maen stands stiff-backed, arms folded, his face twisted with triumph and fear all at once. He doesn’t step into the circle himself. Instead, he gestures, and his chosen champion emerges.
The proxy of Savage Claw.
The man is a brute in every sense. Taller than Cameron by a head, his shoulders wide as stone pillars, his arms corded with muscle and scar tissue. His bald scalp gleams with sweat, his grin cruel and hungry, too many teeth flashing in the last of the light.
He flexes his arms as he enters the circle, making a show of power, savoring the whispers from the crowd.
Around them, wolves murmur, eyes wide with dread or hope. Some cling to each other, whispering prayers to the goddess. Others watch in grim silence, jaws clenched, shoulders tense. Not everyone has come; many hide in their homes, praying for dawn. But enough are here to witness history.
Nana steps forward, leaning on her cane. Her voice is sharp and unyielding, carrying over the restless crowd.
"As of this moment, White Stone has no pack leader," she declares. Her cane strikes the soil once, and the circle seems to tremble.
"Let he whose blood does not stain this ground decide the fate of the pack."
The Savage Claw leader grins wide, eyes flashing with malice. "I will enjoy tearing your face off, pretty boy."
Cameron doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look impressed. He stands still, watching his opponent with the kind of quiet disdain that says more than words ever could.
The fight begins.
The brute lunges first, claws flashing as he swipes for Cameron’s throat. Cameron sidesteps, smooth and controlled, letting the man’s momentum carry him past.
The proxy recovers quickly, snarling, and comes again—faster this time, years of savage experience in every brutal strike.
Cameron pivots, driving his elbow hard into the brute’s ribs. The sound is a dull crack. The proxy grunts, stumbling half a step before straightening with a snarl. His grin falters, thins.
"Not bad," he sneers.
But his eyes flicker with unease.
The crowd murmurs louder now. Cameron moves differently than most wolves they’ve seen—precise, economic, every strike placed with intent. The proxy, though larger and stronger, suddenly looks clumsy in comparison.
He lunges again, trying to crush Cameron with raw strength. Cameron dodges once more, but the brute is relentless, his claws slashing with lethal force.
The brute roars and leaps, this time faster than expected. He collides with Cameron, driving him into the dirt. Dust and sand explode around them as the brute pins him down. Claws dig into Cameron’s shoulders, and then teeth sink into his arm, fangs tearing through flesh.
The crowd gasps. Lenora takes a step forward before Nana blocks her with a raised cane.
The Savage Claw proxy presses harder, jaws locked on Cameron’s arm, trying to rip it clean off. Blood spills hot across the dirt. Cameron snarls in pain—then something changes.
The shift rips through him.
His form shudders beneath the brute’s weight, clothes tearing apart in an instant. Black fur bursts from his skin, claws elongating, bones reshaping. In heartbeats, where Cameron lay pinned, a black wolf rises.
Larger than most, his pelt dark as obsidian, his eyes a piercing, unnatural blue. The sound that rips from his throat is not just a growl—it is a warning, a death sentence.
The proxy’s eyes widen. For the first time, uncertainty cracks his face. He shifts too, his body twisting grotesquely as gray fur bursts across his skin, his half-shift snapping into a full wolf form. He snarls, teeth bared, but beside Cameron’s wolf, he seems smaller.
Weaker.
The black wolf surges forward.
They collide in a frenzy of teeth and claws, tearing into each other with savage force. The gray wolf slashes Cameron’s side, blood streaking black fur, but Cameron barely flinches. He counters with a crushing bite to the brute’s shoulder, dragging him down. The ground shakes with the violence of their struggle, the cursed soil darkening with fresh blood.
The crowd roars. Some cheer, some scream, some cannot look away.
The gray wolf fights desperately, his claws raking deep, but every wound he inflicts is answered with one worse. The black wolf is relentless, every movement faster, sharper, as if fueled by something greater than fury. Something inevitable.
The gray wolf stumbles, injured badly, and turns toward the edge of the circle. He tries to flee. He tries to leap out—
And slams against nothing.
An invisible wall holds him in.
Once you enter, you do not leave until the fight is over.
The wolf whimpers, claws scrabbling uselessly at the barrier, eyes wide with terror. He turns back toward Cameron, desperation in every line of his body. His ears flatten, his head bows low, a wolf’s sign of surrender.
For a heartbeat, it looks as though the black wolf might accept it. Cameron stands tall, looming above his broken foe, blue eyes burning. The gray wolf trembles, waiting. Hoping.
Then the black wolf lifts his paw—
And strikes.
The claws slice clean across the gray wolf’s throat. The head tumbles free, blood spraying hot across the dirt. The body collapses, twitching once before going still.
For a moment, there is only silence.
And then the circle erupts.
Cheers, howls, cries of triumph. Wolves scream their release into the night air, their voices echoing through White Stone’s hollow streets. Even the teenagers who snuck out against orders shout with wild joy.
At the circle’s center, the black wolf breathes heavy. Blood drips from his muzzle, from his claws. Slowly, the shift rolls back, fur receding, bones snapping into place until Cameron Anderson stands naked in the moonlight. His raven hair is damp with sweat and blood, crimson streaks painting his chest, his arms, his face. Most of all, his left hand is soaked to the wrist.
He exhales once, a long steady breath, and lifts his gaze to the crowd.
Nana slams her cane into the earth. The sound reverberates like thunder.
"The new Alpha of White Stone," she declares.
And as one, the wolves kneel.
Elders and youths, guards and mothers, even the mercenaries of Savage Claw—all bow their heads. Lenora kneels too, though her eyes blaze with pride. Simone gives a stiff, awkward curtsy, Ronan smirks as he dips his head. Even Nana lowers herself, her cane steady as she bows before the man chosen by blood and law.
Cameron Anderson, blood still dripping from his hand, stands tall in the cursed circle.
Alpha.