Damon Thorne stood on the bleeding edge of the world he knew. Behind him lay the ancient, suffocating darkness of the Dead Woods; before him, the sickly, synthetic yellow glow of a roadside gas station. The massive charcoal wolf was gone, replaced by a man who looked every bit the billionaire predator dressed in charcoal-gray wool that cost more than the station itself, radiating an aura of power so contained it felt like a drawn bow.
His first thought wasn't for the Covenant. It wasn't for his Pack. It was for her.
He closed his eyes, his new, silver-tinted vision reaching back through the miles. He focused on the jagged Protection Rune he'd carved into that oak tree. Thanks to the Lumina Spring, he didn't just remember the mark; he felt it. He could sense its psychic hum, a silent, invisible dome protecting the ground where Elara his White Lycan lay hidden. He could feel her energy stabilizing, a soft, ancient pulse beneath the cloak.
She was safe. For now.
Damon's jaw relaxed just a fraction. The Exiles had interfered, leaving her those clothes, and though he didn't trust their motives, he owed them for the time they'd bought him.
But the hunt was moving. The Covenant wasn't a pack of mindless rogues; they were a corporate machine. To kill a machine, you didn't bark at it in the woods you dismantled it from the inside, in the cities where they thought they were untouchable.
Damon stepped into Raven's Fork, a grimy border town that smelled of diesel and desperation. He pulled his Alpha presence inward, folding it into himself until he looked like just another rich, dangerous stranger. He didn't need to sniff the dirt here. He needed to listen.
He made his way to The Rusted Anchor, a dive bar that served as a terminal for every dark deal in the territories. It was where Alphas came to buy what they couldn't find, and where rogues came to sell what they had stolen.
He took a seat in the furthest corner, a glass of untouched, cheap whiskey in front of him. His enhanced hearing began to slice through the room, filtering out the jukebox and the drunken laughter, hunting for keywords: Power. Contract. Serum. White.
It took forty-five minutes.
Two mid-level thugs were leaning over the bar, their voices thick with arrogance and cheap beer. "The boss is losing his mind over this one," one of them slurred. "He's calling it the Lycan Prime. Says the power in that white bitch could level a whole pack. Cyrus wants her yesterday."
Damon's fingers tightened around his glass. Cyrus. The name of the Covenant's leader hit him like a physical blow.
"How are we supposed to catch a ghost?" the other thug asked, leaning in.
"Easy," the first one bragged, a smug grin on his face. "She's drawn to primal energy. We left a piece of Exile bait near the ridge. When those tree-hugging traitors find her, they'll lead us right to the nest. The boss knows she's weak. He's just waiting for the signal."
Damon's blood turned to ice. The jacket. The boots. It hadn't been a gift from an ally; it was a tracking device. The Covenant was two moves ahead, using the underground resistance to trap his Mate like a common animal.
He moved with a speed that the human eye couldn't track. Under the cover of a loud argument across the bar, he approached the two thugs. A single vial of truth serum, hidden in his palm, was emptied into the lead thug's glass with the precision of a surgeon.
A minute later, the wolf's eyes turned glassy. "The meeting..." he whispered, his voice vacant. "Midnight. The Old Lighthouse. Cyrus wants the Lycan Serum ready by dawn."
"What does the serum do?" Damon's voice was a low, terrifying command that brooked no resistance.
"It... it kills the shift," the wolf stammered, a tear escaping his glazed eyes. "It traps the Lycan inside the human skin. Makes them a permanent battery. Easy to drain. Easy to... use."
A murderous, silent fury erupted in Damon's chest. They didn't just want her power; they wanted to turn his Mate into a living, breathing prisoner of her own flesh.
He left them slumped at the bar, their memories wiped by a quick, sharp mental suggestion. As he stepped out into the night air, the realization hit him like a hammer. The Old Lighthouse was right on the coast—exactly where Elara would be heading if she tried to cross the border.
The Covenant wasn't just hunting her. They were setting a trap at the only exit.
Damon didn't just want to stop them anymore. He wanted to erase them from existence. His Mate wasn't going to be a victim. He would clear her path with blood and steel, and when she finally saw him, it would be over the ashes of her enemies.
Damon melted into the shadows beyond Raven's Fork, moving with a silence that defied the laws of physics. He was no longer just a man or a wolf; he was a ghost in the machine, a predator wearing the sophisticated mask of a spy. To any ordinary eye, the forest was still, but to Damon's Lumina-enhanced senses, the trail of The Covenant was a jagged, neon streak of metallic rot and dark, forbidden magic.
He didn't rush. Every step was a calculated chess move. His amplified hearing didn't just pick up the wind; it detected the frantic heartbeat of a rodent miles away and the faint, rhythmic hum of pressure plates buried beneath the pine needles. These were amateur traps, designed to snare desperate rogues, and Damon bypassed them with a cold, contemptuous grace, his feet never even brushing the lethal trigger zones.
But as he neared the jagged coastline, the air changed. It began to reek of iron and clinical cruelty.
In a small, blood-stained clearing, he found the cost of The Covenant's ambition. A family of four wolves a father, a mother, and two pups lay scattered like discarded refuse. This wasn't a hunt for food or a clash over borders. It was an execution. Their bodies had been opened with surgical precision, their internal organs harvested like spare parts.
"Butchers," Fenris, his inner wolf, snarled with a primal, bone-deep fury. "They aren't hunting us, Damon. They are mining us. We are nothing but ingredients for their filth."
A dark, unshakable vow settled in Damon's chest. This was no longer just about Elara; it was a war for the soul of their kind. He silently covered the small bodies with a shroud of fallen leaves , a brief moment of respect before vanishing back into the gloom.
The Old Lighthouse loomed ahead, a jagged tooth of stone biting into the bruised sky. It wasn't just a building; it was a fortress.
Damon scaled the opposite cliffs, his fingers finding microscopic handholds that only Lycan sight could reveal. He tucked himself into a narrow, hidden grotto, a perfect eagle's nest overlooking the enemy's hive.
The security was terrifyingly modern. A shimmering Frequency Shield pulsed around the perimeter, a high-tech web designed to scramble the nervous system of any wolf attempting to shift. Below, the compound was crawling with activity. Dark-hooded figures the high priests of this cult moved among human mercenaries in tactical gear. They were unloading heavy, sterile crates filled with a glowing, mercury-like liquid.
The Lycan Serum.
Damon's blood ran cold. They weren't just ready; they were waiting.
He focused his vision on the man at the center a thin, skeletal figure with eyes that burned with the fever of a fanatic. Cyrus. The leader was obsessively checking several massive, reinforced cages iron boxes built to hold something far more powerful than a standard Alpha.
Then, Cyrus spread a massive parchment across a metal table. Damon zoomed in, his heart slowing to a heavy, deliberate thud. It was a Network Grid of every major pack in the country. Lines of infiltration and supply routes were marked in blood-red ink.
And there, highlighted in a bold, chilling black, was the Obsidian Pack.
It wasn't a target for capture. It was marked with a single, devastating command: "Immediate Elimination. The King is a Threat."
Cyrus wasn't just after the White Lycan; he was clearing the board. And Damon was the first king he intended to topple.
Damon pulled back, his face turning into a mask of immovable iron . The mission had shifted. He wasn't just a spy anymore; he was a silent executioner. To save Elara, he would have to dismantle this machine piece by piece, starting with the guards and ending with Cyrus's heart.