A chill, ancient and biting, settled into Bozan. It was the same frost that had claimed the woman who bore him, her face drawn taut with pain he had been too young to understand. He remembered the faint silver sheen on her lips, the way her laughter had faded to a brittle cough. His father, Dabrak, had watched her with a grim, distant sorrow, never touching her, never trying to intervene with the raw magic devouring her from within. He had been a small whelp, clutching at his father’s tunic, begging him to save her. Dabrak had merely turned away, muttering about the ‘price of power’ and the ‘sacrifice for the pack’. Bozan remembered her last breath, a rasped syllable of his name, a frantic reach that dropped limp against the furs. He remembered the rage, a feral, untamed thing, that had ignited in his small chest then, a vow made in the face of his father’s cold indifference: never again. No other soul would be claimed by this ancient, cruel magic. He would break the cycle, no matter the cost. The cold intensified, but this time, it was not memory. It was the hard, blood-slicked earth against his back, the crushing weight in his chest. A blinding light. A face. Neyza. Her eyes burned above him, fierce and wild. Her breath, ragged and quick, ghosted his face as she worked. He could feel her hands, small but impossibly strong, pressing down on him, a strange, burning ache in his own chest mirroring hers. She was ignoring it, he realized, ignoring the fever unraveling her veins, the same rot that tore through his bloodline. “No,” he croaked, the sound a wet, rasping thing. His eyes fluttered open, clarity, cold and sharp, returning. The Ghorza beasts still howled around them, the din of battle a distant, terrifying symphony. But here, in this small, bloody circle, it was only Neyza and him. Her brow furrowed, a bead of sweat tracing a path down her temple, mingling with a smear of his own blood. Her hands paused, hovering over the gaping wound in his chest. He saw silver threads mapping the pale skin of her forearms, proof of the sickness spreading inward. “Don’t you dare,” she snarled, her voice tight with raw fury. “Don’t you dare give up. You hear me, Bozan Karsal? I am not letting you die.” She pushed a thick wad of herb-soaked cloth against the gash, her face set in fierce concentration. “I swear by my mentor’s name, you will not die on my watch.” He wanted to tell her it was futile, that the wound was beyond healing for any normal wolf. But this wasn’t just a normal wolf. This was an Alpha, and the magic that defined him was also the magic that was killing her. And he was so tired of fighting. So tired of the constant, aching fear for her. He had seen the future, the inevitable, if this bond persisted. He had seen that fading spark once before, in the room where he was raised. He would not let it happen again. “Neyza,” he gasped, his voice barely a whisper, the effort driving needles of fire across his broken ribs. “Let me go.” Her head snapped up, her eyes, usually a warm, earthy brown, blazing with fierce, unyielding resolve. “What did you say?” she demanded, her hands still. The pressure on his chest eased, leaving his stomach churning with sour bile. “It’s the only way,” he managed, the words tearing from his throat, each one a sacrifice. “To break the bond. To save you. The magic… it will burn you out. You have so little time left. My death… it severs it.” His gaze, clear and unblinking, pleaded with her. “Please. Let it end.” Her face, already pale, went ashen. The frantic energy that had propelled her through the battlefield seemed to drain away, leaving her hollow. “No,” she breathed, the single word sharp, cutting through the chaos. “No. I won’t. I won’t let you.” She resumed her frantic work, fingers jerking as she fought the tremor in her wrists. She pressed her thumbs deep into the torn flesh, probing for an artery, her face contorted in a grimace of focus. “It’s inevitable,” he insisted, a cold certainty in his tone. “Every Alpha bond to a human… it has always ended this way. Do you think Dabrak was lying? He wants me to die, but not like this. He wants to watch you fade. And then he will have his revenge. For the clinic. For the humiliation.” He coughed, a spray of silver-tinged blood escaping his lips. “I saw it. In the archives. The scroll… it was clear. The only cure is the Alpha’s sacrifice.” Neyza flinched, her hands faltering. The memory of the archive, the forbidden kiss, the cold, devastating banishment – it all slammed into her, twisting her resolve with icy doubt. His words, stark and undeniable, echoed the terror Dabrak had sown. Focused entirely on binding his torn chest, she had ignored the venom ticking in her own blood. “There has to be another way!” she cried, her voice cracking. “There must be!” She reached for her satchel, pulling out a vial of a potent, glowing analgesic, her hands trembling as she tried to administer it. “I refuse to believe it!” “There is not,” Bozan said, his voice softer now, almost resigned. “Only this.” He reached a trembling hand toward her face, his thumb gently brushing her cheek, a ghost of a touch. “Live, Neyza. Live for us both.” Before she could respond, before she could argue, a new, chilling voice cut through the din of battle, cold and imperious. “How touching.” Neyza’s head whipped around. Dabrak Karsal stood ten paces away, flanked by a dozen heavily armed pack guards, steel catching the cold mountain dusk. His eyes, dark and predatory, swept over the bloody scene, a cruel smile touching his lips. Chulpan, who had been guarding Neyza’s back, let out a low, warning growl, but the lynx was outmatched, surrounded. “A fitting end for a traitorous Alpha,” Dabrak continued, his voice resonating with chilling satisfaction. “And his human pet. You both stand accused of consorting with the enemy, abandoning the pack, and weakening our defenses. For this, your lives are forfeit.” He raised a hand, his gaze fixed on Neyza, then on his dying son. “For the good of Oskara, for the survival of the Tarnok… execute them.” The loyalists raised their weapons, a deadly chorus of clicks filling the air.

The Price of Power