The sickly green pulsed against the backs of Zhalia’s eyelids even after the vision snapped shut. The icy heat in her forearm receded, leaving behind a phantom echo of the captive prisoner's terror. She blinked, the sharp, cold air of the Spire’s courtyard returning to her senses. Behind her, the two hulking Alphas still sat on the flagstones, their heads bowed beneath her suppression. “Just another Alpha power trip,” she muttered, dismissing it, but the thought curdled immediately. Elder Enkhtur’s precise, deliberate movements, the glowing serum, the *chains*. It wasn't Alpha posturing. It was… clinical. She remembered the bizarre vocal frequency in the archives, the way her own White Wolf spirit had momentarily seized, a puppet on invisible strings. And the mate-bond system, a tradition that forced people together, stripped of choice. It wasn’t spiritual; it was manufactured. Zhalia made a sharp turn, heading not for her quarters, but for the training barracks. Iskra, likely still reeling from their archive encounter, would be there. Her clan was starving. Her loyalty, for now, was to survival. A common ground Zhalia appreciated far more than grand pronouncements of destiny. She found Iskra honing a dulled training blade against a whetstone, the rhythmic scrape a stark counterpoint to the boisterous shouts of warriors sparring. Iskra glanced up, her posture instantly guarded. “Your clan still needs those supplies, doesn’t it?” Zhalia asked, cutting to the chase. “Enkhtur’s got them locked down. And he’s doing more than just hoarding food.” Iskra’s grip tightened on the blade. “What do you mean?” “The mate-bonds, the spiritual tradition, it’s all a lie,” Zhalia said, keeping her voice low. “A genetic program. I saw Enkhtur injecting a prisoner with some kind of synthetic serum. In the archives, he suppressed my wolf with a pitch pipe. He’s controlling us. Breeding us.” Iskra’s face, already gaunt, went utterly still. “You’re saying… the fated mate system isn’t natural?” “As artificial as the air in a sealed tomb,” Zhalia confirmed. “He’s got to have a lab, somewhere deep in the Spire. That map you were after – it showed access points to the lower levels, didn’t it?” Iskra hesitated, her gaze darting to the ring of brawlers, then back to Zhalia. “It showed hidden utility tunnels, maintenance shafts. They lead to the deepest sub-basements, supposedly for ancient waterworks. No one goes there.” “Good. Let’s go.” Zhalia didn’t wait for a reply, already turning towards the barracks exit. Iskra, after a moment’s internal debate, dropped her blade and followed, a shadow in Zhalia’s wake. Navigating the Spire’s subterranean levels was a maze of echoing passages and dripping stone. The air grew heavier, cooler, smelling of damp earth and something acrid. Iskra, surprisingly adept, led them through a series of narrow shafts, their descent marked by the occasional clatter of dislodged pebbles. They emerged into a vast, unlit vault, the air thick with the hum of unseen machinery. Zhalia’s White Wolf aura pulsed, casting a soft, ethereal glow, illuminating their surroundings. The rock chamber was enormous, cut with clean, unnatural precision. Along its walls, rows upon rows of massive, transparent vats glimmered. Each cylinder contained a viscous, iridescent liquid, swirling with faint, silver motes. Floating within many of them were intact phantom wolves—some chalk white, others a spectrum of grays, reds, and blacks—suspended like trophies. Their forms were skeletal, hollow, yet the silver motes, Zhalia realized, were being siphoned into a central conduit that pulsed with green light. “What… what is this?” Iskra whispered, knuckles pressed against her mouth. Zhalia’s gaze fell upon a nearby control panel. A stark, simple label was etched into the corroded metal: *Essence of Lupa Vitae – Mated Soul Imprints*. Beneath it, a series of smaller vats, each connected to the central conduit, hummed with a fresh, vibrant green glow. These bore engraved nameplates. Zhalia scanned the brass plates, noting names of prominent Alphas, pack founders, and heirs from the current generation. It wasn't spiritual destiny; it was fluid distilled from dead bodies, refined and re-injected. “They’re harvesting the wolves,” Zhalia stated, voice flat. “Taking the raw power, the spiritual connection, and then… engineering new ones. Creating Alphas. Creating fated mates.” A growl rebounded across the subterranean hall. “Zhalia!” Batzorig emerged from the shadows, his massive form filling the entrance to the cavern, his stare lock-jawed and aggressive. His gaze, usually fixed solely on Zhalia, flicked to Iskra, a low snarl rumbling in his chest. “What are you doing down here? And with *her*?” “Taking a tour of your family’s dirty secrets,” Zhalia deadpanned, gesturing to the vats. “Care to explain the forced genetic manipulation?” Batzorig stalked forward, his Alpha presence overwhelming. “Genetic manipulation? You think I’d allow such a thing? This is a sacred place, Zhalia. For the ancestors. You have no right–” He stopped, his eyes falling on a particularly large vat, humming with a familiar, deep crimson marrow. It was positioned prominently, almost reverently, near the central conduit. A small, elegant plaque was affixed to its side. He read the names aloud, his voice dropping to a stunned whisper. “Korbin. Bayarmaa.” The names of his parents. His renowned Alpha father. His celebrated Luna mother. The very foundation of his lineage, his pride, his existence. All extracted, processed, cataloged. He stumbled back, his boots scuffing the wet flags as his aura guttered down to nothing. “No,” he breathed, a raw, primal denial. “This is a lie. A trick. My parents were… real. Their bond was real.” Zhalia pointed toward the tank, then to the smaller, vibrant green ones marked with cadet names. “Your ‘sacred’ mate-bond was synthesized, Batzorig. Just like Korzha’s. Just like mine was supposed to be.” Her White Wolf spirit flared, a silent, powerful assertion of truth. Batzorig stared at the fluid containing his parents' remains, mouth slack, unmoored. As his hand reached for the brass plaque, a metallic groan echoed through the chamber. The massive, brutalist blast doors, the very ones Batzorig had entered through, began to slide shut with a heavy, grinding finality. A clear, calm voice, amplified by hidden speakers, filled the space. Elder Enkhtur’s voice. “Well, well. It seems my pet project has found her way to the heart of the operation. And brought some interesting company.” A hiss blew from overhead grates, and sweet, pale green vapor dropped into the chamber, coiling around the vats of stolen wolves. “A shame. I had hoped to preserve your unique strain, Zhalia. But a disobedient specimen must be culled. This neurotoxin, you see, is specifically designed to strip the wolf from its host, permanently. A rather elegant solution, wouldn’t you agree?” The green mist thickened, obscuring the gruesome vats, swirling menacingly towards them. Batzorig choked, fingers digging into his collar as the first tendrils of gas reached him.

The Eugenics Laboratory