The air in the courtyard tasted of ash and impending public humiliation. Enkhtur’s smile, devoid of actual warmth, promised a spectacle. Before Zhalia could swat him aside, cold, sharp pressure slammed into her. Her White Wolf hummed, a low growl in her core, but the surge of power she anticipated never came. Instead, an odd, shimmering dampness settled over her, thick as sap. The elite guards, their expressions blank, moved with unnatural speed, their arms like iron bands. They didn't even bother to strike; they simply enveloped them. One seized Batzorig, still half-unconscious on Zhalia’s shoulder, another took her, and a third grabbed Iskra. Korzha, a pathetic heap on the ground, was scooped up by two more. The force was efficient, practiced. Almost like they knew this would happen. Zhalia briefly wondered if Enkhtur had planted the neurotoxin himself, just to shepherd them into this precise scenario. Typical. Always more drama than necessary. She was dragged, not gently, down a new set of subterranean passages, different from the lab. These were lined with smooth, dark volcanic glass that seemed to absorb all light and sound. Her White Wolf tried to flare, a familiar crackle of energy, but it fizzled, like a flame doused in water. A dull hum vibrated through the stone, an energy dampener. Clever, she supposed. Overly dramatic, but clever. They were thrown, one by one, into a series of cells carved directly from the vitrified basalt. Each cell was about twice the length of a full-grown wolf, with no visible door or cracks, just seamless, polished rock. Zhalia landed with a soft thump, rolling to her feet. Batzorig was tossed into the cell next to hers, groaning as he hit the unyielding floor. His aura, which usually thrummed like a caged storm, was a mere flicker, a sad, exhausted ember. Korzha and Iskra were in the cell beyond him, their muffled thuds barely audible. The silence that followed was absolute, heavy. Zhalia leaned against the cool basalt, crossing her arms. This was an inconvenience, not a crisis. She’d broken out of worse. But first, a moment to observe the fallout. “My parents,” Batzorig’s voice was a ragged whisper, utterly devoid of his usual Alpha command. It was the first time she’d heard him sound genuinely small. “It was all… a fabrication.” Zhalia just watched him through the translucent, shimmering barrier. The dampening field made even the sound seem distant, muted. He looked like a child who had just been told his entire life was a lie. Which, in a sense, it had been. All that chest-thumping, all that inherited power, all of it manufactured. It must be inconvenient. He pushed himself up, his eyes fixed on the blank stone. “I always hated the Blood-Rites. The posturing. The constant proving. Everyone expecting me to be… more. More dominant. More aggressive. Just like my father. Just like his father.” He sighed, a sound of profound weariness. “I just wanted to… I don’t know. Move to the coast. Open a small bakery. Make bread. Pastries. Something quiet. Something that didn’t involve tearing throats out and mediating disputes over hunting grounds.” Zhalia blinked. Of all the things she expected Batzorig to say, ‘I want to bake pastries’ was not among them. The possessive Alpha, the one who had tried to claim her in a crumbling cave and almost throttled his brother for looking at her, secretly yearned for a quiet life of kneading dough. It was so unexpected, so completely antithetical to the image he projected, that a flicker of something close to genuine respect stirred within her. The man was profoundly unsuited for his role, and he knew it. That, at least, was a form of self-awareness she could appreciate. “The coast is nice,” she murmured, her voice sounding thin against the dampener. “Less drama.” A small, humorless laugh escaped him. “Less drama. Exactly.” From the cell beyond, a fresh wave of choked sobs began. Korzha. Of course. His dramatic timing was impeccable, even in an anti-magic holding cell. “Iskra,” Korzha’s voice was thick with snot and tears. “I’m so sorry. I treated you like… like a political trophy. I didn’t see you. I was so caught up in myself. My power. My status. And it’s all gone. Every last shred.” He choked on the words. “I’m nothing.” Zhalia rolled her eyes. Still centered on himself, even in apology. Predictable. Iskra’s voice was quieter, less broken, but still held a tremor. “You were… convenient. A means to an end.” A pause. “But I didn’t think it would be this complete. This… ruinous. For you. For your pack. My people are fed now, but… it wasn’t supposed to be total annihilation.” “You mean you feel a twinge of guilt?” Korzha sniffled. “A very small twinge,” Iskra admitted. “Like a pebble in my shoe. Annoying, but not incapacitating.” Zhalia let out a soft snort. That was honest, at least. A pebble in the shoe. She could relate to the feeling. Just as Korzha started another round of whimpering apologies, the seamless mineral walls of their cells began to shimmer. Not with light, but with an internal energy, a dissolution. The dark, impenetrable surfaces thinned, then rippled, and finally, simply evaporated like mist. One moment, Zhalia was in a vitrified box; the next, she was standing in an open chamber, the dampening field lifting. Her White Wolf stretched, a quiet roar of returning power, a welcome warmth spreading through her limbs. Enkhtur’s cultists, a dozen of them, stood ready. Not the mind-controlled elite guards, but the pale, silent individuals Zhalia had seen serving Enkhtur in the archives. Their eyes, though not glazed, held a chilling fanaticism. They moved with a disturbing uniformity, seizing Zhalia and Batzorig by the arms. Korzha and Iskra were ignored, left to wallow in the dissolved cell’s footprint. “No, wait!” Batzorig protested, his voice regaining some of its Alpha resonance now that the dampener was gone. He struggled against the robed handlers, but they were surprisingly strong, and he was still recovering from the neurotoxin. He looked at Zhalia, a flicker of desperation in his eyes, as if expecting her to swat them all away. She considered it, briefly, but then decided against it. She wanted to see what Enkhtur had planned. The robed guards dragged them, side by side, down a short, brightly lit corridor that opened directly into an immense, cavernous space. The air here was thick with the scent of thousands of shifters, a collective hum of anticipation and unease. Torches flared from every alcove, illuminating tiered stone seating that rose dramatically, encircling a vast central platform. Every single seat was filled. The entire Targatai Basin, or at least its ruling class and their retinues, had been gathered. Their faces, a sea of expressions, were all turned toward the center. Enkhtur stood on the raised platform, bathed in a spotlight of moonlight filtering through a high, unseen skylight. He raised his hands, and a profound silence fell over the assembled thousands. His gaze, once again, found Zhalia, a predatory gleam in his usually serene eyes. He smiled, a grand, theatrical gesture, and his voice boomed, amplified by some unseen magic, across the arena. “Welcome, my children!” he declared, his arms sweeping wide. “We are gathered today for a sacred tradition! To witness the divine union chosen by the spirits! The Blood-Rite!” His eyes locked with Zhalia’s, challenging. “And the forging of our new, most powerful Alpha Pair!” His words echoed, and the assembled thousands murmured, a ripple of excitement and reverence. Zhalia felt the retainers tighten their grip, forcing her and Batzorig onto the platform. Batzorig struggled, a growl rumbling in his chest, but the retainers held fast. Zhalia, however, felt a strange calm settle over her. Let him have his theatrics. She was done with reacting. She was ready to dismantle. Enkhtur’s smile widened, triumphant, as he raised a ceremonial blade, gleaming obsidian, over his head. "Behold! The new era begins!"

Confessions in the Dark