At dusk the forest changed its voice.
Hundreds of feet — paws and boots, tires and silent tread — became a single living sound: a low, searching drum that rode the wind. Shadow after shadow moved through the trees, a black river of bodies and jackets and glinting eyes. Over four hundred wolves, split between Bode's city brood and Ige's old guard, flowed in wave after wave along paths that only the trackers and scouts knew. Lanterns were stowed; phones were dead; only the quiet tapping of radios on encrypted channels threaded between squad leaders.
Bode rode near the center, the bracelet at his wrist a cold pulse as the last of the light bled from the sky. He glanced once at Ige walking beside him — the old elder's face was carved into a mask of purpose — then out across the line. Men and women moved as if cued by a single breath: scouts a half-click ahead, flankers keeping the tree-line, the heavy hitters in the middle, and small, fast teams ready to drop off and run a roof or cut a wire. Tade circled at the rear with a column that could move like wind; his eyes were bright, young and hard.
No one spoke loudly. Small commands passed in clipped whispers, hands signaling lights down the line. The pack had rehearsed this choreography in parking lots, in alleys, in the late hours when the city slept. Tonight, the choreography was lethal in its simplicity: surround, cut the lines, seize the house, get the captives, and vanish.
Scouts slipped ahead and returned with little more than the confirmation they needed — gate secured with modern locks and old wards, guards on patrol, motion sensors tied into the security grid. Ronke's sigils had been a worry; Ronke herself, much more. But the charm on Bode's wrist meant they had a window: a time when the witch-crafted threads could be crossed without immediately snapping them back like live wire. Asha's ward would not solve everything, but it bought men a few precious minutes.
As the perimeter tightened, radios dipped to whispers:
"East flank, three squads. Cut power here."
"Roof team, silent. Two men per entry."
"Tade, lead the breach at the southeast gate when I give the hand — wait for the flare."
Fireflies blinked in the long grass; a night bird called once and then shut its beak, the world sensing the weight of what moved through it. Children asleep in distant houses dreamed on, unaware of the tide moving beneath their windows.
They crossed the last ridge under cover of a cloud that swallowed the moon. The mansion came into view then: ajamu's compound — heavy gates, stone pillars, old olive trees that held shadows like secrets. Security lights blinked like insect eyes; cameras tracked their approach uselessly. Men on the walls turned and watched, no idea yet how many would come.
Ige crouched near a knot of men and drew his hand across his throat — a single, precise signal. Tade acknowledged it with a silent nod, and squads folded in like the fingers of a hand closing.
Bode's voice, when it came, cut through the hush. Not loud, not theatrical — just the note that made every shoulder square, every jaw set.
"Remember the plan," he said. "Perimeter holds. We take no needless chances. Get Ore out. Get the boy. We move fast. We move smart. On my mark."
A distant dog barked once. A clock chimed somewhere inside the mansion. A faint electric hum vibrated through the ground.
Bode raised his hand. The line inhaled as one.
"Now."
And the forest answered — black shapes spilling down the slope, a living storm folding sound and shadow around them as they moved to break the gates and break the night.
The wolves swept through the outer grounds like a silent tide — shadows flickering between trees, throats opened before voices could cry, rifles falling useless to the grass. Every guard post fell within minutes; security lights went dark one after another as breakers were sliced. It was surgical, efficient — four hundred trained killers moving as one mind under Bode's command.
The mansion stood ahead, pale under the moon, its walls half-swallowed by mist. The air carried the copper tang of blood and wolfsbane, and every instinct in the pack screamed that something was wrong.
They advanced, spreading out along the tree line. Scouts signaled the all-clear, and Bode was about to give the order to move in when a strange flicker drew his eyes upward. His instincts screamed a half-second before his voice did.
"STOP!"
Every step froze. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Heads turned toward him in confusion — Ige, Tade, the frontline wolves — but Bode wasn't looking at them. His gaze was locked on the mansion's high balcony.
There, under the cold spill of light, stood Ajamu. His coat swayed lightly in the breeze, his eyes gleaming gold. And dangling from his fist — limp, silent, and horrifyingly still — was Ore. Her body hung by her neck, her hair brushing against his arm as if mocking gravity.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Ajamu's voice rolled across the distance, low, taunting, soaked with dark amusement.
> "I was beginning to wonder when you'd arrive…"
He lifted Ore higher, her head lolling forward, the pale skin of her throat catching the moonlight.
> "You took your time, Bode," he sneered, his grin stretching into something feral. "I've been waiting… and I must say—"
He shifted his grip slightly, fingers tightening just enough for the wolves below to growl in unison.
> "—my arm's getting very tired."
A rumble of fury tore through the gathered pack. Tade's eyes flared gold, his teeth clenched. Ige's aura surged beside him, instinct fighting discipline. But Bode raised a hand, eyes burning red now, holding everyone in place.
His jaw flexed as he forced his voice out, steady but sharp enough to cut air.
> "Let. Her. Go."
Ajamu chuckled — slow, deep, unhurried — the sound of a predator savoring control.
> "Oh, I will…" he said, tilting his head as if considering mercy.
"But first, let's talk about what I want."
Then he smiled wider, his hand still gripping Ore's neck, and every wolf below knew — this wasn't going to be a rescue.
It was the beginning of a war.