The fortress no longer sang with Seraphina's voice. The silence was unbearable.
Dominic moved like a shadow through his lands, his presence heavier, darker than it had ever been. His wolves could feel it—the storm coiling beneath his skin, the beast sharpening itself for war. He did not howl his grief to the moon; he buried it in steel and blood.
Every night, he walked to the edge of the forest where Seraphina had been taken. His claws would gouge into the trees, his growl shaking the earth. But when the rage passed, what remained was a hollow ache, one no blade could kill.
The pack feared for him, yet they also revered him. His obsession gave them strength. He was no longer just their Alpha—he was vengeance itself.
---
But Dominic was not reckless. Rage was fire, and fire burned indiscriminately. He needed precision. He needed war not of armies, but of shadows.
"Strike their heart," he said one night in the war council, his voice low and ruthless. "Not their armies, not their banners—their soul. The church feeds on faith. If faith falters, their empire cracks."
His lieutenants leaned in. He spoke of strikes against supply lines, whispers seeded in towns, priests found dead with wolf marks carved into their skin. Not open battle—psychological war.
"They call me beast?" Dominic growled. "Then let them believe the beast waits outside their doors. Let every shadow remind them of me. Let every prayer taste of fear."
---
The first strike fell within a week.
A caravan bearing relics to the cathedral was found overturned, its guards slaughtered with surgical precision. A single message was left behind, burned into the wood of the cart:
"She is not yours."
Whispers spread through the villages like wildfire. The siren, the prophecy, had not been abandoned to the church. Her mate hunted, and nothing holy would protect them.
The priests panicked. Soldiers doubled patrols. Bells tolled through the nights. Yet every precaution only made their fear more visible.
Dominic had declared private war.
---
Seraphina felt it even within her gilded cage.
In the cathedral, they tried to shape her into a symbol—draped her in white silk, set her before choirs, demanded she sing in service of their rituals. But she gave them nothing of her true song. She sang only fragments, hollow notes that carried no magic.
Still, she felt the shift. Priests whispered of caravans destroyed, inquisitors found dead in their beds, villagers vanishing on roads where wolves prowled.
And then, one night, Maeron came to her chamber with rage barely contained behind his perfect smile.
"Your Alpha plays a dangerous game," he hissed, slamming his palm against the wall beside her head. "He dares strike holy ground. Every act of defiance only tightens the chain around your neck."
Seraphina looked into his eyes and, for the first time, smiled.
"Then perhaps the chain is not as strong as you believe."
His jaw clenched. For the briefest moment, she saw fear in his eyes.
---
The fear spread further when Dominic's wolves infiltrated the city itself.
A priest was found hanging upside down from the cathedral gates, his blood painting the words:
"Prophecy belongs to no man."
The church tried to hide it, but rumors could not be smothered. Faithful villagers began to question. Whispers turned into doubt, doubt into defiance. If the wolves could strike the very heart of the church, then perhaps their gods were not as invincible as they claimed.
The cardinal council raged.
"This Alpha must be destroyed," Veynar thundered. "His war spreads blasphemy like plague. He poisons the faithful."
"But how?" another demanded. "Every legion we send north vanishes. Every scout disappears. He does not fight battles—he devours shadows."
Maeron stood silent, his eyes cold. He knew the truth. This was not simply a wolf's vengeance. This was love weaponized, devotion sharpened into blades.
And Maeron hated that truth more than anything.
---
Dominic, meanwhile, did not rest. His war spread like a sickness. Wolves struck without pattern, without mercy. They burned granaries one night, then left entire villages untouched the next. They whispered Seraphina's name into the ears of children, carved her sigil into church doors.
It was not about territory. It was about fear.
The church's armies grew restless, paranoid. Soldiers struck at shadows, killed innocents, burned their own villages in desperate attempts to flush out wolves that were not there. And with every act of brutality, faith in the church cracked further.
Dominic watched from the wilds, his eyes always toward the south. Every strike brought him closer. Every whisper carried his promise: I am coming for you.
---
But private war was not without cost.
One night, a squad of his wolves did not return. Their bodies were later found staked outside the cathedral walls, silver through their hearts, their heads bowed as warnings.
Dominic stood before their remains in silence. His wolves waited for his rage, but none came. Only a cold vow.
"We burn their holy walls," he said. "Brick by brick. They think themselves untouchable. We show them nothing is sacred."
That night, the outer chapel of Saint Lucien erupted in flames. Wolves howled in the distance as the fire consumed stained glass and holy relics. The city woke to the sound of collapsing spires, to the sight of their cathedral bleeding fire.
The church called it sacrilege. The people called it revelation.
And in her chamber, Seraphina pressed her hands to her mouth, tears streaming. She knew whose hand had guided that flame.
---
Yet with every victory, Dominic felt the bond pulling tighter. Nights became unbearable without her. His dreams were filled with her voice, sometimes sweet, sometimes screaming. He woke with his claws dug into his own flesh, her name the only word on his lips.
The war was not enough. He needed her.
And so, he began planning not strikes, but a storm.
"Enough whispers," he told his lieutenants. "Enough shadows. We end this. Not with patience. With blood."
His wolves bowed, their eyes blazing. The Alpha had chosen the moment.
The private war would become a siege.
---
Inside the cathedral, Seraphina prepared in her own way. She had learned the patterns of the guards, the weaknesses in the rituals, the rivalries among priests. Every day, she listened. Every night, she memorized.
Her voice remained silent, but her will grew louder. She would not be the church's weapon. She would be Dominic's storm.
The night the outer chapel burned, she whispered into the dark, her voice carrying no power yet heavy with intent:
Find me, Dominic. I am waiting.
---
The city of Saint Lucien awoke days later to the sound of wolves howling—not from the wilds, but from within their walls.
The private war had ended. The siege had begun.
Dominic had come for his mate.