The forest changed before the attack began.
Stacy sensed it first.
She had been walking for nearly two hours, moving along the outer edge of Silver Crest territory. The land here was less controlled. Patrol markers thinned. The scent lines were faint. The trees grew denser and older.
Unclaimed territory began just beyond the river ahead.
She intended to cross it by midday.
The morning air had been cold but clear. Now it feels heavier. Not unstable like dominance surges.
Predatory.
She slowed her steps.
The threads inside her chest tugged faintly. Not toward Mark.
Outward.
Scattered.
Fractured energy.
Rogues.
Unlike pack wolves, rogues did not regulate dominance. They severed bonds and abandoned hierarchy. Their wolves were raw instinct. Unfiltered aggression. Their presence always felt jagged.
A branch snapped to her left.
She did not turn.
Another sound behind her.
Too deliberate to be an animal.
She stopped walking.
Silence pressed in.
Five heartbeats.
Six.
Then the wind shifted.
The scent hit her.
Unwashed fur. Old blood. Hunger.
Three of them.
No.
Four.
Encircling.
She did not run.
Running triggered a chase instinct.
Instead, she stepped forward calmly into a small clearing near the riverbank.
"Show yourselves," she said evenly.
A low chuckle answered her from the trees.
"You smell different," a rough male voice called out.
One rogue stepped into view.
Tall. Scarred. Clothes torn and stained. His eyes were too bright, too wild.
Two more emerged from opposite sides.
The fourth stayed hidden.
Smart.
She catalogued them quickly.
Lean but strong.
Not starving.
Organized enough to hunt in formation.
"Silver Crest territory is behind you," she said calmly. "Crossing borders without claim invites retaliation."
The scarred rogue smirked.
"We do not answer to Alphas."
"That much is obvious."
He tilted his head slightly, studying her.
"You are not marked."
"Correct."
"But you smell like them."
She held his gaze.
"Like who?"
"Power."
The word was spoken almost reverently.
The fourth rogue moved behind her.
She felt him through the shift in air pressure.
"I am not your enemy," she said.
Scarred Rogue laughed.
"Everyone is enemy."
Without warning, he lunged.
Fast.
Too fast for human reflex.
But she was not fully human.
She pivoted sideways, narrowly avoiding his claws as they sliced through her jacket sleeve.
Pain burned across her arm.
She did not hiss.
Did not flinch.
The second rogue attacked from the right simultaneously.
Coordinated.
So they were not mindless.
She dropped low, sweeping her leg into his knee. Bone cracked. He roared and fell.
The third came from behind.
Too close.
Claws grazed her back.
Heat exploded across her spine.
She stumbled forward.
The fourth rogue finally revealed himself, blocking her path toward the river.
Trapped.
Scarred Rogue circled again.
"You fight like a pack," he observed.
"I was packed."
"Were."
He lunged again.
This time she did not dodge fully.
His claws sliced across her shoulder.
Blood spilled.
The scent hit the air.
Everything changed.
The rogues froze for half a second.
Not because of weakness.
Because the blood smelled wrong.
Not an ordinary wolf.
Not a pure pack.
Something layered.
Ancient.
Scarred Rogue inhaled sharply.
"What are you?" he whispered.
She felt it then.
The threads inside her chest flared.
Not outward.
Inward.
Her pulse deepened.
The air around her shifted subtly.
The injured rogue on the ground whimpered.
The one behind her took an involuntary step back.
Dominance radiated from her.
Not aggressive.
Not sharp like Mark's.
Heavy.
Grounding.
The forest responded.
Leaves rustled without wind.
The river current slowed slightly at its edge.
Scarred Rogue growled, trying to resist the pressure.
"You are not Alpha," he spat.
"No," she replied calmly.
"But I am not prey."
He roared and charged again.
This time she did not retreat.
As he reached her, she stepped forward instead of back.
Her hand caught his wrist mid strike.
The moment skin touched skin, the unstable dominance inside him reacted violently.
He gasped.
Not in pain.
In shock.
His wolf surged outward uncontrollably under her contact.
Raw instinct met structured balance.
It felt like two currents colliding.
She tightened her grip.
"Stand down," she said quietly.
The words carried weight beyond sound.
The other rogues dropped to one knee involuntarily.
Not submission.
Overwhelm.
Scarred Rogue trembled under her hold.
His aggression fractured.
His breathing turned ragged.
"You… anchor," he whispered hoarsely.
The word hit her harder than the claws had.
Anchor.
So even rogues recognized the sensation.
She released him abruptly.
He staggered backward.
The pressure in the clearing lifted slightly.
"I do not belong to a pack," she said steadily. "And I do not belong to you."
Scarred Rogue looked at her differently now.
Not a predator.
Not a rival.
Cautious.
"You walk alone," he said.
"Yes."
"That is dangerous."
"I am aware."
The injured rogue slowly stood, clutching his broken knee.
Scarred Rogue studied her one last time.
"You will be hunted," he said.
"By rogues?"
"By Alphas."
The statement lingered.
He gestured sharply to his group.
They retreated into the trees without another word.
Within seconds, they vanished.
The forest quieted.
Stacy stood alone in the clearing.
Her shoulder burned.
Her back throbbed.
Blood soaked through her jacket.
But deeper than pain, realization settled in.
Her presence did not just stabilize Alphas.
It regulated rogue wolves too.
If she could calm raw dominance without bond or hierarchy…
Then the Council's fear was justified.
Because that meant balance did not require the Alpha system at all.
A sharp pulse hit her chest suddenly.
Distance.
Mark.
He felt the attack.
Not through bond.
Through an imbalance spike.
She closed her eyes briefly.
He was steady.
But searching.
She pressed her palm against a nearby tree and inhaled slowly.
The land responded.
Not loudly.
Subtly.
Grounding her again.
When she opened her eyes, her gaze was clearer.
The rogue had been right about one thing.
She would be hunted.
Not because she was weak.
Because she represented something dangerous.
Independence.
Miles away, inside Silver Crest territory, Mark stood abruptly from his desk.
The surge had been sharp.
Violent.
Then abruptly muted.
Not like death.
Like containment.
His jaw tightened.
"She encountered something," he murmured.
Beta Liam looked up from across the room.
"Do we deploy?"
Mark hesitated.
His instincts screamed to pursue.
To secure.
To dominate the threat.
But he still forced himself.
"No."
Liam frowned.
"Alpha"
"She handled it."
"How do you know?"
Mark's eyes were distant for a moment.
"Because the surge stabilized without external interference."
He walked back to the window slowly.
The forest beyond the pack house looked calm.
Too calm.
"She is not prey," he said quietly.
Back at the riverbank, Stacy tore fabric from her inner shirt and wrapped her shoulder tightly.
Her breathing steadied.
The pain grounded her.
She looked across the river.
Unclaimed land stretched beyond.
Rough.
Wild.
Unregulated.
She stepped into the water without hesitation.
Cold current wrapped around her legs.
The threads inside her shifted again as she crossed fully into unclaimed territory.
Behind her, Silver Crest faded.
Ahead of her, something larger was waiting.
Not rogues.
Not Alphas.
Something older.
And for the first time since signing the divorce papers, she felt no reaction.
But direction.