Ex-Alpha's Regret: Siren's Comeback novel Chapter 61

POV: Seraphina

The scent of blood and scorched earth clung to the air, a grim perfume that even the stone walls of the Thorne citadel could not keep out. From the highest rampart, my father, Marcus Thorne, commanded the battlefield. He was no longer just an Alpha; he was a force of nature, a silver-haired tempest of righteous fury. His warriors, outnumbered but not outmatched, moved with the desperate, coordinated grace of a pack defending its heart. They were a wall of snarling teeth and flashing claws against the rabid, undisciplined tide of Fenrir's horde.

Marcus was at the center of it all, his greatsword a blur of silver, his voice a clarion call that cut through the din of battle. He moved like a veteran of a hundred wars, anticipating every feint, countering every charge. He parried a blow from a hulking Ironfang brute, spun, and disemboweled another with a single, economical slash. His presence was a beacon, and his warriors fought with the strength of ten, inspired by the sight of their Alpha bleeding and fighting beside them. The first wave of Fenrir's attack broke against the Thorne defenses like water against rock, leaving a gruesome shoreline of bodies at the base of the citadel walls. The battle had reached a bloody, bitter stalemate.

Meanwhile, miles away, another Alpha was losing a different kind of war.

POV: Damian

The gilded cage of my study had become a torture chamber. I paced the length of the vast Aubusson rug, the silence of the manor a mocking counterpoint to the storm raging in my mind. Every hour, a new report arrived from the front, each one a fresh lash of failure.

"Ironfang forces have failed to breach the main gate."

"Alpha Thorne is leading the defense personally. Morale is high."

"Fenrir's losses are mounting. He has requested reinforcements."

This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. This was meant to be a swift, surgical strike. A show of overwhelming force that would have Marcus begging for terms within hours. Instead, my hyena had met a lion, and the old lion still had his teeth.

A flicker of relief. Perhaps the butcher had finally come to his senses.

"But," Elias continued, his voice grim, "our scouts report a second, smaller force breaking away. They're moving fast. Heading north, towards the ancestral caves."

The ancestral caves. Where the pack's non-combatants were sheltered. The old, the sick. The women. The pups.

The blood in my veins turned to ice. Fenrir wasn't regrouping. He was changing tactics. He was going after the heart.