The Journey, Book 3: Chapter 11 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 12, Cornered.
Fangthorn Forest lives up to its name. Convel feels it the moment his paws cross its boundary, the ground stiff with thorn roots that snag at fur and skin. Bramble bushes choke the forest floor in dense, spiked tangles, their hooked thorns curving inward like clenched claws. They do not merely grow here—they climb. The brambles wind up the trunks of ancient trees, spiralling and twisting, tightening until bark disappears beneath a living cage of thorns. Some trees stand half-dead, swallowed so completely they resemble monuments strangled by time and hunger.
The air smells sharp and green, threaded with rot. Scents overlap and smear together—deer trails dissolving into confusion, rabbit musk vanishing beneath the bitter tang of sap and thorn. Even sound behaves strangely. The forest absorbs it. Hooves do not echo. Wings beat once and are gone. Fangthorn seems to listen more than it speaks.
Convel leads the hunt with three betas flanking him, their formation practiced, silent, and tense. They have hunted forests before, but this place resists them. Each step forward feels earned. Each choice matters more than usual, because far from the Termini Mountains and the safety of the caves, failure carries a longer shadow. Jesser’s four pups are no longer small enough to survive on scraps or luck. Adolescence brings hunger, and hunger demands answers from an alpha.
Miles away, Auburn stands alert, her body still while her senses strain outward. She cannot name what troubles her, only that it presses against her thoughts like a low, constant pressure. It is not fear exactly—fear has shape and direction—but something quieter and more persistent. The wind carries familiar forest scents, yet beneath them lies an absence, as if something has been erased rather than added. Auburn knows Convel’s duty. She knows the pack must eat. Still, the unease remains, coiled tight in her chest, refusing to loosen.
As Convel pushes deeper into Fangthorn, the forest seems to close around the pack, brambles tightening their grip on earth and tree alike. The hunt becomes more than a search for prey—it becomes a test of judgement, instinct, and whether the alpha can sense the danger that Auburn feels but cannot yet see.
A violent crack splits the air, sharp enough to make Convel flinch despite himself. The bramble-choked trees ahead shudder, their thorn-wrapped trunks groaning as though in pain. Then an ancient tree begins to fall.
It does not topple quickly. The massive trunk splits along a spiral of rot and strain, the brambles clinging to it snapping one by one as the tree lists, groans, and finally crashes down. The impact is thunderous. The ground jumps beneath Convel’s paws, a deep tremor that runs through soil, root, and bone. Dust and dead leaves billow upward, carrying the sharp stink of torn earth and splintered wood.
Birds explode from the canopy in screaming panic. They do not circle. They flee.
The forest reacts as if wounded. Branches sway where no wind passes. Thorned vines creak and tighten, scraping against bark with slow, awful patience. Then comes the growl—low, guttural, and layered, as though more than one throat is shaping the sound. It rolls through Fangthorn, not echoing so much as pressing outward, vibrating through the ground itself.
Heavy stomps follow.
Not hurried. Not clumsy. Each step lands with deliberate weight, compressing the earth hard enough that Convel feels it through his legs and chest. Whatever approaches does not move like prey. It does not flee. It advances.
The betas shift uneasily, muscles taut, teeth bared in silent warning. Convel lifts his head, scenting hard, but the air offers him nothing familiar—only the sharp tang of disturbed bramble and something older, fouler beneath it, like stone left too long in stagnant water.
Far away, Auburn’s unease finally finds its shape.
The wind carries the echo of the fallen tree, and with it a pressure that makes her chest tighten. Her ears flatten as the distant growl reaches her, faint but unmistakable. This is not the forest speaking. This is something moving through it, something that bends the land to its passage. Auburn lets out a low warning call toward the pack, her voice steady but edged with urgency. The pups stir at the sound, restless, sensing danger they do not yet understand.
Back in Fangthorn, Convel lowers his stance, every instinct screaming caution. The hunt has shifted into something else entirely. The forest is no longer merely hostile—it is disturbed. Whatever caused the ancient tree to fall is still moving, and it is moving with purpose.
They come through Fangthorn like a wound opening.
The bramble does not slow them. Thorned vines snap and tear beneath heavy boots and bare, calloused feet wrapped in filthy leather sandals. Armour creaks and groans with every step—roughly shaped plates of rusted metal lashed together with cracked cord and scraps of hide. Nothing about them is forged with care. Everything about them is made to endure.
Undgrols move in numbers, a thick mass of grey bodies forcing their way through the forest without pause or caution. Their skin hangs tight and leathery over jutting bone, stretched thin as if life itself has been rationed. They look starved and swollen at once, mouths slack with crooked teeth, eyes sunk deep beneath heavy brows. The stink of them fouls the air—old sweat, rot, iron, and something sour that clings long after they pass.
Weapons knock and scrape as they march. Roughly made scimitars with uneven edges drag against bramble and bark, leaving gouges in wood and vine. Spiked maces hang heavy in clenched fists, their heads dark with old stains. The sound of metal on thorn is constant, ugly, and loud. They make no attempt at silence. Nothing here frightens them.
At their center stomps the chief.
Bokbok is broader than the others, his armour thicker, his presence undeniable. He barks orders in sharp, guttural bursts—his language a series of throaty undulations and snapping consonants that ripple through the ranks. Each command drives the undgrols forward faster, harder, their formation tightening like a fist.
In one clawed hand, Bokbok carries a strange object: a roughly shaped dias of warped metal and stone, etched with symbols long worn down by use. At its center, a thin needle flickers and twitches, never quite still. Bokbok glances at it constantly, adjusting their course with small jerks of his arm. Each time the needle quivers, his lip curls in satisfaction.
The forest groans as they pass. Another tree cracks under careless force, its bramble-bound trunk splitting before collapsing in a shriek of tearing wood. The undgrols do not slow. They step over roots and shattered branches alike, trampling Fangthorn as if it were already conquered.
Somewhere ahead, unseen, something watches.
The needle turns.
And the march continues.
Convel sees them before they see him.
The moment his eyes catch the unnatural movement ahead, the stench hits him—thick, rancid, and wrong. It floods his senses all at once, burning through the forest’s sharp green smells and replacing them with rot, iron, and old sweat. Instinct takes over. Convel drops low to the ground, belly pressed to cold earth, and the betas mirror him without a sound. Four direwolves become shadows among thorn and root.
They watch.
Undgrols crowd the clearing ahead, their armour creaking, weapons knocking together as they shift their weight. Then the movement stops. Bokbok raises a clenched fist, and the mass of bodies halts as one. Silence settles, thin and fragile.
The needle on the strange dias stops twitching.
It points straight ahead.
Bokbok squints into the forest, lip curling as he searches the bramble-choked shadows. He sees nothing. With a sharp grunt, he shakes the dias. The needle spins wildly, rattling against its housing, then snaps back into stillness—once again pointing dead ahead.
A low growl of irritation rolls from Bokbok’s throat. He barks an order.
The undgrols begin to spread out, slow and deliberate, boots and sandals crunching over thorn and root as they fan into the forest. They do not rush. They expect resistance.
Convel’s ears flatten. His breath stays slow, controlled. Without lifting his head, he murmurs to two of his betas, voice barely more than a breath through fur and teeth. Stay low. Stay silent.
The two peel away immediately, bodies flowing through bramble and shadow, branching out to either side. Thorns scrape fur, but neither wolf flinches. Fangthorn may bite, but it knows them better than it knows the intruders.
Convel remains still, eyes locked on Bokbok and the spinning needle that now points toward him and his pack. There will be no clean escape. The forest has already chosen its battleground.
Fifteen to four.
Convel bares his teeth soundlessly. This will not be a hunt. This will be survival.
The betas strike like ghosts given teeth.
From the bramble-choked flanks they surge forward, low and fast, using Fangthorn’s own cruelty as cover. Thorns part just enough. Shadows detach themselves from roots and bark. Before the undgrols can turn, jaws close around the backs of thick, corded necks. There is a sharp crack—bone giving way—then silence.
One falls. Then another.
The second beta mirrors the first on the opposite side, snapping and releasing with brutal efficiency. Four undgrols collapse into the bramble, bodies folding as if their strings have been cut. The forest swallows them quickly, thorns already clawing at grey flesh and filthy armour.
For a heartbeat, no one notices.
Then one undgrol turns and sees a body at his feet that had been standing moments before. He bellows in alarm, a harsh, broken sound that tears through the trees.
Bokbok whirls.
The chief’s growl is deep and furious, his language spilling out in sharp, guttural bursts as he berates his soldiers for their blindness, their carelessness. Spittle flies from his mouth as he gestures violently with the dias, the needle spinning in agitation.
His fury finds a target.
With a barked command, Bokbok points at the undgrol who raised the alarm. The message is immediate and unmistakable. Another undgrol steps forward without hesitation, lifts his scimitar, and swings.
The blade takes the head, but poorly.
The body crumples in a spray of motion and noise, and the forest recoils from the ugliness of it. Bokbok does not look away. He snarls one final order, and the remaining undgrols tighten their formation, fear and obedience twisting together in their ranks.
From the shadows, Convel watches it all.
A slow, silent baring of teeth curves his muzzle—not triumph, but calculation. The numbers shift in his mind with cold clarity.
Fifteen have become ten.
The forest holds its breath again, brambles creaking softly, as both sides prepare for what comes next.
The forest claims two more without ceremony.
From within the thorned shadows, the betas move again—silent, precise. One undgrol stiffens as teeth find the base of his skull. Another is dragged down mid-step, boots scraping uselessly against root and vine before the brambles close over him. There is no scream this time. Fangthorn muffles everything.
Bokbok feels the loss more than he sees it.
His snarl rips through the clearing, thick with rage. He spits curses in his native tongue, then forces the words into the harsh shape of human speech, voice scraping raw as stone on stone.
“Foul beasts,” he growls. “No honour in shadows. Show self now. I fight one on one.”
The two betas melt back through the thorns and reappear beside Convel, chests heaving softly, blood dripping from their jaws to darken the soil. They take their places without sound.
Convel does not move.
He remains low, still as root and stone, letting the insult hang and rot in the air. When he speaks, his voice is calm, steady, carrying just far enough.
“Foul beasts you call us,” he says. “Yet it is your stench that disturbs our peace.”
The words land cleanly.
Bokbok’s lips peel back from his teeth in a furious snarl, but he does not answer. His grip tightens on the dias instead. Whatever burns in his chest is chained there by purpose—by orders given from above. The needle trembles, then steadies.
Convel turns his head slightly to the beta at his side. A single glance passes between them. He murmurs low, firm, unmistakable.
“Go. Warn Auburn. Warn the others.”
The female beta hesitates, eyes searching his face, fear and loyalty warring in her posture. Then she bows her head once and vanishes into Fangthorn, her form swallowed by thorn and shadow.
Convel shifts his gaze to the remaining two. “Hide. Stay hidden.”
They do not argue. They fade back into the forest as if they were never there at all.
Bokbok’s patience snaps. “Show self now!” he bellows. “Or are you coward?”
This time, the forest answers.
Convel rises.
He steps forward into the open, massive frame unfolding from shadow and bramble. Thorns scrape along his fur as he straightens, eyes locked on the undgrol chief. He does not bare his teeth. He does not growl.
He simply stands—alpha made flesh—alone, outnumbered, and unbowed.
Convel does not rush.
Neither does Bokbok.
For a heartbeat they measure one another—predator to war-chief, instinct against intention. Bokbok moves first, boots grinding into the soil as he advances with practiced weight, spiked mace low, scimitar angled to herd rather than cleave. He does not roar. He does not waste breath. His goal is not death. It is control.
Convel feels that difference immediately.
The mace comes down hard, meant to shatter bone or force him off balance. Convel twists aside at the last instant, the weapon slamming into the earth with a dull, concussive thud that sends dirt spraying. He lunges, teeth flashing, aiming for Bokbok’s arm—but the chief is ready. The scimitar snaps up, its edge scraping along Convel’s shoulder instead of biting deep. Pain blooms hot and sharp, but it only fuels him.
Bokbok grunts, surprised at the direwolf’s speed. He pivots, using his bulk to crowd Convel, trying to drive him backward into the brambles where thorns and numbers can do the work. The mace swings again, not wild, but deliberate—aimed at legs, at joints. One solid hit would cripple. Another would end it.
Convel refuses to give ground.
He darts in close, where weapons become clumsy things. His jaws snap shut on Bokbok’s forearm, teeth grinding against filthy armour. Bokbok snarls and slams his weight forward, ramming Convel with his shoulder. The impact steals breath and sends the direwolf skidding through torn leaves and thorn roots. Before Convel can rise, Bokbok is on him, boot planting hard against his ribs.
The chief presses down, growling something guttural and sharp, forcing the mace toward Convel’s neck. The spikes hover inches from fur and flesh, vibrating with restrained force. Bokbok leans in, eyes burning—not with hatred, but with grim resolve.
Convel thrashes, claws ripping into Bokbok’s leg, tearing through leather and skin. Bokbok bellows and staggers back, breaking the hold. Convel scrambles to his feet, sides heaving, blood darkening his fur. Survival screams through every nerve. There is no restraint in him now. No calculation beyond this: live.
He launches himself fully this time.
Convel crashes into Bokbok’s chest, jaws locking onto the side of the chief’s neck where armour gaps. Bokbok howls as teeth bite deep, not killing, but enough to draw blood. He brings the mace down hard across Convel’s flank. The blow lands with bone-rattling force, sending white-hot agony through Convel’s body. His legs buckle, and he rolls, barely avoiding the follow-up strike meant to pin him.
Bokbok circles, breathing heavy, irritation giving way to something like reluctant respect. He shifts tactics. The mace swings low, catching Convel’s hind leg. Pain explodes. Convel collapses with a snarl, muscles spasming as his limb refuses to respond properly.
Paralysed enough.
Bokbok advances, weapon raised, ready to end the struggle without ending the life.
But Fangthorn has not finished watching.
Convel drags himself forward with his forelegs, teeth bared, eyes blazing with feral defiance. He snaps blindly, catching Bokbok’s wrist as the chief reaches to strike again. The grip is weak, desperate—but it is enough to stall.
Enough to remind Bokbok that this creature is not beaten.
The forest groans softly around them, brambles whispering, as predator and conqueror face one another again—both wounded, both stubborn, and neither willing to yield just yet.
The air tears.
Not with sound, but with absence—space folding inward as if reality itself recoils. One moment Fangthorn stands frozen in tension, the next something steps through it.
Matthious the Corrupter appears as though summoned by the violence itself.
He wears dark trousers and an open, hooded cloak of deep green threaded with dull gold, the fabric hanging unnaturally still. His chest is bare, and wrong—skin incomplete, ribs faintly visible where flesh has not yet fully remembered how to exist. His presence leeches warmth from the clearing.
“The fury bastard is mine,” Matthious snarls, voice slick with delight.
He snaps his fingers.
Bokbok drops instantly. The undgrol chief crumples where he stands, head lolling sideways as though the strength has been plucked from his body like a thread pulled free. No blow lands. No sound marks the moment. It is simply over.
Matthious steps forward and lands lightly before Convel, boots barely stirring the leaf litter. His green-grey eyes shine wide with manic glee as he takes in the direwolf’s injuries, his defiance, his still-burning will to live.
Before Convel can react, Matthious grips the thick folds of fur at his neck and hauls him closer. Convel snaps instinctively, teeth flashing—but they meet only resistance, as if biting stone wrapped in flesh. Matthious throws his head back and laughs, the sound sharp and broken, echoing too long in the forest.
Then he leans in.
Pain blooms—as he sinks his teeth into Convel’s neck, drinking every last drop of the wolf's blood. Matthious feeds with cruel patience, holding Convel upright as strength ebbs away, as warmth fades, as the world dims at the edges. Convel struggles, claws scraping weakly at the earth, breath shuddering with each failing pull.
The undgrols recoil.
Several step back, faces twisting in disgust.
When Matthious finally releases him, Convel collapses to the forest floor, unmoving.
Matthious straightens slowly, lips stained dark, eyes bright with satisfaction. He exhales as though savouring a long-awaited indulgence, then glances briefly at the undgrols, his smile sharp and joyless.
Matthious stretches his arms toward the sky, letting out a roar that shakes the very canopy of Fangthorn. His green-grey aura pulses violently, illuminating the dark forest in unnatural light. Then, a laugh—mad, unrestrained, drunk on power—echoes through the twisted brambles. And just like that, he vanishes, leaving only emptiness where his presence had been.
Miles away, before the female beta reaches Auburn with the warning, she already knows. Every instinct, every thread of her being, screams the truth. Convel—the life of her life-long mate—is gone. Despair coils tightly around her chest as she throws back her head and howls his name, a raw, piercing cry that tears through the forest and climbs toward the heavens.
In Fangthorn, the two hidden betas emerge slowly, every muscle taut, eyes glinting with restrained fury. They approach Convel’s body, fallen and unmoving, and stop. For a heartbeat, grief threatens to immobilise them—but the undgrols remain. They snarl, weapons raised, ready to finish what Matthious had begun.
The betas do not hesitate. With claws unsheathed and teeth bared, they strike. Two of the lead attackers flinch, knees buckling, faces carved by lightning-fast swipes. Metal clangs against stone-hard fur as the remaining enemies stagger, confused, unprepared for the ferocity that comes from desperate vengeance.
Then, out of the swirling shadows, he appears. Massive. White and brown fur glinting in the dim light, purple eyes blazing with fury. Every movement of his body radiates power and precision. In a whirlwind of teeth, claws, and sheer force, the remaining undgrols are crushed, maimed, and decapitated before they can react.
The betas watch in awe and recognition.
“Tunstall,” one breathes, disbelief and relief mingling in the word.
The new alpha stands over the carnage, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the fallen body of his father. Though young, the fire in him mirrors the legacy of Convel—raw, unyielding, and terrifyingly precise. Fangthorn, scarred and bloody, finally feels the weight of a predator reborn.
The forest falls silent, save for the rustle of brambles and the heavy breaths of the surviving pack. The two betas stand close to Convel’s body, heads low, tails tucked. Their growls and whines are muted, careful. Even Tunstall, muscles coiled and eyes burning with fury just moments before, feels the weight of loss pressing down.
He steps forward slowly, approaching the fallen form of his father. Every instinct screams both grief and duty. Leaning low, he grips the thick folds of Convel’s neck with his teeth—careful, controlled, reverent. The movement is deliberate, almost ceremonial, and yet utterly natural.
With the two betas flanking him, Tunstall drags Convel through the brambles, paws scraping the leaf-strewn forest floor, thorns tugging at fur. Auburn is waiting, her chest heaving, body trembling, yet steady. The moment Convel’s body reaches her, she nudges it gently, pressing against it as though willing life to return. Her whine is soft, mournful, a thread of sound that carries through the clearing.
The pack circles, watching. Heads low, tails tucked, bodies tense. The ritual of mourning is silent and solemn—respect in movement, grief in stance. And yet, the forest is not a place for endless lament. Wolves are predators, and life demands sustenance, even from those they love.
Tunstall and Auburn begin what wolves have always done. They mark the body, gnawing at flesh to separate what can be consumed, careful, precise. The betas join in, muscles tense, ears flicking toward every sound in Fangthorn. Their grief is present, but so is the natural order—what was lost now sustains the living.
The clearing, bloodied and quiet, bears witness to the duality of the wolf pack: mourning intertwined with survival, loss fused with life. Tunstall lifts his head, purple eyes scanning the forest. Though grief weighs him, the mantle of alpha presses down just as heavily. The pack waits, watching, learning, ready to follow their new leader through the chaos of Fangthorn—and whatever darkness still lurks beyond.
Chapter 12, Cornered.
Fangthorn Forest lives up to its name. Convel feels it the moment his paws cross its boundary, the ground stiff with thorn roots that snag at fur and skin. Bramble bushes choke the forest floor in dense, spiked tangles, their hooked thorns curving inward like clenched claws. They do not merely grow here—they climb. The brambles wind up the trunks of ancient trees, spiralling and twisting, tightening until bark disappears beneath a living cage of thorns. Some trees stand half-dead, swallowed so completely they resemble monuments strangled by time and hunger.
The air smells sharp and green, threaded with rot. Scents overlap and smear together—deer trails dissolving into confusion, rabbit musk vanishing beneath the bitter tang of sap and thorn. Even sound behaves strangely. The forest absorbs it. Hooves do not echo. Wings beat once and are gone. Fangthorn seems to listen more than it speaks.
Convel leads the hunt with three betas flanking him, their formation practiced, silent, and tense. They have hunted forests before, but this place resists them. Each step forward feels earned. Each choice matters more than usual, because far from the Termini Mountains and the safety of the caves, failure carries a longer shadow. Jesser’s four pups are no longer small enough to survive on scraps or luck. Adolescence brings hunger, and hunger demands answers from an alpha.
Miles away, Auburn stands alert, her body still while her senses strain outward. She cannot name what troubles her, only that it presses against her thoughts like a low, constant pressure. It is not fear exactly—fear has shape and direction—but something quieter and more persistent. The wind carries familiar forest scents, yet beneath them lies an absence, as if something has been erased rather than added. Auburn knows Convel’s duty. She knows the pack must eat. Still, the unease remains, coiled tight in her chest, refusing to loosen.
As Convel pushes deeper into Fangthorn, the forest seems to close around the pack, brambles tightening their grip on earth and tree alike. The hunt becomes more than a search for prey—it becomes a test of judgement, instinct, and whether the alpha can sense the danger that Auburn feels but cannot yet see.
A violent crack splits the air, sharp enough to make Convel flinch despite himself. The bramble-choked trees ahead shudder, their thorn-wrapped trunks groaning as though in pain. Then an ancient tree begins to fall.
It does not topple quickly. The massive trunk splits along a spiral of rot and strain, the brambles clinging to it snapping one by one as the tree lists, groans, and finally crashes down. The impact is thunderous. The ground jumps beneath Convel’s paws, a deep tremor that runs through soil, root, and bone. Dust and dead leaves billow upward, carrying the sharp stink of torn earth and splintered wood.
Birds explode from the canopy in screaming panic. They do not circle. They flee.
The forest reacts as if wounded. Branches sway where no wind passes. Thorned vines creak and tighten, scraping against bark with slow, awful patience. Then comes the growl—low, guttural, and layered, as though more than one throat is shaping the sound. It rolls through Fangthorn, not echoing so much as pressing outward, vibrating through the ground itself.
Heavy stomps follow.
Not hurried. Not clumsy. Each step lands with deliberate weight, compressing the earth hard enough that Convel feels it through his legs and chest. Whatever approaches does not move like prey. It does not flee. It advances.
The betas shift uneasily, muscles taut, teeth bared in silent warning. Convel lifts his head, scenting hard, but the air offers him nothing familiar—only the sharp tang of disturbed bramble and something older, fouler beneath it, like stone left too long in stagnant water.
Far away, Auburn’s unease finally finds its shape.
The wind carries the echo of the fallen tree, and with it a pressure that makes her chest tighten. Her ears flatten as the distant growl reaches her, faint but unmistakable. This is not the forest speaking. This is something moving through it, something that bends the land to its passage. Auburn lets out a low warning call toward the pack, her voice steady but edged with urgency. The pups stir at the sound, restless, sensing danger they do not yet understand.
Back in Fangthorn, Convel lowers his stance, every instinct screaming caution. The hunt has shifted into something else entirely. The forest is no longer merely hostile—it is disturbed. Whatever caused the ancient tree to fall is still moving, and it is moving with purpose.
They come through Fangthorn like a wound opening.
The bramble does not slow them. Thorned vines snap and tear beneath heavy boots and bare, calloused feet wrapped in filthy leather sandals. Armour creaks and groans with every step—roughly shaped plates of rusted metal lashed together with cracked cord and scraps of hide. Nothing about them is forged with care. Everything about them is made to endure.
Undgrols move in numbers, a thick mass of grey bodies forcing their way through the forest without pause or caution. Their skin hangs tight and leathery over jutting bone, stretched thin as if life itself has been rationed. They look starved and swollen at once, mouths slack with crooked teeth, eyes sunk deep beneath heavy brows. The stink of them fouls the air—old sweat, rot, iron, and something sour that clings long after they pass.
Weapons knock and scrape as they march. Roughly made scimitars with uneven edges drag against bramble and bark, leaving gouges in wood and vine. Spiked maces hang heavy in clenched fists, their heads dark with old stains. The sound of metal on thorn is constant, ugly, and loud. They make no attempt at silence. Nothing here frightens them.
At their center stomps the chief.
Bokbok is broader than the others, his armour thicker, his presence undeniable. He barks orders in sharp, guttural bursts—his language a series of throaty undulations and snapping consonants that ripple through the ranks. Each command drives the undgrols forward faster, harder, their formation tightening like a fist.
In one clawed hand, Bokbok carries a strange object: a roughly shaped dias of warped metal and stone, etched with symbols long worn down by use. At its center, a thin needle flickers and twitches, never quite still. Bokbok glances at it constantly, adjusting their course with small jerks of his arm. Each time the needle quivers, his lip curls in satisfaction.
The forest groans as they pass. Another tree cracks under careless force, its bramble-bound trunk splitting before collapsing in a shriek of tearing wood. The undgrols do not slow. They step over roots and shattered branches alike, trampling Fangthorn as if it were already conquered.
Somewhere ahead, unseen, something watches.
The needle turns.
And the march continues.
Convel sees them before they see him.
The moment his eyes catch the unnatural movement ahead, the stench hits him—thick, rancid, and wrong. It floods his senses all at once, burning through the forest’s sharp green smells and replacing them with rot, iron, and old sweat. Instinct takes over. Convel drops low to the ground, belly pressed to cold earth, and the betas mirror him without a sound. Four direwolves become shadows among thorn and root.
They watch.
Undgrols crowd the clearing ahead, their armour creaking, weapons knocking together as they shift their weight. Then the movement stops. Bokbok raises a clenched fist, and the mass of bodies halts as one. Silence settles, thin and fragile.
The needle on the strange dias stops twitching.
It points straight ahead.
Bokbok squints into the forest, lip curling as he searches the bramble-choked shadows. He sees nothing. With a sharp grunt, he shakes the dias. The needle spins wildly, rattling against its housing, then snaps back into stillness—once again pointing dead ahead.
A low growl of irritation rolls from Bokbok’s throat. He barks an order.
The undgrols begin to spread out, slow and deliberate, boots and sandals crunching over thorn and root as they fan into the forest. They do not rush. They expect resistance.
Convel’s ears flatten. His breath stays slow, controlled. Without lifting his head, he murmurs to two of his betas, voice barely more than a breath through fur and teeth. Stay low. Stay silent.
The two peel away immediately, bodies flowing through bramble and shadow, branching out to either side. Thorns scrape fur, but neither wolf flinches. Fangthorn may bite, but it knows them better than it knows the intruders.
Convel remains still, eyes locked on Bokbok and the spinning needle that now points toward him and his pack. There will be no clean escape. The forest has already chosen its battleground.
Fifteen to four.
Convel bares his teeth soundlessly. This will not be a hunt. This will be survival.
The betas strike like ghosts given teeth.
From the bramble-choked flanks they surge forward, low and fast, using Fangthorn’s own cruelty as cover. Thorns part just enough. Shadows detach themselves from roots and bark. Before the undgrols can turn, jaws close around the backs of thick, corded necks. There is a sharp crack—bone giving way—then silence.
One falls. Then another.
The second beta mirrors the first on the opposite side, snapping and releasing with brutal efficiency. Four undgrols collapse into the bramble, bodies folding as if their strings have been cut. The forest swallows them quickly, thorns already clawing at grey flesh and filthy armour.
For a heartbeat, no one notices.
Then one undgrol turns and sees a body at his feet that had been standing moments before. He bellows in alarm, a harsh, broken sound that tears through the trees.
Bokbok whirls.
The chief’s growl is deep and furious, his language spilling out in sharp, guttural bursts as he berates his soldiers for their blindness, their carelessness. Spittle flies from his mouth as he gestures violently with the dias, the needle spinning in agitation.
His fury finds a target.
With a barked command, Bokbok points at the undgrol who raised the alarm. The message is immediate and unmistakable. Another undgrol steps forward without hesitation, lifts his scimitar, and swings.
The blade takes the head, but poorly.
The body crumples in a spray of motion and noise, and the forest recoils from the ugliness of it. Bokbok does not look away. He snarls one final order, and the remaining undgrols tighten their formation, fear and obedience twisting together in their ranks.
From the shadows, Convel watches it all.
A slow, silent baring of teeth curves his muzzle—not triumph, but calculation. The numbers shift in his mind with cold clarity.
Fifteen have become ten.
The forest holds its breath again, brambles creaking softly, as both sides prepare for what comes next.
The forest claims two more without ceremony.
From within the thorned shadows, the betas move again—silent, precise. One undgrol stiffens as teeth find the base of his skull. Another is dragged down mid-step, boots scraping uselessly against root and vine before the brambles close over him. There is no scream this time. Fangthorn muffles everything.
Bokbok feels the loss more than he sees it.
His snarl rips through the clearing, thick with rage. He spits curses in his native tongue, then forces the words into the harsh shape of human speech, voice scraping raw as stone on stone.
“Foul beasts,” he growls. “No honour in shadows. Show self now. I fight one on one.”
The two betas melt back through the thorns and reappear beside Convel, chests heaving softly, blood dripping from their jaws to darken the soil. They take their places without sound.
Convel does not move.
He remains low, still as root and stone, letting the insult hang and rot in the air. When he speaks, his voice is calm, steady, carrying just far enough.
“Foul beasts you call us,” he says. “Yet it is your stench that disturbs our peace.”
The words land cleanly.
Bokbok’s lips peel back from his teeth in a furious snarl, but he does not answer. His grip tightens on the dias instead. Whatever burns in his chest is chained there by purpose—by orders given from above. The needle trembles, then steadies.
Convel turns his head slightly to the beta at his side. A single glance passes between them. He murmurs low, firm, unmistakable.
“Go. Warn Auburn. Warn the others.”
The female beta hesitates, eyes searching his face, fear and loyalty warring in her posture. Then she bows her head once and vanishes into Fangthorn, her form swallowed by thorn and shadow.
Convel shifts his gaze to the remaining two. “Hide. Stay hidden.”
They do not argue. They fade back into the forest as if they were never there at all.
Bokbok’s patience snaps. “Show self now!” he bellows. “Or are you coward?”
This time, the forest answers.
Convel rises.
He steps forward into the open, massive frame unfolding from shadow and bramble. Thorns scrape along his fur as he straightens, eyes locked on the undgrol chief. He does not bare his teeth. He does not growl.
He simply stands—alpha made flesh—alone, outnumbered, and unbowed.
Convel does not rush.
Neither does Bokbok.
For a heartbeat they measure one another—predator to war-chief, instinct against intention. Bokbok moves first, boots grinding into the soil as he advances with practiced weight, spiked mace low, scimitar angled to herd rather than cleave. He does not roar. He does not waste breath. His goal is not death. It is control.
Convel feels that difference immediately.
The mace comes down hard, meant to shatter bone or force him off balance. Convel twists aside at the last instant, the weapon slamming into the earth with a dull, concussive thud that sends dirt spraying. He lunges, teeth flashing, aiming for Bokbok’s arm—but the chief is ready. The scimitar snaps up, its edge scraping along Convel’s shoulder instead of biting deep. Pain blooms hot and sharp, but it only fuels him.
Bokbok grunts, surprised at the direwolf’s speed. He pivots, using his bulk to crowd Convel, trying to drive him backward into the brambles where thorns and numbers can do the work. The mace swings again, not wild, but deliberate—aimed at legs, at joints. One solid hit would cripple. Another would end it.
Convel refuses to give ground.
He darts in close, where weapons become clumsy things. His jaws snap shut on Bokbok’s forearm, teeth grinding against filthy armour. Bokbok snarls and slams his weight forward, ramming Convel with his shoulder. The impact steals breath and sends the direwolf skidding through torn leaves and thorn roots. Before Convel can rise, Bokbok is on him, boot planting hard against his ribs.
The chief presses down, growling something guttural and sharp, forcing the mace toward Convel’s neck. The spikes hover inches from fur and flesh, vibrating with restrained force. Bokbok leans in, eyes burning—not with hatred, but with grim resolve.
Convel thrashes, claws ripping into Bokbok’s leg, tearing through leather and skin. Bokbok bellows and staggers back, breaking the hold. Convel scrambles to his feet, sides heaving, blood darkening his fur. Survival screams through every nerve. There is no restraint in him now. No calculation beyond this: live.
He launches himself fully this time.
Convel crashes into Bokbok’s chest, jaws locking onto the side of the chief’s neck where armour gaps. Bokbok howls as teeth bite deep, not killing, but enough to draw blood. He brings the mace down hard across Convel’s flank. The blow lands with bone-rattling force, sending white-hot agony through Convel’s body. His legs buckle, and he rolls, barely avoiding the follow-up strike meant to pin him.
Bokbok circles, breathing heavy, irritation giving way to something like reluctant respect. He shifts tactics. The mace swings low, catching Convel’s hind leg. Pain explodes. Convel collapses with a snarl, muscles spasming as his limb refuses to respond properly.
Paralysed enough.
Bokbok advances, weapon raised, ready to end the struggle without ending the life.
But Fangthorn has not finished watching.
Convel drags himself forward with his forelegs, teeth bared, eyes blazing with feral defiance. He snaps blindly, catching Bokbok’s wrist as the chief reaches to strike again. The grip is weak, desperate—but it is enough to stall.
Enough to remind Bokbok that this creature is not beaten.
The forest groans softly around them, brambles whispering, as predator and conqueror face one another again—both wounded, both stubborn, and neither willing to yield just yet.
The air tears.
Not with sound, but with absence—space folding inward as if reality itself recoils. One moment Fangthorn stands frozen in tension, the next something steps through it.
Matthious the Corrupter appears as though summoned by the violence itself.
He wears dark trousers and an open, hooded cloak of deep green threaded with dull gold, the fabric hanging unnaturally still. His chest is bare, and wrong—skin incomplete, ribs faintly visible where flesh has not yet fully remembered how to exist. His presence leeches warmth from the clearing.
“The fury bastard is mine,” Matthious snarls, voice slick with delight.
He snaps his fingers.
Bokbok drops instantly. The undgrol chief crumples where he stands, head lolling sideways as though the strength has been plucked from his body like a thread pulled free. No blow lands. No sound marks the moment. It is simply over.
Matthious steps forward and lands lightly before Convel, boots barely stirring the leaf litter. His green-grey eyes shine wide with manic glee as he takes in the direwolf’s injuries, his defiance, his still-burning will to live.
Before Convel can react, Matthious grips the thick folds of fur at his neck and hauls him closer. Convel snaps instinctively, teeth flashing—but they meet only resistance, as if biting stone wrapped in flesh. Matthious throws his head back and laughs, the sound sharp and broken, echoing too long in the forest.
Then he leans in.
Pain blooms—as he sinks his teeth into Convel’s neck, drinking every last drop of the wolf's blood. Matthious feeds with cruel patience, holding Convel upright as strength ebbs away, as warmth fades, as the world dims at the edges. Convel struggles, claws scraping weakly at the earth, breath shuddering with each failing pull.
The undgrols recoil.
Several step back, faces twisting in disgust.
When Matthious finally releases him, Convel collapses to the forest floor, unmoving.
Matthious straightens slowly, lips stained dark, eyes bright with satisfaction. He exhales as though savouring a long-awaited indulgence, then glances briefly at the undgrols, his smile sharp and joyless.
Matthious stretches his arms toward the sky, letting out a roar that shakes the very canopy of Fangthorn. His green-grey aura pulses violently, illuminating the dark forest in unnatural light. Then, a laugh—mad, unrestrained, drunk on power—echoes through the twisted brambles. And just like that, he vanishes, leaving only emptiness where his presence had been.
Miles away, before the female beta reaches Auburn with the warning, she already knows. Every instinct, every thread of her being, screams the truth. Convel—the life of her life-long mate—is gone. Despair coils tightly around her chest as she throws back her head and howls his name, a raw, piercing cry that tears through the forest and climbs toward the heavens.
In Fangthorn, the two hidden betas emerge slowly, every muscle taut, eyes glinting with restrained fury. They approach Convel’s body, fallen and unmoving, and stop. For a heartbeat, grief threatens to immobilise them—but the undgrols remain. They snarl, weapons raised, ready to finish what Matthious had begun.
The betas do not hesitate. With claws unsheathed and teeth bared, they strike. Two of the lead attackers flinch, knees buckling, faces carved by lightning-fast swipes. Metal clangs against stone-hard fur as the remaining enemies stagger, confused, unprepared for the ferocity that comes from desperate vengeance.
Then, out of the swirling shadows, he appears. Massive. White and brown fur glinting in the dim light, purple eyes blazing with fury. Every movement of his body radiates power and precision. In a whirlwind of teeth, claws, and sheer force, the remaining undgrols are crushed, maimed, and decapitated before they can react.
The betas watch in awe and recognition.
“Tunstall,” one breathes, disbelief and relief mingling in the word.
The new alpha stands over the carnage, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the fallen body of his father. Though young, the fire in him mirrors the legacy of Convel—raw, unyielding, and terrifyingly precise. Fangthorn, scarred and bloody, finally feels the weight of a predator reborn.
The forest falls silent, save for the rustle of brambles and the heavy breaths of the surviving pack. The two betas stand close to Convel’s body, heads low, tails tucked. Their growls and whines are muted, careful. Even Tunstall, muscles coiled and eyes burning with fury just moments before, feels the weight of loss pressing down.
He steps forward slowly, approaching the fallen form of his father. Every instinct screams both grief and duty. Leaning low, he grips the thick folds of Convel’s neck with his teeth—careful, controlled, reverent. The movement is deliberate, almost ceremonial, and yet utterly natural.
With the two betas flanking him, Tunstall drags Convel through the brambles, paws scraping the leaf-strewn forest floor, thorns tugging at fur. Auburn is waiting, her chest heaving, body trembling, yet steady. The moment Convel’s body reaches her, she nudges it gently, pressing against it as though willing life to return. Her whine is soft, mournful, a thread of sound that carries through the clearing.
The pack circles, watching. Heads low, tails tucked, bodies tense. The ritual of mourning is silent and solemn—respect in movement, grief in stance. And yet, the forest is not a place for endless lament. Wolves are predators, and life demands sustenance, even from those they love.
Tunstall and Auburn begin what wolves have always done. They mark the body, gnawing at flesh to separate what can be consumed, careful, precise. The betas join in, muscles tense, ears flicking toward every sound in Fangthorn. Their grief is present, but so is the natural order—what was lost now sustains the living.
The clearing, bloodied and quiet, bears witness to the duality of the wolf pack: mourning intertwined with survival, loss fused with life. Tunstall lifts his head, purple eyes scanning the forest. Though grief weighs him, the mantle of alpha presses down just as heavily. The pack waits, watching, learning, ready to follow their new leader through the chaos of Fangthorn—and whatever darkness still lurks beyond.