Chapter 96: Alive
Chapter 96
Lenora
"And this is where the pack leader resides."
I gesture at the two-story house standing at the very center of White Stone. It’s the only building that doesn’t look half-rotten, half-abandoned. Paint still clings to its walls, the roof isn’t caving in, and the porch doesn’t look like one wrong step will send you through the floorboards. Among the wreckage of the town, it almost looks out of place, too clean, too deliberate.
Honestly, when I was a child it felt like a palace. A beacon. The Alpha’s House. But looking at Cameron’s unimpressed expression now, I can already imagine what he’s thinking. Compared to the penthouse apartments and glass towers of his world... well, this looks like a decent-sized farmhouse at best.
"Uh huh," he mutters. His voice gives nothing away, but the twitch of his mouth is telling.
I nudge him with my elbow.
"You could at least pretend to be impressed."
He gives me a side-eye. "I’m impressed that it hasn’t collapsed yet."
I snort. "You’re impossible."
He steps closer, hands in his pockets, studying the building like it’s an equation that doesn’t add up. "But why here? Why put the pack leader’s house smack in the middle of town?"
I shrug. "How would I know? Ask my great-great-grandfather. He’s the one who thought this was a brilliant idea."
Cameron groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "So there wasn’t... what, a city planner? An architect? Anyone who thought—’hey, maybe we shouldn’t dump everything in the middle and hope for the best’?"
"Nope. Not at all." I try to keep a straight face but his expression is priceless.
"Honestly, I don’t even think the word planning was a thing. You’re talking about a pack that only discovered proper plumbing four generations ago."
He groans louder this time, dragging a hand down his face. "Goddess give me strength."
I laugh. "Welcome to White Stone."
For a moment, the humor fades as we both look around. The Alpha’s house is polished enough, yes, but the streets around it are filled with cracked stone, weeds pushing through the gaps. Windows in nearby homes are boarded or broken. The contrast is stark—the Alpha lives in comfort while the rest of the pack rots.
Cameron’s jaw tightens, and I feel the spark of his frustration through the bond.
"And where do the wolves live?" he asks, scanning the trees, his tone flat but incredulous.
"In the forest?"
His expression makes me laugh, sharp and short. "We are wolves, Cameron. But not forest forest. Not caves or holes in the ground. We live in cabins—like ours."
I guide him toward the northern edge of town, where the forest thickens and the cabins appear one after another. They’re modest, wooden things, built decades ago, weather-beaten by storms and seasons. Some are painted but the colors are faded, chipped by time. Others have moss crawling up their sides, their roofs patched and repatched. They blend into the greenery like they were swallowed by it.
"And that’s Elder Stellan’s family home." I gesture toward a dark cabin tucked between towering trees. Its roof sags a little, but smoke curls from the chimney, faint proof of life.
"And west, near that oak—you’ll find the butcher’s home."
Cameron follows beside me, silent but taking everything in. His gaze flicks from one cabin to the next, sharp and calculating, as if he’s cataloguing the decay. His presence is so out of place—his crisp shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, his broad frame moving through a world that feels smaller, older, more fragile beside him.
The wolves notice too. There’s the occasional wave from a porch, a cautious bow from a woman carrying firewood, curious pups peeking from behind their mothers’ legs. Their eyes follow Cameron, wide with something between awe and suspicion.
"Actually," I add, softer now, "my father and mother chose to live away from the rest of the pack. That’s why the cabin was isolated, farther out. They wanted distance."
Cameron hums, the sound low. "I think isolated is good. Back then..." His hand brushes mine, just for a second, as though grounding himself.
"I don’t think I would’ve handled being in a community like this."
We head back into town, only to find noise carrying on the air. Shouts. Snarls. A scuffle.
It’s happening right in front of the Alpha’s house.
Cameron and I exchange a look and push through the gathering wolves, curious—and wary.
There, on the porch, two broad-shouldered males are hauling Alric by his arms. His shirt is half undone, his face red with rage and humiliation. He thrashes, but his movements are weak, uncoordinated, like a man who hasn’t seen real effort in years.
"There’s a new leader now—leave!" one of the wolves spits, shoving him hard enough that Alric stumbles.
The crowd doesn’t jeer, doesn’t cheer. They only watch, silent, their eyes reflecting something colder. Relief.
Alric’s voice cracks as he fights against their grip. "I am the Alpha! I am White Stone! You mutts wouldn’t last a day without me!"
But no one answers. The wolves dragging him exchange a look, then hurl him into the dirt at the edge of the path.
Cameron steps forward then, his presence shifting the crowd. Wolves straighten, bow their heads, instinctively clearing the space between him and Alric.
Alric lifts his head, his face twisted with rage and disbelief. His eyes flick between me and Cameron, but it’s Cameron he locks onto, trembling with impotent fury.
"You think you can just waltz in and take what’s mine!" he spits, his voice cracking with desperation more than authority.
Cameron exhales, steady, unflinching.
"I didn’t want this position any more than you wanted to give it. Yet here we are. And all of this—" he gestures around at the hollow buildings, the gaunt wolves, the silent crowd "—could have been avoided if you hadn’t... I don’t know, run shit into the ground."
A ripple of uneasy laughter moves through the wolves gathered, short and sharp. The truth of it cuts deeper than any insult.
Alric’s face darkens. "You know nothing of leadership. Nothing of sacrifice!" he roars, struggling against the hands holding him down.
"I kept this pack alive! You wouldn’t last a day without Savage Claw!"
At the mention of the mercenaries, more wolves avert their eyes. The shame is palpable. Cameron notices it, and his lips curl into something colder.
"Alive?" he echoes. "You call this alive?" He sweeps his hand toward the wolves watching, their ribs showing, their gazes hollow.
"They’re starving, Alric. They’re broken. And you call yourself Alpha?"
My uncle merely snarls and laughs, the sound brittle and half-mad.
"Better than being dead, isn’t it?" he says, spittle at the corner of his mouth.
