The Forgotten Pulse of the Bond
Chapter 123: Veins of Rebellion

Chapter 123: Veins of Rebellion

"Not tonight," he murmured under his breath. He drew the thin dagger from his boot, the steel humming against the leather sheath. Then he moved, a shadow among shadows, the mist swallowing his footsteps.

Ahead, the figures paused under a skeletal birch. One of them , tall, skinny, barely more than a boy , tugged at something in his coat. The shorter one, wiry, jittery, peered over his shoulder like a rat scenting a trap.

"You said she wouldn’t come," the short one hissed. "You said she’d be with the council all night."

Beckett stilled behind the trunk of an old oak, close enough to hear the edge in their voices, his breath forming a thin cloud that vanished instantly.

The tall one , Jaron. Beckett recognized him now. Young blood, barely shifted twice, Rhys’ nephew if rumor was true. Always sniffing around the council chamber, too eager for secrets, too clumsy to hide them.

Jaron spat into the grass. "Keep your tongue down, Bran. She’s too busy holding the walls up to care what two dogs like us do."

Bran’s laugh was wet, anxious. "Gabriel pays good silver for names. You told me. Just a few details , routes, supply caches. Who cares if some scouts go missing?"

Beckett’s stomach coiled. His grip on the dagger tightened. Gabriel’s hooks ran deeper than they’d guessed , deeper than the walls, deeper than the blood.

Traitors in our veins, Rhett used to say. They’re worse than blades at the throat. They’re poison that rots you from the inside.

Bran kicked at the mud. "What about the Beta? They say they took him."

Jaron shrugged. "Good. One less hero sniffing at our heels. Gabriel wants a door cracked open. That’s all. He’ll do the rest."

A hot pulse of rage spiked through Beckett’s chest. The birch leaves trembled above him as the wind shifted. He stepped out before his mind caught up.

"Funny thing about doors," Beckett said. His voice was calm, the words slipping through the rain like poison. "They swing both ways."

Bran shrieked. Jaron spun, fumbling for the dagger at his belt , too slow.

Beckett was on him in two strides, the blade slipping under Jaron’s arm, sliding between bone and sinew. Warm blood splashed his knuckles. The boy’s eyes widened, a single tremor passing through his narrow shoulders before he crumpled into the grass.

Bran stumbled backward, hands up, teeth chattering. "Please , please, Beckett , we were just, "

Beckett slammed him against the birch, forearm pressing into his throat. The kid’s breath reeked of fear and cheap ale. Up close, he looked so young , too young to be whispering with devils in the dark.

"Who else?" Beckett growled. His words were low, steady, a calm death sentence. "Who else gave Gabriel our blood?"

"I , I swear , Jaron said , it was just us , just the scouts, "

"Lie again and I’ll skin you before the Elder can."

Bran’s voice cracked. "Rhys , Elder Rhys , he promised we’d be safe! That he’d protect us if we helped, "

Beckett’s heart slammed against his ribs. He’d suspected it. But hearing it snapped something inside him.

He let Bran drop to the mud, gasping. "Move. Now."

"W-what?"

Beckett grabbed him by the collar and dragged him through the orchard, half-shoving him ahead. Rain pelted them both, washing the blood from Beckett’s wrist in thin red streams.

They reached the old gate where two of Magnolia’s loyal guards stood watch. Their eyes widened at the sight of Bran trembling like a beaten pup.

"Take him to the lower cells," Beckett barked. "Keep him awake. He so much as blinks without permission, you break his nose."

The guards nodded, hauling Bran off. Beckett leaned against the gatepost, chest heaving. The storm hissed through the orchard, carrying the stink of betrayal back toward the main hall.

Rhys.

The name curdled in his mouth like spoiled milk.

When Beckett burst into the Council chamber, he found Magnolia alone, bent over Camille’s journal, her fingers tracing a line of ink so faded it looked like a ghost’s fingerprint. She looked up, eyes wide at the sight of him soaked, splattered with blood.

"What happened?" she demanded.

"Rhys," Beckett said, voice low, dangerous. "His nephew. Bran. Selling us to Gabriel."

Magnolia’s face didn’t change. It didn’t have to. The cold fury in her eyes said enough.

"He thinks the pack will follow him," Beckett continued. "He’s feeding the Elder routes, numbers, supply points. They’re slipping inside our borders every night."

Magnolia’s knuckles whitened over the journal. "Where is Bran?"

"Below. Singing already."

She shut the book with a snap. "Bring Rhys here. Now."

Beckett moved to the door. Magnolia’s voice stopped him.

"Beckett."

He turned. The way she looked at him , eyes red with grief, lips pressed thin with exhaustion , made him want to promise her the world. Or at least a chance to survive it.

"Thank you," she said.

Beckett managed a half-smile. "Save it. When this is over."

Then he was gone.

Rhys wasn’t surprised when the guards dragged him into the hall. He sneered at Beckett, shoulders squared under his thick fur cloak, his long silver hair matted from the rain.

Magnolia stood waiting, arms crossed, expression carved from ice.

"Do you deny it?" she asked.

Rhys chuckled. "What exactly am I denying? That I speak to Gabriel? That I’m willing to protect our people while you cling to dying loyalties? I don’t deny wisdom, girl."

Beckett’s blade pressed lightly at his throat. Rhys didn’t flinch.

"You sold our wolves," Beckett hissed. "Children. Families. For what? A promise of your seat at Gabriel’s table?"

Rhys spat at his feet. "Callahan blood is weak. You’re dragging us all to the grave. I’d rather rule under the Elder’s banner than rot in your martyr’s ashes."

Magnolia stepped closer, so close she could smell the old wolf’s stale breath. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "We’re wolves, Rhys. We don’t beg scraps from the enemy’s table. We tear the throat out and feast on our own terms."

Rhys barked a laugh. "Your terms are ruin."

Magnolia’s fist cracked across his jaw before he finished the word. The old man staggered, teeth glinting red.

"Lock him away," she said. "At dawn, every wolf will see what happens when you poison your own."

As the guards dragged him off, Rhys’s laughter echoed through the hall, low and ugly.

Beckett and Magnolia stood alone when the doors slammed shut. The torches flickered, rain still drumming overhead.

"You’re shaking," Beckett said.

Magnolia realized her hands were trembling , whether from rage or fear, she couldn’t tell.

"They’ll turn on us," she whispered. "If they see how fractured we are, "

Beckett pressed a warm palm over hers, steadying her. "Then we show them our teeth."

In the silence, she realized the truth. They’d always feared war at the gates. But the real war was inside their walls, blooming like rot through the blood of traitors.

She straightened, drew in a breath that tasted like iron and rain.

"Tomorrow," she said, voice steady, "we cut the poison out."

"She’s going to crack," Beckett said suddenly, voice low. "You know that, don’t you? The Council’s loyalty is splintered. The moment Rhys opens his mouth, "

"Then we shut it for him," Magnolia murmured. She didn’t turn. Her reflection in the glass looked like a ghost , pale, eyes ringed with sleepless bruises. She traced the condensation on the window with her fingertip, a tiny circle that faded as quickly as she drew it.

Beckett paused his pacing. "You’re not the same girl we took in from the forest. You know that?"

Magnolia let out a breath that fogged the glass. "Neither are you."

A soft knock broke the quiet. The door creaked open and a young runner slipped in , a boy barely fourteen, eyes wide beneath a mop of matted hair.

"Beta Beckett. Lady Magnolia. They’re ready."

Beckett’s expression hardened. He nodded once, then turned to Magnolia. "Last chance. We don’t have to do this like the old kings did."

"Yes," she said, voice like iron scraping across stone. "We do."

The courtyard felt like a throat waiting to choke.

Magnolia stepped out into the drizzle, the crowd parting before her like wheat under a blade. Beckett flanked her right side, every muscle in his frame tense. Two of their loyal guards dragged Rhys between them. The old wolf’s silver hair clung to his skull in wet strings, blood drying along the corner of his mouth. But his eyes , those sharp, glittering eyes , held no shame. Only the cold certainty of a man who thought he’d outlive the consequences.

Magnolia mounted the steps to the platform. The wood creaked under her boots. Beckett followed, standing half a pace behind her, a silent promise that any hand raised against her would be severed before it landed.

She scanned the faces below. Mothers clutching babes to their chests. Young warriors with blades hidden beneath their cloaks. Elders who hadn’t chosen sides yet, their nostrils flaring with every word Rhys might say.

"Bring him forward," Magnolia ordered.

Rhys stumbled as they shoved him to his knees. He sneered up at her, teeth yellow in the dawn light.

"Magnolia Blake," he spat. "The girl with mud for blood. Leading wolves as if you’re one of us."

Beckett stepped forward, blade half-drawn, but Magnolia lifted a hand.

"Let him speak," she said. Her voice echoed off the stone walls, quiet but terrible. "Let them hear him."

Rhys chuckled, though it came out as a wet rasp. "You think this ends with me? There are more. Always more. Gabriel’s promise is stronger than your pretty words. You offer ruin. He offers life."

A low growl rolled through the crowd. Magnolia leaned down, her face inches from Rhys’. Rain dripped from her hair onto his shoulder, mingling with the blood there.

"You sold your own blood," she whispered. "Your pack. Your kin. Children." She straightened, voice rising like a blade lifted to the sun. "You are the rot that eats us from the inside."

Rhys’s eyes darted past her, to the wolves gathered in the back , the young ones who whispered in the shadows, who still smelled of fear and ambition. Magnolia saw them too. She raised her voice so they could not pretend to misunderstand.

"You think the Elder will spare you?" she shouted. "Ask Sterling what mercy Gabriel has. Ask the boy he bled dry to prove a point. Ask Camille, who ran into the dark because she knew betrayal lived in our veins."

No one answered. The only sound was the rain, the shallow breaths of the crowd.

Beckett stepped forward, drawing his blade fully now. It glinted silver in the early light.

"By our blood, by the law of the Old Alpha Kings," Magnolia said, her hand on Beckett’s wrist, "treachery is death."

Rhys snarled. "You’ll tear this pack apart."

Magnolia’s eyes met his , steady, unflinching. "Better torn apart than rotted alive."

Beckett’s blade flashed once.

When it was done, the rain washed the blood from the platform, tracing pink rivulets down the steps into the mud.

The courtyard emptied slowly, murmurs crackling like brushfire through the ranks. Magnolia stood alone on the platform for a long moment after Beckett dragged Rhys’s corpse away. Her shoulders trembled, but she did not let her knees buckle. She could not. Not yet.

She felt a presence behind her , warm, familiar.

"Magnolia."

She turned. Beckett stood there, wiping his blade clean with a strip of cloth. His face was pale, jaw clenched tight.

"You did what had to be done," he said.

"I know." Her voice cracked. "But it still feels like tearing out my own heart."

Beckett stepped closer. He didn’t touch her , he didn’t need to. The heat rolling off him was enough. "He would have destroyed us all."

"I know," she said again, softer.

They stood in the rain, the pack dispersing around them, whispering their doubts, their relief, their fear. Magnolia listened to all of it, each word another nail hammered into her spine to keep her upright.

Finally, Beckett asked, "What now?"

Magnolia looked past him, to the trees that marked the forest’s edge , where Camille’s scent had vanished, where Sterling’s blood now stained the Elder’s dungeon floors. Somewhere out there, pieces of their future waited , bleeding, burning, waiting to be claimed.

She squared her shoulders. "Now we remind them we are wolves."

Beckett’s mouth twitched. "And wolves don’t beg."

Magnolia’s eyes glittered under the gray sky. "They hunt."

Inside the hall that night, the hearths roared to life for the first time in days. Food appeared where there had been only stale bread and cold tea. Guards doubled their patrols. Elders who had watched from the shadows crept forward, pledging loyalty with eyes lowered, their voices stripped of old arrogance.

Magnolia sat alone at the long table once everyone had gone. A single candle flickered before her, the flame bending under the draft that whistled through cracked windows.

She traced her finger through a small pool of wax on the tabletop.

Camille’s journal lay open beside her. She could still hear the girl’s laughter echo in the corners of her mind, bright and distant.

It’s not a prophecy. It’s a choice.

A knock at the door startled her. Beckett slipped in, shoulders dusted with snow now that the rain had frozen. He carried a single sealed letter , no crest, just rough parchment smudged with grime.

"Found this," he said. "Bran spat it out before he died. Smugglers brought it across the northern ridge."

Magnolia unfolded the letter with careful fingers. Inside, the handwriting was unmistakable , neat, slanted, half-burned at the edges. Camille’s.

He’s alive.

Two words.

Magnolia’s eyes stung. "Sterling."

Beckett crouched beside her, voice low. "We’ll get him back."

She looked at him, saw her own exhaustion reflected in his eyes , but also a spark that hadn’t died, no matter how many traitors they’d gutted, no matter how much blood soaked their floors.

"We will," she said. She let the paper drop onto the wax puddle. It hissed as it caught fire, curling into ash.

Outside, the first wolf howled. Then another joined it. Then another , a chorus rising into the frozen dark.

They were fractured. Betrayed. Wounded.

But they were still wolves.

And they would hunt.