Chapter 10

A searing cold ignites in Alina’s chest. It starts as a flicker, then spreads outward in a violent, all-consuming wave. Her vision swims, her ears ring—and then the world falls silent, swallowed by a single deafening sound.

Her roar.

It tears through the hall like thunder, primal and furious. The vines coiled around her begin to crystallize, frost spreading along their lengths with terrifying speed. Ice forms in jagged patterns, crawling up the tendrils and turning their green sheen into shimmering white.

Isalda gasps and jerks her hand back just as shards of ice explode outward. One grazes her arm, drawing blood. She shrieks, stumbling back, her spell severed.

A howling wind surges around Alina, cold and wild. It swirls around her body, scattering ash and dust into snowflakes. The torches flicker and dim as the temperature plunges.

Alina doesn’t feel pain anymore—only rage.

Her hands tremble, but it’s not fear fueling her. It’s fury. Her power surges from deep within, ancient and relentless. Snow and ice burst from her fingertips, untamed, devouring everything in their path. The frost claims the walls, slithering like a living entity toward Magnus and his guards.

“Magnus!” she screams, anguish and wrath entwined in her voice. Her breath clouds the air in sharp puffs. Her words are no longer pleas—they are storms breaking loose.

Ice spikes erupt from the ground, slicing through the air, impaling two guards before they can react. Their screams vanish instantly, their bodies frozen in time—faces twisted in fear, limbs locked in place beneath layers of frost.

Magnus steps back, his ever-composed demeanor starting to crack. His boots skid on the ice-slick floor as another shard slices past him, embedding itself deep in the stone with a sharp, resonating crack.

“Alina…” he calls out, but there’s hesitation in his voice. For the first time, uncertainty.

She doesn’t let him finish.

She lifts her arms and the frost responds, lurching forward like an army of blades. The entire hall darkens as the cold intensifies. Snow begins to fall—not gently, but in a frenzied, chaotic storm. It dances around her like a living creature, called forth by her wrath.

The remaining guards hesitate. Fear begins to cloud their movements. One rushes forward with a shout, blade raised, but he never reaches her. Ice erupts beneath his feet, skewering him mid-stride. His body cracks, frozen solid, then shatters to pieces across the floor.

Alina’s eyes lock on Magnus.

There he stands, golden hair catching the dying torchlight, his features carved in pale contrast to the storm rising around him. The man she once trusted. The man who murdered her parents. The man who reduced everything she loved to ash.

He watches her, unfazed by the deaths around him. His lips curl into a smirk.

“Do you think this changes anything?” he calls out, his voice cutting through the howl of wind.

Alina snarls, grinding her teeth. She summons her strength and forms a massive spike of ice in front of her. It hovers for a split second—then launches.

The jagged spear hurtles toward him with deadly precision, but Magnus is fast. He sidesteps just in time, the ice slamming into the wall behind him. The stone fractures, chunks collapsing with a thunderous crash.

His smirk deepens as he steps forward. “Is this all you’ve got?”

The fury burns hotter, and Alina roars. Her storm expands. The cold becomes unbearable. Snow pelts the walls, the floor, the bodies. Her magic spirals beyond her control.

But then it happens.

A sharp pain spears through her chest, sudden and cruel. Her breath hitches. Her knees buckle slightly, and her vision dims.

“No…” she gasps, stumbling. The ice around her falters, the frost crawling back as if retreating.

Then she remembers.

Isalda’s vines.

The thorns weren’t just restraints—they were laced with neurotoxin. It’s designed to kill werewolves, and while a Lycan can survive it, it still slows the body... and now it's doing exactly that.

Magnus steps forward slowly, careful, calculating. His blade still glints at his side, untouched. His eyes narrow on her as she sags slightly, struggling to hold her own weight.

He stops just in front of her and looks down at her broken form, smugness returning in full. “You’ve always been too soft, Alina,” he says, voice like a knife. “Powerful, yes. But undisciplined. Emotional. Weak.”

She glares up at him through heavy lids, defiance burning in her gaze even as her body threatens collapse. “This isn’t over,” she snarls. “You’ll regret this, Magnus. I swear it.”

He chuckles. The sound is void of warmth. “Bold words for someone on her knees. But I suppose it’s fitting. No one’s coming for you. Your family is dead. Your forces scattered. And you… will join them soon.”

Behind him, Isalda approaches. She loops her arm through Magnus’s, wearing her triumph like a crown. Her emerald eyes gleam, lips curled in victory.

The hall falls eerily silent. Ice continues to groan across the floor, the last remnants of Alina’s storm melting into silence. Her breath rasps in her lungs. Her strength flickers like dying flame.

She looks to her parents again.

Their bodies lie still. Blood stains the floor beneath them. The grief crushes her—but deeper than that is something colder. Something harder.

She wants to stay. To kill them both. To end this now.

But she can’t win.

Not like this.

The torches around the hall dim, struggling to stay alight in the freezing air. Distant shouting rises in the corridors—faint, but growing.

Reinforcements?

Her pulse quickens, and she clenches her jaw.

I can’t die here.

She reaches inward, tapping into the link that binds her to the soldiers, the staff, everyone loyal to House Xalveria. Her mind brushes theirs in desperation.

“If you can hear me…” she says, her voice rough and frayed through the mental connection. “Lord Alinos and Lady Kaela have fallen. Abandon the castle. Now.”

Silence answers.

But she hopes someone—anyone—is still listening.

She casts one final glance at the ruined hall. Her home, her family, everything she knows lies in ruin. She turns away and runs, pushing through the pain, each step driven by pure will. The cold air bites her lungs, and blood trails behind her, but she doesn’t stop.

She can’t.

The nearest exit looms ahead, hidden behind a tapestry blown aside by the icy wind. She throws herself through it, crashing into the dark corridor beyond.

Outside, the forest rises like a wall of shadows.

She runs.

Her bare feet strike frozen leaves and tangled roots. Branches slash at her arms. The trees close in. Her breath comes in gasps, the neurotoxin slowing her limbs, but she forces herself onward.

Behind her—she hears them.

Footsteps.

They’re close.

Too close.