Kain

The walls are too close.

I have spent my life in places like this—cages, battlefields, spaces where death lingers in the corners like an old friend. But this place is different. It does not smell like war or even like blood. It smells like control. Like purposeful suffering.

The Order does not kill for sport. They calculate. They break you before they take what they need.

I sit on the cold metal bench, back pressed against the steel wall, arms crossed over my chest. My body is still healing from the last fight—deep bruises, a cracked rib, nothing I haven't survived before. But something about this place makes me restless. I hate not knowing what is happening.

Across the cell, Silas leans against the opposite wall, tapping his fingers against his thigh in a lazy rhythm. He looks relaxed, but I know better. His body is too still, his breathing too measured. He is watching. Listening. Thinking his way out of this before I even have a plan.

On the far side, Ronan crouches in the shadows, silent as ever. He has not spoken since they threw us in here, and he has barely moved. But his eyes are open, sharp, locked on something only he sees.

The three of us have nothing in common. Nothing but her.

Astra.

She is not here. And that is a problem.

I exhale slowly, forcing my muscles to stay loose. We do not have time to turn on each other, not yet.

Silas is the first to break the silence. "Well, this sucks."

I do not respond.

He sighs dramatically, shifting his weight like he is getting comfortable. "Come on, Alpha. You're thinking something. Don't hold back."

"I am thinking about how to get out of here."

Silas grins. "And here I thought you were brooding over our dear, sweet Astra."

My jaw clenches. He is baiting me. I do not rise to it.

"She is not our concern," I say.

Silas raises a brow. "Is that right? Because last I checked, she was in that mess with us, and now she's missing." He tilts his head, his grin sharp. "So, forgive me if I'm a little concerned about what our captors are doing to her."

Ronan finally moves. Just slightly. His voice is low, quiet, but it cuts. "She is alive."

Silas glances at him, intrigued. "You sure about that, assassin?"

Ronan's expression does not change. "Yes."

I watch him for a second longer, searching for something in his posture, in the way his shoulders are tight despite his outward calm. Ronan does not make guesses. If he says something, it is because he is certain.

That does not mean Astra is safe.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "If she is alive, she is separated from us. That means The Order wants something from her."

Silas's smirk fades. He knows I am right. We all do.

They did not just take Astra. They took her specifically.

I do not believe in fate. I do not believe in destiny. But I do believe in power, and whatever Astra is—whatever blood runs through her veins—it is powerful enough that The Order did not just kill her when they had the chance.

Which means she is valuable to them.

And that means they will push her until they get what they want.

I tighten my hands into fists, forcing back the surge of frustration crawling up my spine. I hate this—being trapped, being forced to wait, knowing someone else is in control of the situation while we sit here like caged animals.

Silas exhales and stretches, his casual act slipping just slightly. "Alright, Alpha. What's the plan?"

"We wait."

He snorts. "Not exactly inspiring."

"They will move us soon." I glance at the reinforced door. "They will not leave us in here forever. They need us for something, or we would already be dead."

Silas studies me for a second before shaking his head. "God, you're exhausting."

Ronan does not react, still focused on something unseen.

Silas leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes briefly. Then, softer than before, he mutters, "They're going to break her, aren't they?"

I do not answer.

Because I do not know.

Astra is strong. She is resilient. But everyone has a breaking point.

And I have seen what The Order does to those who do not break fast enough.

***

I hear them coming before they open the door.

The steady rhythm of boots. The faint click of weapons being checked, safety latches undone. The metallic scent of silver drifting in with the cold air from the hall.

Silas straightens, shaking out his limbs like he is preparing for a street fight instead of whatever fresh hell they are about to throw us into. Ronan just rises from his crouch, his movements precise, controlled, lethal.

Me? I stay where I am.

Waiting.

Watching.

The locks disengage with a heavy clank, and then the steel door swings open.

Four men step inside. All armed. Their weapons are not drawn, but the way they hold themselves—the tension in their grips, the way their fingers hover near their triggers—tells me they are waiting for an excuse.

A man steps forward. Not a soldier. Something worse.

The Handler.

He is tall, broad, his dark uniform pressed and immaculate. He looks like every military leader I have ever known—sharp, calculated, entirely devoid of hesitation.

His gaze sweeps over us like we are assets, not people.

"We are moving," he says. His voice is as cold as the concrete under our feet.

No explanation. No pretense.

Silas lets out a low whistle. "Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine?"

The Handler does not react. He just gestures to the door.

None of us move.

"Where is Astra?" I ask. My voice is calm, but I see the way one of the soldiers shifts his stance, the way his grip on his weapon tightens slightly.

They expect resistance.

The Handler's expression does not change. "She is no longer your concern."

The air shifts.

Beside me, Ronan is completely still. His silence has weight, a sharp edge to it. Silas, on the other hand, just grins, but there is no humor in it.

"Yeah, see, I am going to have to disagree," Silas says, shoving his hands into his pockets. "She is very much my concern. And I have to say, I am not loving the way you are dodging the question."

The Handler tilts his head slightly, studying him. Then he sighs. Bored. Like we are children testing the patience of a schoolteacher.

"Your concern is misplaced," he says. "You should be worrying about yourselves."

Then he steps aside, gesturing to the hallway.

I hold his gaze for a second longer before standing. I do not have to look at Ronan or Silas to know they will follow.

We walk.

The hallway is long, lined with heavy metal doors, most of them shut. But some are open.

I catch glimpses of them as we pass—wolves, some unconscious, some barely breathing. Test subjects.

This is not a prison. It is a factory.

The Handler leads us through a set of reinforced doors, and then—

We step into something else entirely.

A massive space, almost like an aircraft hangar, but open to the sky. The night air is sharp, crisp, and the moment I inhale, I know what this is.

A hunting ground.

The ground is uneven, natural rock formations breaking up the space, trees scattered in uneven clusters. But beyond that, I can see barriers, fences, watchtowers.

This is not freedom.

This is a game

A voice crackles to life over an unseen speaker system.

"Rogues. Today, you run."

Silas tenses beside me. "Oh, great. They are monologuing."

The voice continues, unfazed.

"If you make it to the other side, you live another day. If you fail… well. You know how this works."

I do. I have seen it before. Forced hunts. Gladiator-style survival tests meant to weed out the weak and shape the strong into weapons.

The Handler steps away as the soldiers fan out.

And then I see them.

The Hunters.

Not the guards. Not the scientists.

The ones trained to kill us.

They are lined up along the opposite end of the field, weapons at the ready. Some with guns, others with claws already extended.

One of them grins at me, his fangs glinting in the low light.

Beside me, Ronan finally speaks. His voice is calm, empty.

"How many?"

The Handler smirks. "Enough."

A loud buzz sounds. The restraints around our wrists snap open.

Then the voice on the speaker speaks one last time.

"Run."

I do not hesitate.

I bolt.

Not out of fear. Not because I have been commanded to.

But because I need to get ahead of the chaos.

Silas moves easily, his body adapting quickly to the terrain, his speed deceptive in how effortless it looks. Ronan is pure efficiency, his strides perfectly measured.

Shots ring out.

I weave between the trees, my breath steady, muscles burning—but something feels wrong.

My wolf is too quiet.

I should be faster than this. Stronger. But I feel off-balance, disconnected.

Ahead of me, Silas suddenly changes course, darting toward a rocky incline. I follow instinctively, knowing without needing to speak that he sees something.

We hit cover just as another gunshot cracks the air.

Ronan ducks behind a tree, glancing back. "They are spreading out."

"They are herding us," I correct.

Silas nods, his face unusually serious. "Yeah, I noticed that, too."

We are not just being chased.

We are being directed.

I glance at the far end of the hunting grounds, where the terrain shifts again—a narrow canyon, dark and unnatural.

A gut feeling sinks deep into my chest.

"That is where they want us to go," I say.

Silas wipes sweat from his brow, glancing at me. "So, do we do what they want, or do we piss them off?"

I exhale sharply. "We do what gets us out of here alive."

Ronan shifts slightly, scanning the field. Then, without a word, he moves.

Silas huffs a laugh. "Yeah, sure, assassin. Just take off without telling us the plan."

But I understand.

Ronan is testing something.

Seeing if we actually have a way out—or if this entire thing is just an elaborate execution.

I push forward, following the only real chance we have.

Because if this is a game, we have two choices.

Play it.

Or break it.