Chapter 51
51 Chapter 51 Burning Them To Ash
Rowan’s POVO
The canvas walls of the tent reeked of death and
sweat, a lingering reminder of the carnage that had painted these fields red only hours before. Rowan sat rigid in his chair, every muscle coiled tight as the brazier’s flames cast dancing shadows across the cramped space. The air hung thick with smoke and something else, something sweet that made his stomach turn.
Allen lounged across from him like a predator at rest, his armor carelessly unfastened, revealing a tunic so stained with blood and grime it looked like he’d worn it through hell itself. His hands moved with practiced ease as he poured steaming liquid into delicate white cups, the porcelain looking absurdly fragile in this den of violence.
“Your unexpected arrival caught us unprepared,” Allen said, his voice carrying that particular smoothness that always preceded trouble. “Forgive our humble
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hospitality. With considerable time still ahead before we reach the northern territories, our provisions grow thin. What we offer may seem… inadequate p>
Rowan watched him lift his own cup without drinking, noting how his eyes never left their faces. Marcus remained motionless beside him, his usual composure intact, but Rowan caught the slight tension in his shoulders.
“This,” Allen continued, gesturing toward the cups with theatrical flair, “represents something quite
extraordinary. A rare blend from the western territories.” His smile held all the warmth of winter wind. “Lord Hardy acquired it personally after executing a particularly troublesome witch. The grateful clan chief offered it as tribute for the… purification of their lands p>
Rowan’s fingers found the cup’s rim, but the porcelain felt cold despite the steam rising from within. The liquid’s aroma carried notes he couldn’t identify, and his throat contracted involuntarily. Marcus’s cup remained untouched as well.
Allen settled back into his chair with calculated
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leisure, though his gaze remained sharp as broken glass. “They claimed this witch possessed remarkable cunning. She pleaded for mercy right until Lord Hardy’s blade separated her head from her shoulders.” His tone carried the casual indifference of discussing weather. “Others weren’t granted such swift endings. Some lost their skin piece by piece while still
breathing. Others danced in flames. The screams apparently echo for miles when you allow the fire to work slowly p>
A thin smile played at his lips. “Lord Hardy harbors particular hatred for witches. Not mere dislike, you understand. True, consuming hatred. He doesn’t simply kill them. He erases them entirely, along with anyone foolish enough to call them ally p>
The words settled over them like a shroud. Marcus’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, the only outward sign of his reaction. But Rowan felt the warning in Allen’s words like a blade pressed against his throat. He knew something. Or wanted them to believe he did.
Allen tasted his tea, allowing silence to stretch
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between them before continuing. “I respect that thoroughness in him. Some call it excessive. I call it effective. When you strike an enemy, you don’t grant them opportunity to rebuild. You obliterate them, roots and all p>
Rowan kept his expression carefully neutral while his mind raced. The message couldn’t be clearer if he’d drawn it in the dirt between them.
Marcus cleared his throat, breaking the oppressive quiet. “Perhaps we should conclude this gathering. Many enemies still require attention p>
Allen set down his cup with deliberate precision, regarding Marcus as if he’d spoken in riddles. “What enemies?” He shook his head with mock confusion. “Lord Hardy is already reducing them all to ash p>
Rowan’s attention snapped toward him. “Reducing them to ash?” The phrase carried disturbing implications. Was Hardy pursuing the Raven Deons? Such recklessness would be catastrophic.
“Ah,” Allen said, feigning surprise at his reaction. “Perhaps the news hasn’t reached you yet. Lord Hardy
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51 Chapter 51 Burning Them To Ash ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ
possesses an almost spiritual connection to fire. He burns everything. Structures, forests, people. The flames call to him.” He spoke as casually as discussing a man’s preference in horses. “We find this quality quite admirable p>
Rowan remained silent, but internally he cursed.
Arsonist. Madman. The northern Alpha wasn’t merely cruel, he was obsessed with destruction. He’d studied reports of his methods before arriving, but Allen’s casual confirmation made his blood run cold. Still, he couldn’t reveal that knowledge here, not with those predatory eyes watching for any sign of weakness.
Allen refilled their cups himself, the gesture somehow more threatening than generous. “Drink,” he commanded softly. “Such rarity shouldn’t be wasted. Refusing would be… discourteous, considering the effort required to obtain it p>
Rowan raised the cup to his lips and took a measured sip, feeling the warm liquid slide down his throat. Marcus followed suit, though his eyes never left Allen’s face.
“Nearly forgot to mention,” Allen said, setting down his
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own cup with theatrical precision. “This particular blend was crafted by the west’s most skilled poisoners. It possesses certain… temporary effects.” He leaned back, studying their faces like a scholar examining specimens. “One notable property prevents natural healing for brief periods. Many consume it before drinking stronger spirits to enhance the burning sensation p>
Marcus’s hand trembled almost imperceptibly, porcelain rattling against the saucer before he steadied it. His controlled expression never wavered, but Rowan noticed the muscle jumping in his jaw.
“Are you suggesting,” Marcus asked, his voice deadly quiet, “that you’ve served us something designed to compromise our abilities? What game are you playing, Physician Allen? Do you intend harm p>
Allen’s lips curved with genuine amusement. “Harm? Alpha Marcus, your suspicion wounds me deeply. Are we not here in celebration? Why speak of violence p>
His gaze shifted between them like a snake selecting prey. “Poison lacks the directness we northerners prefer. When we desire someone dead, we kill them
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ourselves. If we wished you harm…” His smile lingered like smoke. “You would already be corpses p>
Marcus’s chair scraped backward. “How dare threaten an Alpha p>
you
“Threaten?” Allen’s chuckle emerged low and dangerous. “We don’t threaten. We kill without warning. So let’s abandon this pretense p>
Rowan felt Marcus’s rage radiating like heat from a forge, but he maintained his rigid posture. They both understood the reality. Fighting Hardy’s forces here would be suicide. Even if Allen was baiting them, murdering two visiting Alphas in their own camp would be reckless beyond measure. They wouldn’t follow through.
That thought allowed some of his tension to ease.
“Enough,” Rowan said finally, placing his cup on the table with finality. “We came to celebrate, not quarrel. We share common enemies. Lord Hardy’s victory serves us all.” He met Allen’s stare directly. “Speaking of Lord Hardy, might we see him? My daughter recently married him, and I’ve heard they’re…
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adjusting well to married life p>
Allen’s chuckle carried sharp edges. “The Princess rests. Lord Hardy left explicit instructions not to be disturbed before his departure p>
Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “Departure? Where has he gone p>
Allen’s smile never wavered. “Didn’t I already explain? Lord Hardy is handling our enemies.” He lifted his cup again. “Burning them all to ash p>
Something cold and terrible twisted in Rowan’s gut. His fingers went still against the chair’s armrest. He couldn’t explain why, but crushing dread settled over him like winter fog. Whatever Hardy was burning, he feared it wasn’t simply enemy soldiers.
At least he’d sent Beta Nick and several of their warriors back before entering this camp. Nick would protect the Luna and Sally. He had to.
Sara Lili
Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.