Chapter One: Hate at First Sight.

The air was thick with tension.

Sage stood at the edge of the clearing, her arms folded across her chest as she watched the Nightclaw warriors approach. She had been preparing for this moment her whole life—the day she would stand face to face with her sworn enemies. For today though, she would not be ripping their throats open. Not just yet.

As they approached, she rolled her eyes at the theatrics. They moved as a single unit, their steps eerily synchronized, their golden eyes scanning the Silverfang warriors like they were prey. At their center was a tall, broad-shouldered figure, his dark hair tousled by the wind, his sharp features set in an expression of bored disinterest.

Kieran Vale. Of course.

Even if she hadn’t known his face, she would have recognized him by the way the others behaved towards him. The way his mere presence demanded attention. The way his scent—dark cedar and pine and something spicy, ew—set her wolf’s instincts on edge.

Their gazes clashed like two blades meeting in battle.

Kieran's lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but wasn’t far from it. “So, this is the infamous Sage Thornwood. I expected someone… taller. And more, you know, man.” He said, looking her up and down. Well, mostly down.

Sage arched a brow, ignoring the way her pack stiffened around her. She was fighting with everything in her not to show how pissed his stupid, misogynistic observation had made her.

“And I expected someone smarter, but I guess we’re both disappointed.” she spat back.

A few of the Silverfangs chuckled under their breath, but she knew that her response was not half as witty as his remark. Kieran’s expression didn’t change, but something in his stance shifted—subtle, but she caught it.

Game on.

Before either of them could continue, Sage’s eldest cousin, Ronan, pushed up from the tree against which he was leaning and stepped forward. As Alpha—and for some reason, the man she was against her will, betrothed to—he commanded immediate respect, his presence radiating a certain aura.

“Enough,” he said, his voice carrying through the clearing. “We’re here to negotiate terms, not trade insults.”

Kieran sighed dramatically. “Shame. I was enjoying that.”

Sage clenched her fists, already itching for an excuse to knock that smug expression off his face. But she forced herself to stay still, forcing her focus onto the real reason they were all here.

The rogue attacks. AGAIN.

It had been happening for weeks now—wolves disappearing at the borders, returning in pieces, or sometimes not at all. The Silverfangs had initially assumed it was the Nightclaws breaking the fragile truce between them...it was not like the Nightclaws had a reputation for honoring truces—or the patience and decency of making them in the first place without everyone involved getting killed. But the more they investigated, the clearer it became that something else was at play.

Something worse.

Still, forming an alliance—no matter how temporary—with them felt like swallowing glass.

Ronan and Kieran’s father, Alpha Darius Vale, began discussing patrol strategies, assigning wolves to shared missions. Sage tried to listen, but she was too aware of Kieran watching her, like he was studying a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

She refused to give him the satisfaction of looking away first.

“We’ll pair warriors from both packs for patrols,” Darius announced, his voice as sharp as the scar running down his jaw. “That way, neither side can claim the other is responsible for the attacks.”

Sage barely resisted a groan. She already knew where this was going.

Sure enough, Ronan turned to her. “You’ll take the southern border with Kieran.”

For a second, there was silence. Then Kieran let out a quiet, amused chuckle. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

Sage shot her betrothed a glare. Ronan didn’t even have the decency to look guilty. He was doing this on purpose, but why?

Sage exhaled slowly. Fine. If this was how it had to be, she would do her duty. She didn’t have to like it though.  And she sure as hell wouldn’t make it easy for Kieran Vale.

---

The night was quiet while they patrolled the Southern Border night, but Sage didn’t trust the silence.

She moved swiftly through the dense forest, her steps light, her senses on alert. Kieran followed a few paces behind, matching her stride effortlessly. It annoyed her more than it should have.

They had been patrolling for nearly an hour, and not a word had passed between them. Which was fine by her. In fact, she was enjoying this.

Unfortunately, Kieran didn’t seem to share that sentiment.

“So, tell me,” he said, voice smooth, casual. “Do you hate me personally, or is it just a general ‘Nightclaw’ thing?”

Sage didn’t slow. “I don’t waste my energy on hate.”

Kieran hummed like he didn’t believe her. “Right. That’s why you keep glaring at me like you’re plotting my murder.”

She had been glaring. But only because his presence was infuriating.

“Trust me,” she said. “If I were plotting your murder, you wouldn’t see it coming.”

Kieran chuckled. “Noted.”

Silence stretched between them again. The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine. She could not tell if it was the forest, or Keiran's perfume, and she chuckled. She found her thought very funny.

Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted.

Then, the wind shifted, and Sage froze.

Kieran also stilled beside her, his amusement vanishing in an instant. His wolf had caught the scent too.

Blood, and it was still fresh.

They moved at the same time, racing toward the source.

When they broke through the trees, Sage’s stomach turned.

A body lay sprawled across the forest floor, limbs twisted unnaturally, throat ripped open. The scent was wrong—tainted with something not fully wolf.

Kieran crouched beside the body, his jaw tight. “Rogue.”

Sage swallowed hard. She had seen death before, but this… this was different.

There was something off about the attack. The wound was deep, jagged, as if the rogue hadn’t just killed—but fed.

Kieran reached toward the body, fingers brushing something in the dirt. A mark.

A symbol.

Sage’s blood ran cold. “That’s…”

Kieran looked at her sharply. “You’ve seen this before.”

She hesitated. “My father… before he died, he mentioned something like this. Said it was the mark of an ancient rogue faction. One that wasn’t just feral—but organized.”

Kieran’s expression darkened. “So this isn’t just random attacks.”

“No.” Sage met his gaze, her pulse unsteady. “It’s a war.”

Their rivalry suddenly seemed insignificant compared to what was coming.