The training pits of the Silver-Claw were silent, save for the rhythmic, bone-deep thud of Rikae's fists against a heavy sandbag. He wasn't wearing gloves. His knuckles were split, trailing thin lines of crimson that healed almost as fast as they opened.
Left. Right. Pivot. Strike.
He was aiming for 100% efficiency, but his HUD—the mental overlay he used to track his vitalswas flickering.
[WARNING: ELEVATED CORTISOL LEVELS. ADRENALINE SPIKE DETECTED.]
"Shut up," Rikae grunted, throwing a roundhouse kick that nearly split the bag.
It wasn't a system error. It was the Wolf.
Deep in the iron-barred cellar of his subconscious, the beast was no longer lying down. It was pacing. It was scratching at the walls of Rikae's mind with claws made of sheer resentment. Every time Rikae closed his eyes, he didn't see tactical maps; he saw a flash of midnight-blue silk. He smelled lavender and woodsmoke.
She is nothing to us, Rikae projected inward, his thoughts like cold needles. The bond is severed. The silver blade cut the tether.
The Wolf stopped pacing. It looked up, its eyes glowing with a terrifying, ancient intelligence. You cut the tether, the beast's voice echoed, vibrating in Rikae's teeth. But you didn't kill the scent. You are starving me, Beta. And a starving wolf eventually eats its master.
Rikae stumbled. His knee buckled, a physical weakness that should have been impossible for a wolf of his caliber. He gasped, clutching the chains of the sandbag as the world tilted.
"Rikae!"
Jax rushed over from the equipment rack, his face pale. "You're shaking. Your scent... it's spiking. It smells like... like rotting ozone."
"I am fine," Rikae hissed, though his hand was trembling so violently he had to hide it in his pocket. "A minor caloric deficit. Return to your drills."
"It's not calories, Rikae. Silas told me about the trip to Black-Ridge. He said you saw her."
Rikae straightened his back, the mechanical mask sliding over his features, but it was cracked. "I looked at a tactical liability. Nothing more."
"Then why are you bleeding from your ears?"
Rikae reached up, his fingers coming away wet. Dark, thick blood was trickling from his ear canal,the physical manifestation of the mental pressure he was exerting to keep his wolf suppressed. He was a pressure cooker with the valve soldered shut.
"Dismissed, Jax," Rikae commanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous, distorted frequency.
He retreated to his private quarters, locking the door behind him. He needed a specialist. Not a doctor,a Weaver. Someone who understood the ancient mechanics of the soul. He pulled up his private terminal and searched for a name he had seen in the forbidden archives: The Archivist of the Red Moon.
If the ritual was reversing itself, he would force it to stay broken. He would pay any price to remain empty. He was rejected,now he will reject.