KELLY THOMPSON'S POV
The air in the grand hall crackled with a tension so thick it could have been cut with the ceremonial dagger at my hip. I had overseen the previous summits at the royal palace, each carefully orchestrated. But nothing had prepared me for Paul Biansky' s dirturbance —a werewolf I thought loyal to this pack and to me.
Taken aback, the leaders of both werewolf and human factions exchanged glances rife with suspicion and unease. Whispers slithered through the room like serpents seeking out the warmth of conspiracy. My heart pounded against my chest, not solely from fear but from a burning desire to protect what Jason and I had built.
"Paul, think about what you're doing!" Mr. Grayson's voice, usually so calm and composed, now laced with desperation, cut through the murmurs. The human leader stepped forward, his hands raised in a futile attempt to reach the bewitched soul before us. "This isn't you. You must resist whatever holds your will captive!"
But Paul seemed beyond reach, his body trembling as if strings pulled by an unseen puppeteer directed his every move. His mouth moved, but the words that spilled forth were not his own—they were the venomous whispers of The Black Faes.
"Resistance is futile," he uttered, his voice echoing off the ancient stone walls.
I clenched my fists, feeling Shelly stir within me, her wolf instincts aligning with my own. This was no mere outburst; this was a calculated strike, one meant to sow discord and fear among us. And though my heart ached for the broken man before us, I knew we stood on the precipice of something darker than any of us had anticipated.
The air crackled with an electrifying tension, each breath I took heavy with foreboding. Paul Biansky's form swayed like a tall tree on the brink of snapping in a violent storm. The once rational man who stood among us was now a vessel for something ancient and vile.
"Paul, please!" Mr. Grayson implored again, his voice straining against the rising mayhem. But his pleas only seemed to add fuel to the dark fire that burned within Paul's eyes—a sinister gleam of turquoise, the signature hue of Forbidden Glade sorcery.
I could sense it then, the tangible shift in the atmosphere as Paul's gaze locked onto Mr. Grayson like a predator zeroing in on its prey. Time itself seemed to slow, seconds stretching into infinity as the room held its collective breath.
"Grayson," Paul growled, his voice laced with a malevolence that raised the hairs on my arms. A guttural chant began to spill from his lips, words in a language forgotten by time yet still recognized by every instinct in my body as a harbinger of doom.
And then he moved.
It was a surge, a blur of motion too fast for any human eye to follow. Paul lunged forward, propelled by a force not entirely his own, his movements erratic and unnatural. He was a marionette dancing to the tune of a malignant will, his limbs jerking violently as if strings were yanked by a capricious and unseen hand.
Chaos erupted around us, a cacophony of shouts and gasps. Leaders scrambled away, their faces masks of horror and disbelief as they tried to comprehend the madness unfolding before them. The grand hall, once a symbol of unity and strength, had been transformed into a theater of pandemonium.
"Secure him!" I heard someone yell, but the command was lost in the bedlam. Chairs toppled, shattering under the weight of frantic bodies seeking refuge. A specter of fear had descended upon us all, clouding judgment and sowing discord with each passing moment.
As I watched, frozen in place, the realization of our vulnerability settled in my stomach like a stone. If Paul, one of our own, could be reduced to this—a puppet ensnared by The Black Faes—then none of us were safe. Not here, not anywhere. And whatever semblance of peace we had hoped to secure was slipping through our fingers like grains of sand, leaving only the harsh truth that war, once again, was at our doorstep.
In the span of a heartbeat, Jason Bentley—Alpha King, protector, and embodiment of the South pack's might—leapt into the fray. His towering frame cut through the chaos with predatory grace, intercepting Paul Biansky's frenzied charge mere inches from Mr. Grayson's vulnerable form.
"Paul, cease this madness!" Jason bellowed, his voice resonating with the command of an Alpha. But the words shattered against Paul's bewitched mind like arrows upon stone. There was no recognition in those luminous, haunted eyes—only the relentless drive of the Forbidden Glade's sinister touch.
I could feel the power rolling off Jason in waves as he grappled with Paul, trying to restrain him without inflicting injury. It was a dance of desperation—two forces colliding with the ferocity of clashing storm fronts. Paul's movements were wild, unpredictable, his strength amplified by dark enchantments that made him more beast than man.
"Subdue him! Do not harm him!" I found myself shouting, my voice threading through the turmoil as I watched the struggle unfold. But it was like whispering into a tempest; the battle before us demanded more than words—it demanded action steeped in grim resolve.
They crashed against pillars and walls, the sound of splintering wood punctuating their every move. Jason's face was set in a mask of concentration, his features etched with the burden of his duty. His hands sought leverage, his body maneuvered for control, but Paul was a torrent of violence, unyielding and untamable.
"Forgive me," Jason whispered, almost too low for anyone to hear over the din. The moment stretched thin, a tightrope threatening to snap under the weight of the inevitable.
With a guttural cry torn from the depths of his soul, Jason shifted tactics. A surge of energy coursed through him as he grabbed Paul's neck and pressed the throat with all his might. There was a blur of motion, a sickening crunch, and then... stillness. Paul's body went limp, the light in his eyes extinguishing like a snuffed-out flame.
Jason stood there, panting, his hands stained with the reality of what he had done. The grand hall fell silent, a hushed witness to the tragedy that had unfolded. In the end, it wasn't just Paul who lay defeated—it was a piece of us all, a shard of the fragile hope we had clung to so dearly.
We were left with nothing but the echo of our fears and the bitter taste of betrayal on our tongues. And within the hollow victory and the shadow of death, the true enemy lingered, unseen but ever-present, sowing seeds of darkness that promised to bloom into a night without end.