CHAPTER 461: HIS RETURN

The cold wind bit at Xaden’s skin as he staggered through the underbrush, every breath he took shallow and ragged. His shirt was torn, caked with dried blood, and his side throbbed violently with every movement.

Each step was a battle, and each breath reminded him how close he was to the edge.

He didn’t know how long he’d been running.

Branches clawed at his arms. Stones dug into his feet. His legs trembled beneath him like they no longer remembered how to carry his weight. But he couldn’t stop—not now. Not with freedom within reach. Somewhere beyond this forest, beyond the darkness, lay his people.

He had to reach them.

He didn’t remember exactly how he escaped. One moment he was lying on the cold floor of the dungeon, slipping in and out of unconsciousness, and the next he was lunging at a careless guard with the last burst of adrenaline in his veins. He remembered biting down—hard—and grabbing a set of keys as the man screamed. Then came the frantic dash through corridors, the chaos of alarm bells, the growling of wolves chasing his scent.

And then he was in the forest, running.

Running until the trees blurred, and his lungs burned.

A low growl echoed behind him. He spun around, swaying. Nothing. Just shadows dancing between trunks. The wind was no friend tonight. It whispered illusions and threats with every gust.

He pressed forward.

The pain in his side grew sharper. He could feel the blood again—fresh, warm, soaking through his shirt. His wound had reopened. He gritted his teeth and kept going.

Just a little more.

His thoughts were scattered fragments of survival. Jasmine’s face. The pack’s gates. His warriors. Jasmine—again and again.

Her voice in his head, soft and fierce.

He blinked against the blood trickling into his eye. Something glimmered ahead.

A light.

A lantern?

The pack.

Xaden stumbled, his foot catching a root. He fell hard, scraping his palms against the dirt. But when he lifted his head, he saw it clearly this time—torches. A wall. A shape in the distance that could only be the towering gates of the northern entrance to his territory.

A sob broke from his throat.

He was home.

He used the last of his strength to crawl. His knees bled. His hands left smears on the gravel path. But still he crawled—until he reached the gate and slammed his fist against the wood with a weak thud.

And then the world tilted.

Shouts. Footsteps.

Someone was screaming his name.

Then, nothing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Torches were lit. Guards rushed down the ramparts, leaping the stairs two at a time. Beta Ronan, one of the head guards who watched the outskirts of the

"Hold formation!" he barked. "Stay alert!"

But as they neared the collapsed body, the air shifted—something primal, something known. Ronan slowed. The other warriors fell into a stunned silence as the flickering light of their torches fell on the man before them.

Blood. Dirt. Torn flesh. The scent of iron and fire.

But beneath it... that unmistakable aura.

"Spirits," one of the warriors whispered. "Is that..."

Ronan dropped to his knees.

"Alpha Xaden?"

There was no reply. The man didn’t move. His body was a ruin of bruises, deep slashes, and dried blood.

His once-regal dark hair was matted and tangled with leaves and ash. His chest rose—barely. But it rose.

"He’s alive!" Ronan shouted, his voice breaking. "He’s alive! Get the healers now!"

The gates burst open as more guards poured through, some falling to their knees in shock, others frozen in disbelief.

Two warriors gently turned Xaden over, revealing the torn mess of his torso, and the festering wound on his side.

"Don’t touch the wound!" someone barked. "We don’t know how deep it is."

Ronan was already stripping off his cloak and pressing it against the worst of the bleeding, holding it with steady, practiced hands.

"Where’s Erik?" one of the guards asked breathlessly.

"He’s still in the forest," Ronan snapped. "We have no time to wait. Lift him. Now."

The warriors moved quickly but reverently, like they were lifting something sacred. One at the head, one at the legs, the others clearing a path. They carried him inside the walls, the torches guiding them like stars in the night.

The main hall burst into life. Healers rushed from their quarters, gathering bowls of warm water, cloth, and the last of their precious healing salves.

News of Xaden’s return spread like wildfire, and even the oldest pack members, those who had not left their rooms in weeks, stood outside, silently watching as their Alpha was brought home.

When the doors to the infirmary slammed open, a hush fell over the crowd.

Loren pushed through with Ned.

"What happened to him?"

"No idea," Ronan said, his voice hoarse. "We found him just outside the gates."

He didn’t say that for a moment, he’d believed it was Xaden’s ghost.

He didn’t say that part of him still wasn’t sure.

"Get me those herbs, now!" Loren said to Ned. "And the fever cloths. Move!"

They placed him on the bed, and immediately Loren began to cut away the tattered remains of his shirt and clean his wounds.

Every inch of him was covered in bruises, abrasions, and cuts.

One of the wounds near his ribs had begun to turn dark with infection.

"He should be dead," Loren murmured under his breath. "But Xaden’s too stubborn to die."

Ronan stood back, his fists clenched.

"Will he make it?" he asked.

Loren didn’t look at him. "We don’t know."

"He has to," Ronan said. "He’s our Alpha."

Outside the infirmary, the courtyard was now filled with wolves in human form, young, old, warriors and civilians alike. They stood in clusters, murmuring, whispering prayers.

Xaden was back.

After weeks of silence, grief, and unanswered questions, the impossible had happened. But no one could celebrate. Not yet.

Inside, Loren worked tirelessly, directing the other healers with sharp commands. They applied salves, stitched wounds, and fed him drops of water mixed with crushed roots.

Xaden flinched only once during the entire procedure, a testament to how close to unconsciousness he was.

Hours passed.

Eventually, Ronan was left standing alone in the hallway, bloodied cloak in his hand, watching through the glass window as the healer wrapped Xaden’s body in clean bandages.

"He needs time," Loren said quietly as he stepped out. "And strength. He’s hanging by a thread."

Ronan nodded.

"That means all of you leave and stand watch." Loren said before chasing everyone out of the room.

And then Loren looked around, before it finally occurred to him.

"Where the hell is Jasmine?