-FREYA-
Freya sat in the corner of her cell, the rough stone pressing against her back. Her wrists were raw from the ropes, her muscles stiff from sitting in the same position for hours. She forced herself to stay still, her breathing shallow and even. Any sign of fear was a victory for him, and she couldn’t let him win.
The rogue leader’s footsteps echoed down the corridor, each one deliberate and slow. When he appeared in the doorway, Freya stiffened. His broad shoulders filled the frame, his presence dominating the small, dimly lit cell. The torchlight flickered, casting shadows over his sharp, angular features. His piercing grey eyes gleamed with a dangerous mix of amusement and menace.
“Good evening, little wolf,” he said smoothly, crouching to her level. His voice was low, carrying a velvet-like quality that made her stomach twist. “How are we settling in?”
Freya refused to answer, her hazel eyes glaring at him from beneath the curtain of her auburn hair.
He chuckled, a cold sound that sent a shiver down her spine. “Still defiant. Good. I like that.”
She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. “What do you want from me?” she asked finally, her voice steady despite the storm raging within her.
The rogue leader’s smile widened. “What do I want?” he repeated, as though the question amused him. He stood and began pacing the small space, his movements fluid and deliberate. “You already know. You’re a white wolf, Freya. A rare gem. The packs waste your kind—hiding you away, chaining you to their pathetic rules. They don’t see your true potential.”
Freya swallowed hard, refusing to rise to his bait. “And you think you do?”
“I know I do,” he said confidently, stopping to face her. His gaze swept over her, calculating and predatory. “I see strength in you, little wolf. Power. And I can help you unlock it.”
“I don’t want your help,” Freya snapped, her voice colder now.
He crouched again, his face only inches from hers. “Ah, but you will,” he murmured, his grey eyes locking onto hers. “Because the alternative is being forgotten. Cast aside by a pack that never wanted you. Or worse—left to fend for yourself as rogues tear you apart. Is that the future you want?”
Freya’s chest tightened, but she didn’t look away. “I’ll take my chances.”
The rogue leader tilted his head, his smile sharpening. “You’re brave. I’ll give you that. But bravery alone won’t save you. Nor will your so-called mate. Do you think he’ll fight for you? Do you think he even knows what he’s up against?”
Freya’s breath hitched, and he noticed. His smile grew colder, more dangerous.
“You see,” he continued, leaning in closer, his voice soft but laced with menace, “I don’t need to force you to be mine. I could take you now, claim you with a mark that would tie you to me forever. But where’s the satisfaction in that? I want you to choose me, little wolf. I want you to see that I’m the only one who can truly give you what you need.”
Freya’s blood ran cold. She understood now. His arrogance was a weapon, his belief in his own superiority absolute. He wouldn’t force her—he didn’t need to. He thought he could make her want him, convince her that her mate bond with Tobias was weak, meaningless. But the bond hummed faintly within her, a reminder of something pure and unshakeable.
“Never,” she whispered, her voice trembling but resolute. “I will never choose you.”
The rogue leader chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Freya recoiled, pressing herself further into the wall. “We’ll see,” he said lightly, his smile returning to something maddeningly calm. “I have time. And so do you.”
He rose to his full height, looming over her for a moment before turning to leave. At the door, he paused, glancing over his shoulder. “You’ll understand soon enough, Freya. No one will come for you. No one but me.”
The heavy thud of the door closing echoed through the cell, leaving Freya in silence. She pressed her knees to her chest, her nails digging into her palms as she fought back the tears threatening to spill. Her wolf stirred restlessly, its presence a small comfort in the suffocating darkness.
Hours passed, the silence of the rogue camp pressing down on her. Freya’s ears strained for any sound, any hint of a way out. At first, she thought the faint hum she heard was just the wind, but as it grew stronger, she froze.
Voices whispering.
Her heart raced. Were they just outside the cell? Her wolf stirred uneasily, and Freya pressed herself against the wall, trying to listen without moving too much. The whispers were fragmented, overlapping, as if several people were speaking at once.
“The passage is hidden…behind the barrels…”
“…weak point in the north guard…”
Her stomach churned. Were these voices real? Or a trap? The whispers were disjointed, too faint to pinpoint. They didn’t sound mocking or cruel, but that didn’t mean she could trust them. Her mind raced. Were the rogues testing her, waiting for her to react?
The murmurs faded, leaving her breathless and tense. She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. She couldn’t trust anything right now…not whispers, not tricks, not herself. But the words lingered in her mind, vivid and unshakeable.
The passage is hidden…behind the barrels.
The cell door creaked open, and Freya flinched before realising it was Lyra. The rogue woman moved quickly, her greying hair falling in messy strands around her face. She carried a small loaf of bread and a flask of water, her sharp green eyes darting toward the corridor before kneeling beside Freya.
“Eat,” Lyra whispered, shoving the bread into Freya’s hands. “You’ll need your strength.”
Freya hesitated, studying her. Lyra had always seemed different from the other rogues…less cruel, less eager to follow orders. Still, trust didn’t come easily. “Why are you helping me?”
Lyra shrugged, glancing toward the door. “Not everyone here agrees with him,” she said softly. Her voice dipped slightly, bitterness creeping into her tone. “Some of us know better than to follow blindly.”
Freya’s grip tightened on the bread. “How can I get out?”
Lyra pulled a small shard of metal from her sleeve and pressed it into Freya’s palm. “For the ropes,” she said. “There’s a passage near the north guard post. It’s not well-watched, but you’ll need to move fast.”
Freya stared at the shard, her resolve hardening. “Why are you doing this?”
Lyra’s eyes darkened further, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “Because he’s wrong about being able to use you. But if he succeeds, we’re all doomed.”
Before Freya could ask more, Lyra slipped out, the door closing quietly behind her. Freya looked down at the shard in her hand, a spark of hope igniting in her chest. She wouldn’t wait to be rescued. She would find her own way out.
As the night deepened, Freya sat motionless in the shadows of her cell, her heart pounding in the stillness. Then, cutting through the quiet like a blade, came the rogue leader’s voice. It carried with it a chilling confidence, each word laced with venomous conviction.
““The packs think they’re untouchable,” he began, his voice carrying over the crackling flames. “They sit on their thrones, content to waste the power that could make them kings.”” he began, his deep tone reverberating through the rogue camp. Freya stiffened, tilting her head slightly toward the sound. “But they’re wrong. We’ve found our weapon…a white wolf, hidden away by cowards too blind to see her value.”
The word “weapon” struck her like a blow. Her stomach twisted, a cold knot forming deep within her. She gripped the shard Lyra had given her, the sharp edge digging into her palm as if grounding her in reality. Outside, the rogue wolves erupted into cheers, their howls slicing through the night like a chorus of chaos. The sound was primal, wild, and unrelenting, vibrating through the very walls of her cell.
Freya pressed her back harder against the stone, trying to disappear into it. Her breathing quickened as the rogue leader continued, his words now faint but no less terrifying. “They’ve kept her hidden, afraid of what she truly is. But we see her. We know what she can become.”
The cheers swelled again, the howling echoing like a tidal wave. Freya felt suffocated by the noise, her mind spinning with the implications of his words. He didn’t just want her for her abilities…he wanted to turn her into a symbol. To use her to inspire chaos, rebellion, and destruction. The thought made her throat tighten, and she clenched the shard in her hand until her fingers burned.
Her wolf stirred in the depths of her mind, its growl low and steady. You are stronger than this. You are more than this.
The calm conviction of her wolf’s voice soothed her rising panic. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, focusing on the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. She wasn’t a weapon. She wasn’t a symbol. She was Freya…mate to Tobias, a wolf in her own right, and she would not be broken.
She opened her eyes, her resolve hardening. The rogue leader could howl his threats to the moon, but he would not control her. Not now, not ever. Freya drew a shaky breath, her voice a quiet whisper. “I’ll get out of here. I’ll find my way back.”
-MAGNUS-
The rogue camp lay deep in the forest, hidden beneath a canopy of twisted trees. A large fire crackled in the centre, casting flickering shadows on the faces of the gathered rogues. At the edge of the camp, Magnus stood with his arms crossed, his sharp grey eyes scanning the scene. The flicker of flames reflected in his gaze, making him appear more wolf than man.
Magnus had built this camp from nothing, pulling together rogues from every corner of the region. They weren’t a pack—he’d made that clear—but they were loyal, bound by the promise of freedom and strength. He moved among them now like a king surveying his court, his presence commanding respect, even fear.
At his side, Lyra lingered in the shadows, her green eyes sharp and watchful. She rarely spoke in gatherings, but Magnus had learned to keep her close. Her intuition had saved his life more than once, and while he didn’t trust anyone completely, she came the closest.
“She’s stronger than you expected,” Lyra said quietly, her voice low enough that only he could hear.
Magnus’s lips curled into a smirk. “Freya?” he drawled. “Of course she is. She’s a white wolf. Strength and magic is in her blood. But I will win!”
“And yet, she defied you,” Lyra pointed out, tilting her head. “Not many would dare.”
Magnus’s smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of irritation. He turned to her, his grey eyes narrowing. “She’ll come around,” he said coldly. “They always do.”
Lyra arched an eyebrow but said nothing. Magnus didn’t tolerate dissent, and she knew how to walk the line. He was arrogant, certainly, but arrogance didn’t make him wrong.
Magnus stepped closer to the fire, addressing the rogues who had gathered. “The packs think they’re untouchable,” he began, his voice carrying over the crackling flames. “They sit on their thrones, content to waste the power that could make them kings.”
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. Magnus raised a hand, silencing them.
“But we’ve found our weapon,” he continued, his tone sharp and commanding. “A white wolf, hidden away by cowards too blind to see her value.”
The rogues erupted into cheers, their howls slicing through the night. Magnus smiled, his gaze dark and calculating. He turned back to Lyra, lowering his voice. “Her powers are only the beginning. Once she understands what she is, what she can become, she’ll have no choice but to join us.”
Lyra’s expression remained neutral. “And if she doesn’t?”
Magnus’s smile sharpened, his teeth flashing in the firelight. “Then I’ll make her mine. One way or another.”
Freya’s defiance gnawed at Magnus more than he cared to admit. He’d expected her to crumble, to beg for mercy like so many before her. But she hadn’t. Her quiet strength intrigued him, frustrated him. She was a challenge, and Magnus thrived on challenges.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Lyra said, breaking the silence. “If she’s as powerful as you say, forcing her could destroy her, or us.”
Magnus turned to her, his expression hard. “She’s not just powerful. She’s rare. A symbol. Do you know how many would bow to me if I had her at my side?”
“Or how many would come to destroy you,” Lyra countered, her voice steady. “You think the packs will let this go?”
Magnus waved her off, his smirk returning. “Let them try. Freya is mine now. They’re already too late.”
Later, as the camp settled into uneasy quiet, Magnus retreated to his tent. His thoughts lingered on Freya….her defiance, her strength, her beauty. She was everything he had sought, the missing piece in his plans. He would break her, not with force, but with time. And when she finally submitted, she would stand beside him, not as a prisoner, but as a queen.
A sound at the entrance of the tent drew his attention. Lyra stepped inside, her expression unreadable.
“Do you even know what you’re dealing with, Magnus? A white wolf isn’t just rare. She’s dangerous.”
“She’s mine,” he said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Lyra’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t press further. “Be careful,” she said finally, turning to leave. “You might find she’s not as easy to control as you think.”
As she disappeared into the night, Magnus leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. Freya would come around. They always did.
And if she didn’t? Well, he had other ways of ensuring her loyalty.
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