The Forgotten Pulse of the Bond-Chapter 67: Ash Between Their Steps

"Stop pretending you’re calm," Savannah muttered under her breath, clutching the hilt of the torch tighter.

"I’m not," Rhett said, blade still drawn as the stone walls around them seemed to breathe. "Calm left me the second Camille’s blood hit these stones."

The chapel ruins groaned above them as if remembering. The wind howled through gaps in the roof. Shadows flickered in and out, cast by their torchlight, forming specters of all the ghosts once buried by Alpha decrees and Syndicate betrayals. Dust thickened in the air as they advanced deeper.

Savannah swallowed a lump in her throat and whispered, "If she came willingly... why leave blood? Why leave pieces?"

"She didn’t leave them," Rhett said grimly. "They wanted us to follow."

Their steps echoed. Each footfall sounded like a question unanswered, each breath a prelude to revelation. The hallway widened. What they entered next had not been part of any estate map, it was older. Preceding Sterling’s rule. The ceiling was high and dome-shaped, its arches coated in soot, like fire had once danced across every inch. Symbols, half-burned, marked the stone.

"The Hollowfang crest," Rhett murmured, brushing ash from one wall. "This wasn’t just a punishment chamber."

Savannah stepped forward, heart pounding. "It was a council room."

And in its center, beneath a circle of broken candles and long-extinguished torches, was a chair. Not just any chair, throne-like in height, rusted iron in build, and soaked at the base in something far too red to be paint.

Rhett crouched low, examining the claw marks embedded in the armrests. "They chained Alphas here."

Savannah stepped closer. "And tested them. I’ve heard of this place in whispers. It was called The Pulse."

He looked up sharply. "What?"

"The Hollowfang Circle used it to break bloodlines, if an heir was too weak, they were bled into this stone. Only the strong could hold the Pulse."

"And Camille’s here now," Rhett said, rising. "Chasing ghosts and thrones that killed people stronger than us."

Savannah reached for the book Camille had left. Pages were torn, but the last remaining drawing was still etched in black charcoal, a woman in a crown made of twisted thorn and smoke. The eyes in the sketch were unmistakable. They mirrored Rhett’s.

She whispered, "Your mother was part of this Circle."

"She was its heir," he muttered, a flicker of pain slicing through his voice. "Before the Syndicate burned it all down."

Then the floor trembled.

Not like an earthquake, but like something underneath had awakened.

Rhett threw an arm in front of Savannah. "Stay behind, "

Too late.

The wall behind them cracked open with a growl, and three cloaked figures emerged. They wore nothing familiar. No Syndicate armor. No pack sigils. Their eyes were gold-ringed, feral, and ancient.

One spoke. "Blood has returned to the throne."

Another stepped forward, lowering her hood. An elder woman, skin leathery, hair white, with symbols carved into her neck.

"You carry her scent," she said to Rhett.

Rhett raised his blade. "Lucia Thorne is dead."

The woman smiled. "Then why does the Pulse answer?"

Savannah raised the torch higher. "We’re not here to bargain. We’re here for Camille."

"She chose the path," the old one said. "She followed Lucia’s call. If she survives the Rite, she is no longer yours."

"What Rite?" Savannah asked, but dread had already wrapped its hand around her spine.

The third figure, taller, silent, lifted a scroll. Unfurling it, the parchment glowed faintly. Symbols bled crimson across its surface.

"Your war is not with us," he said. "But the throne your Syndicate stole. Hollowfang rises. And the girl... the girl will bear the cost."

Rhett lunged, but a force flung him back.

Magic. Old, buried, and cruel.

He slammed against the stone, groaning. Savannah ran to his side, shielding him.

"You want a war," she hissed. "You just made it personal."

The three figures stepped back into shadow, vanishing as if swallowed by the wall itself. A gust of air followed, extinguishing the torch.

Darkness.

Only Rhett’s ragged breath, and Savannah’s shaking hands.

Then, the floor beneath the iron chair began to pulse with a red glow.

"Savannah..." Rhett said slowly, eyes wide. "It’s not just a symbol. It’s alive."

The stone beneath them cracked. A voice, not human, not animal, rose from the earth.

"Blood must bind blood. The heir must rise."

And then, in the center of the room, Camille’s scream ripped through the walls.

Not distant.

Not past.

Beneath them.

Savannah didn’t hesitate. She slammed her hands to the stone, voice trembling. "Camille!"

The ground pulsed again.

And from below, a voice replied, not Camille’s, not Lucia’s, but one that carried all their echoes:

"She is the sacrifice."

Savannah’s vision swam.

Rhett caught her as she swayed. "We need to go."

But neither of them moved. Because Camille’s scream rose again, louder, torn from somewhere deeper than the Pulse itself. And this time, it didn’t stop.

It howled like a wolf.

The Boy’s Fire

"Camille!"

Beckett’s voice broke through the dawn-cracked air, rasping and desperate as he charged down the narrow trail that twisted through the jagged mountain pass. His lungs burned from the elevation, each breath thinner than the last, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

The scent trail was faint. Faded, almost like dust. Camille had passed through here hours ago, maybe more. The path she’d taken was reckless and wild, a desperate escape or a deliberate lure, he couldn’t tell. All he knew was that she was gone, and his wolf had gone near feral from the absence.

His boots scraped against loose gravel, sending a cascade of pebbles down the slope. He skidded to a stop, his arm bracing against a boulder, his eyes narrowing toward the bend ahead. Something shimmered, a faint gleam of silver against the rocks.

He moved closer. It was a charm. Camille’s. Torn from her bracelet. A simple crescent moon, chipped on one edge. The symbol of her bloodline.

"Damn it," he muttered, snatching it up. She hadn’t dropped this by accident.

Then he smelled it, sulfur, and the metallic taint of silver dust.

Beckett turned sharply, too late.

A blur of motion slammed into him from the left, claws raking across his side. He hit the ground hard, rolled, and sprang up just in time to dodge another blow. The assailant wore dark leathers laced with obsidian studs, eyes gleaming yellow beneath a hood.

Syndicate.

The scout hissed and lunged again. Beckett drew his blade mid-spin, their weapons clashing with a metallic shriek. Sparks lit the dim morning light as the battle intensified. The Syndicate scout was fast. Poison dripped from the tips of their claws, each swipe calculated to bleed rather than kill.

"Where is she?!" Beckett shouted.

The scout responded with a guttural laugh, then surged forward, blades drawn. Beckett parried and countered, slicing into the scout’s shoulder. Black blood sprayed the rocks. The scout staggered but didn’t fall.

Beckett advanced, rage sharpening every strike. He fought not with finesse, but fury, each movement raw, visceral. When he finally drove his dagger into the scout’s chest, it took all his strength.

The body crumpled. Beckett knelt over it, breathing hard.

Then he heard it, a second pair of footsteps.

Too late again.

A second scout sprang from the ridge above, landing squarely on Beckett’s back. Teeth sank into his shoulder. He roared in pain, rolling violently to shake the attacker off, but not before a syringe was plunged into his neck.

His body seized.

Everything slowed.

The fire in his blood flared once more, then dimmed.

The last thing he saw was Camille’s charm slipping from his fingers, tumbling into the ravine below as his body followed.

Darkness swallowed him.

But the fire inside did not go out.

It burned.

Waiting.