The Feral Alpha's Captive-Chapter 16: Silver Moth

🦋ALTHEA

The words dropped into the hall like stones into still water.

Silence.

But not the shocked kind.

Not the kind that came before understanding.

This was different.

Heavier.

Darker.

And then—

Laughter.

But not amused.

Angry.

One of the Vargans spat on the ground. "A joke. She dares—"

"Pathetic," another sneered.

"Lying cur—"

"She mocks us—"

Even the crone’s face shifted, her expression darkening with something that looked like disappointment. Like I’d wasted her time. Wasted everyone’s time.

"Silence."

The Hell Hound’s voice cut through the noise like a blade.

The hall fell quiet immediately.

He took a step toward me, slow and deliberate, and my breath caught in my throat.

"Prove it," he said, his voice flat and cold.

I blinked, my heart hammering. "What?"

"The silver moths," he continued, his tone sharp. "Create them. Now."

My stomach dropped.

Create them?

Here?

Now?

I was exhausted. Drained. My body was broken, my mind fraying at the edges, and he wanted me to—

"I—" I started, my voice trembling. "I don’t know if I can—"

"Then you lied," he said simply.

"No—" I choked out, desperation clawing up my throat. "I just—I’m—"

"Prove it," he repeated, his voice dropping lower. "Or die."

I swallowed hard, my hands shaking as I tried to focus. Tried to pull on the thing inside me that had always been there, buried beneath the wolfsbane, beneath the pain, beneath the years of being told I was nothing.

I closed my eyes.

Reached inward.

Tried.

Nothing.

I tried again, harder this time, forcing myself to concentrate, to summon the power that had always come so easily in the dark, in the shadows, when no one was watching.

But it wouldn’t come.

My chest tightened, panic rising.

Nothing.

I opened my eyes, gasping, my vision blurring with tears.

"I can’t—" I whispered, my voice breaking. "I’m too—I’m sorry—"

Humiliation burned through me, hotter than the silver chains, sharper than the pain in my ankle.

I’d lied.

Or maybe I hadn’t.

Maybe I’d just been fooling myself all along.

Maybe the Silvermoth had never been real.

And then—

His hand.

On my face.

His fingers curled around my jaw, tilting my head up, forcing me to look at him. The touch was supposed to be forceful—should have been brutal, like everything else he’d done.

But it wasn’t.

It was firm.

Steady.

Almost—

Tender.

The first time he had ever touched me. Not his shadows. Him.

And the moment his skin met mine—

The pulse.

It shot through my chest like lightning, sharp and sudden and overwhelming. My breath hitched, my eyes widening, and I felt it—felt something inside me crack open, something that had been locked away for so long I’d forgotten it was there.

The hall went silent.

Completely.

Because from my fingertips, from my palms, from the air around me—

Silver moths began to form.

One.

Two.

A dozen.

They shimmered into existence, delicate and ethereal, their wings catching the torchlight as they fluttered around us. They moved slowly, gracefully, like they were made of moonlight and shadow, and they filled the hall with a soft, glowing light.

I stared at them, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

They were real.

I hadn’t imagined it.

The Hell Hound’s hand dropped from my face, and he stepped back, his masked face tilting as he watched the moths circle above us.

The Vargans stared, their expressions shifting from anger to shock to something closer to awe.

The crone’s single eye gleamed, and a slow smile spread across her weathered face.

"Well," she said softly. "That changes everything."

The Hell Hound didn’t speak for a long moment. Just stood there, watching the moths, his shoulders tense, his hands clenched into fists.

And then, finally, he turned to the Vargans holding me.

"Unchain her," he said, his voice flat.

They hesitated.

"Now," he snapped.

They moved immediately, fumbling with the locks, and the chains fell away. I collapsed the moment I was free, my legs giving out beneath me, but the Hell Hound’s shadows caught me before I hit the ground.

They held me upright, cold and firm, and I gasped, my body trembling.

The Hell Hound stepped closer, crouching down so we were eye level.

"You," he said softly, his voice carrying a note of something I couldn’t quite place, "are more valuable than I thought."

He stood, turning to the Vargans.

"Take her to the guest chambers," he ordered. "Feed her. Clothe her. Tend to her wounds."

He paused, his voice dropping.

"And make sure she doesn’t escape."

He turned back to me one last time, his masked face unreadable.

"We have much to discuss, Silvermoth."

And then he was gone.

Leaving me standing there, surrounded by silver moths and shadows, with a mate mark burning on my back and a future I couldn’t begin to comprehend.

—

DRAVEN

The High Alpha never left his Labyrinth.

He was the one to be visited, always. It was representatives who came, envoys who bowed, delegates who begged for audience.

But now the enigma who had ruled from his throne of shadows for decades was standing in my war room.

Uninvited.

Unannounced.

And from the way his black eyes swept over the space, calculating, assessing, dismissive—I knew this wasn’t a courtesy call.

"High Alpha," I said, keeping my voice even as I spoke the head of the Allied packs "To what do I owe this... unexpected visit?" Respect to him was paramount even if he made my skin crawl.

I had always suspected that there was something about the him but voicing it would be treason.

He didn’t answer immediately. Just stood there, draped in black silk and furs, his presence filling the room like smoke. The Red Mist clung to him even here, wisps of it curling around his feet, and I felt my wolves tense, their instincts screaming danger.

"Your tribute," he said finally, his voice soft and cold. "The girl."

My jaw tightened, I didn’t need to know who he was referring to. I gave her away as a courtesy to Circe after all she had been through. I would have to forget about her eventually. "Althea."

"Yes." His smile was thin, sharp. "She’s escaped."

The words hit the room like a thunderclap.

Silence.

And then—

Chaos.

Elias lunged forward. "What?"

"How—"

"When—"

"The Mist should have—"

I raised a hand, and they fell silent, but the tension didn’t ease. It coiled tighter, suffocating.

"Escaped," I repeated slowly, my voice dangerously calm. "From your Labyrinth."

The High Alpha’s smile widened. "I gave her a choice. She chose the Mist."

My blood ran cold.

"You let her run into the Mist," I said flatly, the best I could manage. I despised answering to anyone.

"I dared her to," he corrected, his tone almost amused. "And she did. Without hesitation."

He tilted his head, his black eyes gleaming.

"She preferred death to me," he said softly. "Tell me, Alpha Draven—did she prefer death to you as well?"

The barb landed, sharp and deliberate, and I felt my wolf snarl beneath my skin.

"Where is she now?" I bit out.

"That," the High Alpha said, "is the question, isn’t it?"

He began to pace, slowly, his expression thoughtful his hands clasped behind his back.

"My gammas tracked her into the Mist. But they did not return." His voice was calm, conversational. "Which means one of two things. Either the Mist consumed them all—"

He paused, glancing at me.

"—or someone else did."

My chest tightened.

"The North Clan," one of my wolves whispered.

"Thorne," another hissed.

The High Alpha’s smile sharpened. "The Hell Hound’s territory borders the Mist. If she made it through—"

"She’s his prisoner now," I finished, my voice flat.

"Or his corpse," the High Alpha said lightly. "Either way, she is no longer in my possession. Which means, Alpha Draven—"

He turned to face me fully, his black eyes boring into mine.

"—our arrangement is void."

Rage flared hot and vicious in my chest.

"She was your tribute," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "Your responsibility. If you lost her—"

"I didn’t lose her," he interrupted, his tone sharp. "She ran. And you—" His smile turned cold. "—are the reason she was desperate enough to do it."

My wolf snarled, pushing against my control.

"Careful, High Alpha," I said softly. "You’re in my territory now."

"And you," he said, leaning forward slightly, "are in my debt."

Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.

And then he straightened, turning toward the door.

"Find her," he said, his voice flat and final. "Or I will. And when I do—"

He glanced back, his black eyes gleaming.

"—she will wish she’d stayed in your dungeon."

And then he was gone.

Leaving chaos in his wake.

My wolves erupted immediately, voices overlapping, panic rising.

"We have to find her—"

"The North Clan will kill her—"

"Thorne will use her against us—"

"She’s carrying your heir—"

I slammed my fist on the table, and they fell silent.

"Mobilize the trackers," I ordered, my voice cold. "Send scouts to the Mist’s edge. Find out if she made it through."

"And if she’s with Thorne?" my Beta asked.

I met his gaze, my wolf snarling beneath my skin.

"Then we go to war."

The door to the war room opened.

Morgana walked in.

Blood streaked across her face, dark and fresh, trailing down her jaw and staining the collar of her shirt. Her hands were still wet with it, dripping onto the stone floor as she moved.

She’d been in the dungeons again.

Torturing the Vargans we’d captured near the border. The ones we suspected of knowing the identity of the Silvermoth.