Chapter 37: THE GREAT SUMMIT (PART I)
Hazel's Pov
They started arriving before sunrise.
Not in packs—never like that. Alphas didn't travel like followers. They came with small entourages, lieutenants who knew when to speak and when to fade.
The Modernists: Arrived in black SUVs that growled up the mountain road.
The Outlaws: Came on bikes, engines snarling like territorial warnings.
The Traditionals: Emerged from the treeline as if the forest itself had decided to stand up and walk.
The ground was a stone basin carved into the mountain centuries ago—older than councils, older than crowns. Flora had guided me here with a certainty that brooked no argument. The air carried iron and pine, sharp and clean, threaded with an old magic that made lies feel heavy on the tongue.
Caleb stood to my right, Lucien to my left. Not flanking me like guards—standing with me as equals.
I saw the Alphas' gazes flick, recalibrating. They expected a hierarchy. They got a Trinity.
A tall Alpha with silver braided into his beard stopped a few paces from the basin's edge. "This is the Red Wolf?"
I met his stare. I didn't bare my teeth. I didn't bow.
"This is Hazel," I said. "If you're looking for a myth, you're late."
A low ripple of amusement moved through the watchers. The silver-bearded Alpha snorted. "Bold. I'll give you that."
"I don't need you to give me anything," I replied.
More Alphas arrived.
A woman in a tailored suit with eyes like cut glass.
A pair of twins who moved in mirrored silence.
A scarred man with one eye clouded white, his aura coiled like a spring.
Distrust thickened the air until it pressed against my skin.
[So many crowns,] Flora murmured in my chest. [So little spine.]
When the basin was full—nearly thirty Alphas—the noise rose. Quiet, sharp conversations. Old grudges waking up. A dozen unspoken questions circling the same point:
Why should we listen to you?
I stepped forward.
The ground answered. Not with a quake, but with a deep, resonant hum—stone remembering blood. The conversations died until the basin fell into a charged stillness.
"I didn't call you here to rule you," I said, my voice carrying without strain. "If that's what you think this is, you can leave now."
No one moved.
"The Royals are dead," I continued. "You know that. What you don't know—what some of you are pretending not to see—is what's replacing them."
A woman near the edge crossed her arms. "Chaos is not new."
"No," I agreed. "But predators wearing savior masks are."
Lucien spoke then, his voice smooth and surgical. "Helena is consolidating influence through proxy leaders. She's not rebuilding the old system. She's refining it into something more efficient. Something more lethal."
"And the Oni?" someone barked.
"Awake," I said. "Testing borders. Feeding on the unrest."
That landed. The scarred Alpha stepped forward. "You expect us to believe this—and then what? March under your banner?"
"No," Caleb said, his voice a calm anchor. "You march under your own. Or you don't march at all."
The man's eyes narrowed. "Then why are we here?"
I met his gaze. "Because standing alone won't save you anymore."
The Alpha in the suit laughed—short and sharp. "You've got the nerve, Red Wolf. But nerves don't win wars."
"No," I said. "People do."
"And what are you, exactly?" she asked.
Before I could answer, Flora rose.
Not outwardly. Not with a flashy spectacle. She unfurled through me—ancient, undeniable, and cold. The air pressure spiked, settling into their bones. I saw their spines straighten. Their instincts flared, screamed, and then went dead silent.
"I am not your queen," I said, my voice layered with Flora's resonance. "I am not your god. I am not your executioner."
I paused, letting the silence ring.
"I am the line between your extinction and your survival."
The silver-bearded Alpha exhaled slowly. "You carry her." It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"And the Alpha wolf?" another asked, eyes on Caleb.
"He walks beside me by choice," I replied. "As do you, if you stay."
The questions came after that. Hard ones.
Supply chains.
Territory disputes.
The cost of blood.
Caleb and Lucien handled the logistics. I handled the spirit. No promises of easy peace. No lies about the cost.
By the time the sun dipped below the peaks, the distrust hadn't vanished—but it had shifted. It had evolved from open hostility to wary consideration.
The summit was far from over. But as the first fires were lit in the basin, I realized something.
No one had left.
[The first victory,] Flora whispered.