MATED TO THE SECRET ALPHA
Chapter 190: Going Home

Chapter 190: Going Home

But he couldn’t. Not after what he witnessed in the Islands. Not after the fate that befell the Crimson Caravan and those packs that bought the stolen goods from them.

And Karl, for all his softness, for all his screaming panic, wanted to live.

His fingers dug into the snow again, this time with a different grip. Not to crawl away. But to push.

He rose, wobbling, breath heaving. His legs buckled... then locked.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t meet their eyes. But he stood.

The sneers didn’t vanish. But the silence that followed was heavier now. Heavier, and watching.

Five minutes left.

And the hunt had already begun.

A thunderous roar from the distance made Karl shrink with a whimper. He’d thought he was courageous just a breath ago, but this time, he didn’t tremble on the snow or freeze. However, the drumming of his heart against his ear probably was too loud to make him freeze.

"They’re coming," someone said.

"They’re calling on others. They’re grouping up."

"We’re fucked if we don’t leave here before tonight." The warrior brushed a hand over his face. Unlike Karl, all the warriors looked brave. Even the merchants looked slightly calm.

"Divide yourselves into three groups, depending on your ranks." The tall man began. "The weakest among you will huddle with the merchants, helping pull their wares." He paused for a breath. "We’ve lost too many carts. We can’t afford to lose anymore. The goods are important for your families, for the pack’s survival. Guide it with your lives! Even if only one person survives, the carts must reach home."

Nobody argued. Nobody breathed too loudly.

The tall man’s gaze trailed along the carts. There were almost a hundred carts, but now, they have around thirty left.

Their men, a hundred high-ranking warriors that were handpicked by Gamma Kira, were still alive and standing, but the same couldn’t be said about the middle, low ranking warriors, and merchants. A few of them were dead.

The group were around five hundred, and the tall man hoped they’d all make it across the bridge.

He continued, "the fifty elites will guard the front and the middle-ranked will guide the sides." He watched the warriors begin to shift and form the groups.

"The remaining forty-nine elites... you’re with me. We hold the rear." He wasn’t yelling, but his voice was heard. Loud, clear, and obeyed.

"Karl," he said again, still not turning. "Walk."

And Karl did.

One unsteady step. Then another. Snow crunching beneath his boots as he limped toward the merchant group.

But no one kicked him this time.

No one helped him either.

Somewhere behind them, the monsters screamed again—an inhuman, guttural chorus that sent the birds scattering into the white, misty sky.

By the time they reached the bridge, the sun had dipped below the horizon and the cold was almost freezing now. Moving on the snow had become a chore. The horses, tired and scared, refused to move forward.

They could already see the bridge ahead, but the horses wouldn’t move, even when they were hit.

"What’s going on there?!" the warriors at the front yelled.

"The horses won’t move!"

"It’s the horses again. Always the first to cause chaos. I hate these animals. If they don’t walk, then we carry the carts ourselves," someone finished grimly, stepping through the ranks to the back.

The tall man pressed his lips together, and his brows furrowed. He left the ranks and walked up to the line of terrified horses, their eyes wide and white with panic, their nostrils flaring as they reared and pulled against their reins. The animals weren’t just scared—they were refusing. Their instincts, older than any training, screamed that death waited on the bridge.

But of course, the warriors didn’t understand. They saw their refusal to move as tiredness or worse, defiance.

"We don’t have time for this," someone muttered. "We’ll be surrounded before long."

The tall man didn’t speak. He walked forward, slow and deliberate, until he reached one of the lead carts. He placed a hand on the trembling neck of the horse and whispered something low, ancient—words none of them understood, but all felt in their bones.

The horse didn’t calm down. But it stopped pulling away.

He turned back to the group. "Unhitch them. Tie ropes to the carts and pull."

Gasps rippled through the merchants. The carts were heavy. It would take forever to pull them through the long bridge.

They were wolves, yes, but the lower ranking wolves. And coupled with this snow that seemed to be after their lives, reaching the other side – which of course was still a wasteland, but with signs of life and less murderous snow – they wouldn’t be able to avoid the dreaded night.

"They won’t be able to–"

"Then, do you want us to camp here? When monsters are hot on our heels?"

And just like that, low-ranking warriors, merchants, and even Karl, were seen shortly dragging the carts over the bridge.

The bridge groaned under the first few steps of their weight, old wood and frost-covered ropes straining with the burden.

Then the scream came.

Louder than before. They were closer now. Too close.

It wasn’t human.

It wasn’t animal.

Nothing like the monsters they’d fought all their lives, or the ones they’d fought earlier.

It was something in between... a broken thing.

That even the tall man, the bravest of them all flinched. His gaze flickered into the distanced, jaw clenched. The hand on the hint of his strange sword trembled ever so slightly.

Yet, his voice didn’t falter when he said, "Go. One by one. No stopping. Keep moving."

And so they moved.

Across the ancient rope bridge swinging over a chasm of death, while behind them, the white fog curled tighter and the night breathed down their necks.

Karl didn’t know how his legs still worked.

He didn’t know how he wasn’t sobbing again.

But as he took one painful step onto the swaying bridge, eyes fixed on the other side where dying, scanty trees waited like silent sentinels, he whispered to himself the only thing that mattered.

"I’m going home."

Behind him, the tall man raised his sword, planting his feet as shadows began to emerge from the fog—tall, misshapen, evil and shouldn’t exist.

The rear guard formed around him like a wall of steel.

They would hold.

Or they would die.

But either way, the bridge had to be crossed.