Mellifuous ✔

Chapter 22: Gone

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"They're inside," Santiago whispered, the words barely escaping his lips. 

Conall's voice bellowed across the field. "Fallback to the packhouse! Now!"

The warriors began to retreat in organized chaos, their focus shifting from the eastern boundary to the heart of their territory. Santiago and Will fought their way back, every step a battle as the rogues pursued them with unrelenting ferocity.

The chaos was deafening, a maelstrom of violence and despair. Santiago and Will burst through the thinning treeline, their breaths ragged, faces streaked with dirt and blood. The packhouse loomed before them like a battered fortress, its walls scarred by the battle. Smoke curled into the night sky, a sinister beacon of destruction.

Conall was at the front, his broad frame a blur of movement as he cleaved through the remaining rogues with deadly precision. His fists gleamed, each swing a testament to his rage and desperation. His roar cut through the cacophony, summoning what remained of their forces to rally around him.

But even as they fought, a sickening sense of unease spread like poison. Something was wrong.

Santiago's eyes darted to the shattered doorway, where Grace stood pale and trembling, clutching the frame for support. Her eyes met his, wide with terror, and then she screamed—a sound that froze the blood in his veins.

"They took him!" she wailed, her voice cracking with the weight of her anguish. "Eli's gone!"

The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Santiago staggered, the words slamming into him like a physical blow. His knees almost buckled, but he forced himself forward, past Grace and into the wreckage of the packhouse.

Inside, the carnage was worse. The once-cozy room had been transformed into a battlefield. Blood stained the floorboards, pooling around the lifeless bodies of rogues and defenders alike. Damion sat slumped against a wall, clutching a wound at his side, his face pale with shock. Harper leaned over him, her little eyes blazing with fear and fury.

"Where is he?" Santiago demanded, his voice raw, desperate.

Damion looked up, his expression dark and haunted. "They took him. We tried—"

Conall chest was heaving, his eyes scanning the destruction. "What do you mean they took him?" he barked, his voice shaking with uncharacteristic vulnerability.

Grace stumbled forward, her hands trembling as she clutched at Conall's arm. "The rogues—they came for him. They knew... they knew he was an omega." Her words dissolved into sobs, her body wracked with guilt. "I tried... we tried to stop them!"

The room erupted into chaos.

"Find them!" Conall's roar reverberated through the forest like a thunderclap, his voice raw with fury and desperation. The very trees seemed to tremble under the weight of his command. "I don't care how far they've gone—find them! Bring Eli back!" His wolf surged dangerously close to the surface, his nails extending into claws that dug into his palms.

Will's jaw was set in a grim line, his knuckles pale as he tightened his grip on his sword. The weight of failure pressed heavily on his shoulders, but his voice was steady, cold as steel. "They won't get far. They won't make it out alive," he vowed, each word a blade in the dark.

The warriors scattered like shadows under the moonlight, their movements swift, silent, and purposeful. But as they disappeared into the forest, a suffocating truth lingered among those left behind. The rogues had been clever. Every step of the battle had been orchestrated to perfection—the chaos, the fire, the ambush at the packhouse. It had all been a diversion for the true objective.