Page 52 of Alpha Charmed

“Your wolf form.” Her voice is muffled against my skin. “That was impressive.”

“Impressive?”

“Large. Fast.” A pause. “Very bitey.”

I snort despite myself. “Very bitey. I’ll add that to my credentials.”

“Do alphas have credentials?”

“Important ones do. Mine includes ‘intimidating presence,’ ‘strategic leadership,’ and now apparently ‘very bitey.’” I kiss the top of her head.

She laughs—the sound slightly hysterical but genuine, the release of tension after combat. I hold her through it, letting her shake against me until the tremors subside.

“Come on.” I take her hand again. “We’re almost there. And I’d rather not give anyone else a chance to ambush us.”

The cave entrance reveals itself as we crest the final ridge.

The symbols carved into the rock face are older than any magic I know—spiraling patterns that seem to move when viewed directly, glyphs in languages that died before Mistvale was born. The mountain itself leans toward this spot, sheltering it, hiding it from anyone who doesn’t have permission to approach.

“That’s…” Anouk stares at the carvings, her witch’s instincts clearly reacting to the concentrated power. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Neither has anyone in living memory. Grandmother Sylvana described it from her visit fifty years ago, but descriptions don’t capture the reality.” I study the symbols, trying to make sense of patterns that refuse to resolve into meaning. “The pack stories say these markings predate even Chione. That she chose this place because it was already sacred.”

“Sacred to what?”

“No one remembers. That’s the problem with truly ancient magic—eventually, everyone who understood it dies, and all that’s left are shapes that used to carry meaning.” I nod toward the charm in her hand. “Ready?”

Anouk pulls out Grandmother Peach’s gift, turning it over one final time. The stone pulses with recognition, eager to fulfill its purpose. “Hold it at the entrance. She’ll come.”

“That’s the theory.”

“Reassuring.” But she steps forward, raises the charm, and whispers a word of ignition.

The stone flares.

The mountain trembles.

It’s not an earthquake—nothing so crude. More like the world taking a breath, shifting its weight, acknowledging that a significant event is about to happen. The symbols on the rock face begin to glow, their meaning suddenly, briefly clear: Welcome, seekers. The keeper awaits.

The cave mouth opens.

Not physically—it was always open—but perceptually. One moment there’s just rock and shadow. The next, there’s depth, passage, invitation.

I take Anouk’s hand and we walk inside.

The cave is vast.

Veins of crystal line the walls, casting pale light across a space that seems larger than the mountain should contain. The air is thick with ancient magic—breathing it feels like drinking history, like memories absorbed through the lungs rather than the mind.

Artifacts scatter across the cavern floor: weapons from forgotten wars, jewelry in styles no one has worn for millennia, books in languages that died before writing was invented. I recognize a few items from pack legends—the Moonblade of Aric the Bold, the Crown of Winter’s End, things I’d assumed were myths.

They’re not myths. They’re souvenirs.

And at the center of it all, waiting with the patience only centuries can teach, is Chione.

She’s massive.

I knew that—heard the stories, imagined the scale—but imagination fails to capture the reality. Bronze scales catch the crystal light, each one larger than my spread hand. Her eyes are ancient, knowing, holding depths that make even my wolf instincts quiet with respect. When she breathes, the air in the cavern shifts, responding to her presence.