Page 80 of The Hyena’s Guardian

“We have a window.”

His gaze swept across the exhausted faces around the chamber.

“You have wounded. Ammunition to redistribute. Water to refill. Food to eat. None of you have slept.”

Silence settled over the chamber.

“How long?” Vale asked.

“About an hour.”

“And if we don’t?”

“Then exhaustion will kill more of you than the First King.”

No one argued.

The chamber settled into the quiet efficiency of practiced soldiers. Weapons were cleaned. Wounds were dressed. Watches were assigned. Those still able to sleep claimed patches of ancient stone and surrendered to an hour of uneasy rest.

Theron never intended to be one of them.

Sleep had abandoned Theron long before the others closed their eyes. The camp remained quiet beneath the ruined arches illuminated only by the weak amber glow of dying lanterns and the occasional sweep of flashlight beams from distant sentries. Most of the wolves had surrendered to exhaustion.

Theron sat motionless for several minutes beside the cold stone wall, listening to the mountain breathe around them.

Water moved somewhere deep below the ruins in slow underground currents. Wind drifted through narrow fractures overhead with low hollow whistles that sounded almost like voices if one listened too carefully.

And beneath all of it lingered the awareness he could not escape.

The First King’s attention no longer searched for him. It had settled on him, a constant pressure at the edge of his thoughts that only seemed to grow heavier.

He needed distance from the others for a little while, but from Matt most of all, because Matt’s presence somehow made the pressure easier to bear.

Theron found that far more unsettling.

Theron crossed the edge of camp toward the supply crates the Valker teams had stacked beneath one of the ruined arches. Most of the agents remained asleep, though Baptiste sat awake near the outer corridor cleaning a sidearm beneath the lantern light.

The older wolf glanced up as Theron approached.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Baptiste asked softly.

Theron ignored the question. “Do you have spare clothes?”

Baptiste studied him for a moment before jerking his chin toward one of the unopened duffels nearby. “Third bag. Clean thermals and towels.”

“Thank you.”

Baptiste’s gaze lingered a second longer than necessary, sharp enough to suggest he noticed more than Theron preferred. Still, he said nothing as Theron gathered the supplies and disappeared into the lower tunnels beyond camp.

The air grew warmer farther down.

Theron moved through the lower passages without needing to search. He knew the mountain’s hidden chambers, its forgotten routes, and the places where even the corruption rarely reached. Eventually the tunnel opened into a secluded cavern beyond the main corridors. A narrow underground pool stretched across the center of the chamber, fed by a small waterfall spilling down smooth black rock. Mineral-rich steam drifted above the water’s surface while pale blue crystals embedded throughout the walls cast a soft glow across the cavern.

For the first time since he could remember, the silence felt peaceful instead of oppressive.

Theron set his things aside near the edge of the pool and crouched long enough to test the water with one hand.

It was pleasingly warm, which alone felt almost surreal after so long spent cold, filthy, and exhausted. He removed the outer layers of his tattered clothing and stepped into the water.