The Alpha's Stolen Luna-Chapter 117: Tantrum

Magnus

"Again."

I circle Oliver slowly, my boots dragging against the training floor, sweat dripping down my temples. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, pushing damp curls from my face. The horizon is already turning pale, signaling sunrise. That means we’ve been at this for over ten hours—but I couldn’t care less.

I need this.

I need to burn the fire in my chest, to silence the ache of her absence. If I stop, I’ll have to think about missing her—and that is something I cannot afford.

Oliver exhales sharply, his chest rising and falling with fatigue. He steadies his stance, shoulders squaring before he lunges. His fist cuts through the air toward my temple, but I slip easily out of reach, disappointment flashing through me at the weakness of his strike.

I understand why. Unlike me, he isn’t haunted every waking moment by rage and ghosts of calamities past. He’s exhausted, desperate for rest, but too stubborn to show it in front of me.

These days, he’s no longer just my second-in-command. He’s my friend.

"Again."

I’ve repeated this word so many times it’s become meaningless. It doesn’t feel like training anymore—it feels like survival. Like breathing. Like a mantra that keeps me moving through days that would otherwise crush me. Every command, every strike, every breath feels mechanical, as if I’m no longer living but simply existing on instinct.

"You need to sleep," Oliver groans at last, swinging at me again, this time from the left. His movements are sluggish, reluctant even. I duck easily, slip under his guard, and hook an arm around his waist, shoving him backward. He stumbles, nearly losing his footing.

Frustration boils over, and I snarl, "It looks like you’re already half-asleep. Can you at least pretend you’re trying to hit me?"

He frowns, biting back whatever sharp retort lingers on his tongue, and for a brief moment, guilt twists in my chest. I hate being such a fucking wreck in front of him. I know he’s worried about me—hell, they all are—but I can’t stop.

I can’t sleep. Sure, my body eventually gives in to exhaustion, forcing me to black out for a few hours. But I don’t rest. Not really.

Not until I get her back.

"You won’t be able to fight." Oliver’s voice cuts through the haze in my head as he lunges at me with another sparring strike. I counter easily, twisting the move against him. My fist connects, and he hits the ground hard, a thin line of blood spilling from his left nostril.

"You won’t be able to fight," he repeats, unflinching as he wipes the blood away with the back of his hand. "Not if you keep this up. Sam and the others are piecing together the blueprint. It’s only a matter of time before we’re ready to set off."

I know that. I fucking know it. But what the hell am I supposed to do in the meantime? Sit around and wait while every part of me is screaming to fight now?

"My body won’t let me," I finally admit, extending a hand to pull him up from the frozen ground. My voice comes out hoarse, almost foreign to me. "There’s nothing I can do about it."

"Then how about you fucking try?" he snaps, grunting as he spits more blood into the snow at his feet. His eyes burn into mine, unflinching. "A broken Alpha can’t lead his pack. Unless, of course, you’ve decided that this pathetic moping around is all you’re good for now—just waiting for the king to toss you another bone."

I don’t hesitate. The punch comes on instinct, my fist driving forward before either of us can process it. The impact cracks against Oliver’s face, sending him sprawling to the ground once more.

"Fuck," I grunt, breath heavy, but to my surprise, there’s no regret simmering in me. And judging by the crooked smirk tugging at his lip, Oliver doesn’t feel it either.

"Well, I deserved that," he scoffs, rolling his jaw from side to side as if testing whether it needs resetting. "But next time, give me a little warning before the sparring turns into your personal tantrum arena."

And I deserve that.

"I know you’re not like the rest of us," he continues, brushing the frost from his clothes as he straightens, "but that’s exactly why you can’t afford to fall apart. We need you steady. She needs you steady. Think about it—how would she feel if you collapsed before even reaching her?"

His words cut deeper than his fists ever could. The weight of them lodges in my throat, sharp and suffocating, making it hard to breathe.

’Western border.’ Aksel’s voice suddenly thunders through the mind link, shoving all other thoughts aside. ’The night patrol spotted someone. They’re bringing her in.’

’Her?’ Oliver and I demand at the same time, my pulse spiking until it drowns out everything else. My heart hammers like a war drum against my ribs.

’Not her,’ Aksel replies, and the sound of it crushes me in two directions at once—relief colliding with bitter disappointment.

’Alright,’ I mutter, forcing composure back into my tone as I motion for Oliver to follow me. ’Tell the squad to take her straight to the medical wing.’

"Do you think it’s someone from Dark Wood again?" he asks as we grab clean towels, tossing one at me.

"It’s a woman, so I’m not sure," I answer, frowning as I try to think it through. "Go get Arthur. Maybe he’ll recognize her."

"On it."

Oliver takes off toward the guest wing while I head straight for Doc’s office. The on-duty wolves greet me, a flicker of panic in their eyes, but I shake my head quickly, letting them know I’m not here because Kaya has returned.

Restlessness claws at me, and I pace back and forth, ignoring Doc’s constant warnings and his attempts to coax me into resting—or worse, into swallowing whatever medicine he thinks will keep me steady.

Across the room, Aksel leans against the wall with his arms folded, silent but watchful, while Samantha keeps flicking at her smartwatch, tapping the screen with growing impatience.

The air is so thick with tension it feels combustible—one spark, one careless word, and the whole wing would erupt into flames.

Then the footsteps arrive—heavy and loud—paws and boots pounding the floor in rhythm, a thick veil of pine and earth trailing in with them like an omen.

Tim, the squad leader, strides forward with grim purpose, carrying a woman’s limp body in his arms, and the room seems to hold its breath.

Doc helps Tim lower her onto the sheets, already barking for someone to fetch his tools. I remain at the bedside, Samantha close at my right, my eyes narrowing as I try to make sense of who this broken, bloodied woman might be.

"Silver bullet wound," Tim reports, pointing to the blackened mark in her side. "She’s alive, but it looks like she’s been crawling for miles. She’s covered in blood and dirt."

"Do you recognize her?" Sam asks, leaning over to wipe the grime from the woman’s face with a damp towel.

The moment she pushes back the tangled strands of hair and scrubs away the first layer of filth, my heartbeat surges, pounding against my ribs. A rush of static fills my ears, drowning out the room.

"It’s... her..." The words escape someone else before I can say them, and I don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

Arthur shoves past Sam, collapsing to his knees. With trembling hands, he cups her face, his tears spilling onto her soot-stained skin. His voice breaks as he whispers, "Luna Camilla?"