The Forgotten Pulse of the Bond-Chapter 62: The Bone Path

"You shouldn’t be breathing this air, not without a blade in your hand."

Savannah’s voice cut through the thick silence like flint against steel. She stood at the edge of the narrow mountain pass behind the Callahan chapel, where mist slithered over the broken stones like fingers searching for the living. Her boots crunched against crushed bone and dry moss. Rhett was ahead of her, his jaw clenched, coat flaring with the wind that reeked of rot and silver.

"I told you not to follow me," he said without turning. His voice was hoarse. Tired. But not weak.

"You say that a lot," she answered, stepping into the fog anyway. "And I never listen."

He finally looked at her, eyes rimmed red, not from tears, but rage. "This isn’t some symbolic stroll through ancestral memory. This is the Bone Path. It only opens to blood. Old blood."

"And yet here we are," she whispered, her gaze falling to the carved arch in the mountain wall ahead. Bones fused into symbols. Teeth embedded like ornaments. Ancient. Forbidden.

Rhett moved forward slowly. The deeper he went, the more the ground changed, from gravel to ash, from ash to hardened marrow. Savannah followed in silence, keeping close enough to hear his breath.

"When my mother was buried," he said at last, "they sealed the crypt behind here. Not with stone. With names. Names carved in oath-blood. Ones I thought were erased when Lucia died."

Savannah’s spine stiffened. "The Ghost Alpha."

He nodded. "If she’s alive, the path might react to her memory. Or... to her plans."

They passed under the bone arch. Immediately, the air grew colder, dense like syrup. Their footsteps echoed louder than before. Along the curved walls were etchings, wolves devouring stars, hands clutching broken crowns, and faces scratched out violently.

"These are Syndicate records," Savannah said. "No, older."

"Hollowfang scripture," Rhett corrected. "The faction Sterling kept buried. The ones my mother refused to swear loyalty to. The ones that burned her alive."

Savannah paused, her fingers tracing one of the symbols: a wolf with a dagger in its mouth, the moon bleeding above it.

"And they think you’re their heir now?" she asked.

"No," Rhett whispered. "They think I’m the mistake."

They reached the center chamber, a dome carved directly into the stone. Bones lined every inch, from floor to ceiling. In the center, an altar. Upon it, a leather-bound journal sealed shut with sinew, and behind it, a statue, half-woman, half-wolf, her hands outstretched as if demanding tribute.

Savannah stepped toward the journal.

"Wait," Rhett snapped. "Don’t, "

Too late. Her fingers brushed the cover. The journal hissed. Then opened.

Inside: maps. Seals. Bloodlines. Orders. And a list of names.

Her name was at the bottom.

Savannah Delacroix , Anchor of the Bloodline. Fated to Choose.

"What the hell does this mean?" she murmured.

"It means you’re more than just my bond," Rhett said, approaching. "It means they knew you’d come."

Suddenly, the altar began to glow faintly. The statue’s eyes lit up with golden fire. The ground trembled beneath their feet.

A voice, low and guttural, echoed through the cavern.

"Blood must answer blood. Flesh must honor flesh."

The bones on the wall began to shift, grinding and realigning to form a new path behind the altar.

"Did you hear that?" Savannah asked, her heart racing.

"I think it’s welcoming us," Rhett replied grimly. "Or warning us."

They stepped through the new passage. It narrowed sharply, forcing them close. Savannah could feel the energy change, no longer ancient and reverent, but sharp. Threatening. Like walking into a serpent’s belly.

Then they heard it.

Breathing.

Heavy. Labored. Not theirs.

Rhett drew his blade.

"Don’t move," he mouthed.

But it was too late.

A figure dropped from the ceiling, a woman, cloaked in red, her eyes black as ink, her teeth sharpened like a predator’s.

"Rhett Callahan," she hissed.

"Who are you?" Savannah snapped.

The woman tilted her head. "I’m the gatekeeper. And you have trespassed on the sacred marrow."

She lunged. Rhett intercepted her midair, steel clashing with bone. The tunnel erupted into chaos. Savannah ducked, rolled, grabbed a shard of bone from the floor and slammed it into the woman’s thigh. She screamed, a high, feral sound.

Rhett pinned her down. "Talk. Or bleed more."

The woman spat blood and smiled.

"Lucia has returned to reclaim what was stolen. And you, " she looked at Savannah, "will decide whether she lives or dies again."

Savannah paled. "Why me?"

"Because only the Anchor can cut the tether."

Before they could question further, the woman bit down on her own tongue, hard. A burst of black smoke erupted from her mouth, and her body began to dissolve.

"No!" Rhett shouted, grabbing her shoulders.

But it was done. Only bones remained.

They stood in silence, the truth unraveling like a noose.

Savannah’s hand trembled as she held the journal. "If this is real... if I’m the Anchor..."

"You are," Rhett said firmly. "And it means we’re already in the middle of a war we didn’t declare."

Suddenly, the entire tunnel shuddered. Cracks split across the walls. The entrance behind them collapsed.

"We’re trapped," Savannah breathed.

"No," Rhett whispered, eyes darting to the altar. "They want us to choose."

"What?"

A second path opened to their left, bathed in red light. On the right, another, bathed in silver.

"Two choices," he said. "The Hollowfang path... or the one Lucia tried to forge alone."

Savannah looked at both. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts.

"We go together," she said.

Rhett nodded. "Always."

She stepped toward the red-lit tunnel.

But something glowed beneath her foot. A small pendant, Lucia’s.

Savannah picked it up.

It pulsed.

And then she heard it.

A voice, Lucia’s voice, in her mind.

"He doesn’t know the full truth. But you will. Choose wisely, girl. For blood cannot be unspilled."

The light around them dimmed.

Only the pulse of the pendant remained.

And the bone path ahead. How does one choose the right one?