Lira dreamed of nothing.
Not stones. Not blood. Not wolves.
Just blank, blessed dark.
When she surfaced, it was slow. Like rising through deep water that didn’t quite want to let her go.
The first thing she registered was heat.
Under her.
Around her.
Her own.
And someone else’s.
The infirmary’s familiar smells filtered in next: smoke, herbs, old wood. Layered over that—pine and fur and Bram.
Her eyes snapped open.
She wasn’t in her cot.
She was on a different bed—one of the sturdier ones near the back, the mattress firmer, the frame thick oak that could take a shifted wolf’s weight. Someone had piled extra blankets over her.
Someone had also apparently used Bram as furniture.
He sat half propped against the wall beside the bed, one boot still on, the other somewhere on the floor. His elbows rested on his thighs. His head tipped forward, chin almost on his chest. He was snoring softly.
His hand was in hers.
Of course.
The memory slammed back with that realization.
The sprint to the ravine. The sick drop in the land’s hum. The stone’s glow. Their voices raised together. The wave rising. That horrible, exhilarating moment when they’d actually held.
Then—nothing.
“Fuck,” she croaked.
Bram jerked awake so fast he almost fell off the stool. “What?” he barked, hand tightening around hers automatically. His eyes were wild for a second, wolf-bright, scanning for threats.
Then they focused on her.
Relief softened everything.
“You’re awake,” he breathed. “Good. I was about to start yelling at your unconscious body. Again.”
Her throat was raw. “Water?” she managed.
He scrambled for the cup on the crate by the bed, sloshed some on his hands in his haste, and helped her sit up enough to drink.
The water was cool. Heaven.
“Slow,” he murmured. “You choked last time.”
“Last time?” she rasped when she could speak again. “How many… times?”
“Two,” he said. “Maybe three. Depends when you start counting.”
She frowned. Her head throbbed. “How long…?”
“A day,” came Mara’s voice from the doorway.
Lira turned her head too fast. Pain lanced through her temples. She winced.
“Twenty hours, give or take,” Mara amended, stepping in. She looked… terrible. Hair escaping its knot, shadows carved deep under her eyes. She still radiated that same prickly competence.
“We tried to wake you twice,” Mara went on. “You mumbled insults and fell back down.”
“Sounds right,” Lira muttered.
“Third time’s the charm,” Mara said. “Or the curse. Jury’s out.”
Lira glanced around.
No other patients in this back section. The main room, glimpsed past the half-drawn curtain, hummed with low voices and movement, but not the panicked pitch of a full-blown crisis.
“What happened,” she asked. “After…”
Bram’s jaw flexed. “The wave hit,” he said. “We held. It… pulled back. Corin nearly howled his lungs out. Rane lost a patch of fur to stress.” His mouth quirked, then sobered. “You… dropped. We carried you back. Carefully.”
“‘We’ meaning Bram,” Mara snorted. “He growled at anyone else who tried to help.”
Bram didn’t even deny it.
Lira’s cheeks warmed. “I… don’t remember being carried,” she said.
“Good,” Mara said. “You were dead weight. Embarrassing.”
Lira huffed a laugh that turned into a cough. “Anyone else… hurt?”
“Some singed channels,” Mara said. “Rane’s nose won’t stop tingling. Garron has a headache he deserves. Tansy’s hands shook for an hour, but she’s steady now. No twists. No broken stones. The snapped rings stayed snapped. For now.”
A knot she hadn’t known she was holding loosened in Lira’s chest. “We actually… did it,” she said softly.
“You actually *did* something incredibly arrogant and survived,” Mara corrected. “Let’s not make a habit of improvising at ravine edges.”
Lira’s lips twitched. “No promises,” she murmured.
Bram squeezed her hand. “Seriously,” he said quietly. “Don’t… do that again. Not without more… I don’t know. Runes. Backup. A wall between you and… it.”
“I had you,” she said before she could stop herself.
His eyes darkened. “That’s not enough,” he said.
Mara made a noise. “And here I thought I’d seen all the flavors of foolish love,” she muttered. “Listen. Both of you. You can’t keep doing this—flinging yourselves into the worst of it because you think the other will catch you. That way lies two bodies on a pyre instead of one.”
Lira swallowed. “We’re not—”
“In love?” Mara cut in. “Sure. Tell yourselves that. Call it… trauma bonding. Magic. Wolf nonsense. Whatever. Doesn’t matter what you name it. It’ll still drag you places your sense can’t follow if you let it.”
Silence stretched.
Bram stared at the blanket, jaw tight. “We’re being… careful,” he said, not quite convincing even himself.
“Careful like two drunk pups on a cliff,” Mara said. “I’m not saying don’t feel. I’m saying… don’t make me sew either of you back together because you decided dying for each other was romantic.”
Lira’s chest ached. “You think we’d… do that,” she whispered.
Mara gave her a look. “I watched you step toward a ravine wave last night like it was a lover,” she said. “Don’t tell me you’re immune to dramatic gestures.”
Lira flushed.
Bram snorted. “She does have a flair,” he said, voice low.
“So do you,” Mara said. “You just hide it under frowns.”
He huffed.
Mara’s gaze softened, barely. “You did good,” she said. “Both of you. We’re still here. The stones are still humming. The ravine didn’t eat us. That’s… something. I’m proud. There. I said it. Don’t make me regret it.”
Warmth flared in Lira’s chest. “Thank you,” she said.
Mara grunted. “Don’t get used to it.”
She turned, pausing at the curtain. “Oh,” she added over her shoulder, voice too casual. “Cael’s sending your twisted from Thornfell. The one who bent her channels trying to drain. He says if anyone can help her, it’s the girl stupid enough to argue with ravines.”
Lira’s eyes widened. “He’s… sending her *here?*”
“Yes,” Mara said. “Apparently our hospitality is legendary.”
Bram swore softly. “That’s… another empty,” he said.
“She’s not empty,” Mara corrected. “She’s… crooked. There’s a difference. And if Lira’s right about using the broken pieces, this is our next test.”
Lira’s stomach flipped. “When?”
“Two days,” Mara said. “Maybe three. Depends how fast they can move her without her channels screaming.” She eyed Lira. “Which gives you forty-eight hours, give or take, to rest. Sleep. Drink my foul brews. And *not* sneak out to tie more rings.”
Lira opened her mouth.
“Not. A. Word,” Mara said. “Or I’ll sedate you. And Bram.”
Bram blinked. “Why me?”
“Guilt by association,” Mara said sweetly. “You encourage her.”
He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like *worth it.*
Lira sank back against the pillows as Mara left, exhaustion washing over her again now that the immediate crisis of waking had passed.
Bram didn’t move away.
“You need to sleep,” she murmured.
“So do you,” he said.
“I just did,” she pointed out.
“For less than a day after holding back a magical tsunami,” he said dryly. “Overachiever.”
“You stayed here the whole time,” she said.
“Pretty much,” he admitted. “Mara kicked me out once. I growled at her. She smacked me. I came back.”
Her heart twisted. “You shouldn’t—”
“Don’t,” he said sharply. “Don’t say ‘you shouldn’t care this much.’ Or ‘I’m not worth it.’ Or any of that Thornfell crap. You’re not… a project. Or a burden. Or a tool. You’re… you. I’m here because I *want* to be. Not because anyone ordered me.”
Her throat worked. “I’m… dangerous to you,” she whispered. “To your wolf. To your pack.”
“So is Corin,” he said. “So is Mara. So is Zev. So is *everyone* who steps beyond the stones. We’re wolves. We’re born dangerous to each other. You being dangerous *and* useful isn’t a dealbreaker.”
“You’re terrifyingly pragmatic,” she said.
“Thank you,” he replied.
She laughed weakly.
His thumb stroked idly over the back of her hand, tracing small circles. “When Thornfell’s twisted gets here,” he said, voice lowering, “I want you to let *us* stand between you and her magic this time. Me. Mara. Corin. Whoever. You don’t… have to take it all alone.”
“I know,” she said.
“Do you?” he asked.
She met his eyes. “I’m learning,” she said honestly.
He smiled, crooked. “Good,” he said. “I like you… teachable.”
Heat climbed her neck. “Careful,” she murmured. “Mara will hear you flirting.”
“Mara hears everything,” he said. “Doesn’t mean I’m stopping.”
He squeezed her hand once more, then reluctantly let go. “Sleep,” he said. “I’ll be right there.” He gestured to the stool. “Guard… wolf.”
She wanted to protest. To tell him he didn’t need to hover. That she wasn’t going to fall into a ravine from her bed.
Instead, she said, “Thank you.”
His gaze softened. “Always,” he said.
Her emptiness hummed.
She slept.
This time, the dark wasn’t entirely empty.
It held the echo of a song.
And a wolf’s steady presence, pressed against the edges of her hollow like a promise.
***
News of the ravine wave spread quickly.
Most of Ashridge reacted the way wolves always did—with a mixture of grumbling, gossip, and grim determination.
“Did you hear? They sang at it.”
“Idiots.”
“Brave idiots.”
“It pulled back, though.”
“Only for now.”
“Still. Better than burning.”
Zev kept his distance.
He didn’t come storm into the infirmary again. Didn’t shout in the courtyard. But Lira felt his eyes on her whenever she crossed the yard. Measured. Wary. Less openly hostile.
Not softer.
Not yet.
Tansy shadowed Lira more closely than before.
“You smelled like it,” she told Lira bluntly, pulling at a loose thread on her sleeve as they sat on the infirmary steps one afternoon. “After. The ravine. Ash and… stone and… wrong. But also… us.”
“Us,” Lira repeated.
“Ashridge,” Tansy clarified. “And… Thornfell. And… something else.”
“Something else is probably just me,” Lira said dryly.
Tansy shook her head. “No. It’s… bigger. Like… when alphas stand together. Smells like… storm and… choice.”
Lira’s skin prickled. “You’re very poetic for a teenager,” she muttered.
“Trauma makes metaphors,” Tansy said matter-of-factly.
“True,” Lira admitted.
They sat in silence for a moment, watching Idris argue with a stubborn elder about taking his tincture.
“You’re… not going to go into the ravine alone, right?” Tansy asked suddenly.
Lira blinked. “I just nearly died holding a wave on the edge,” she said. “Do I strike you as eager to swan dive into the middle?”
Tansy’s mouth twitched. “Yes,” she said.
Lira sighed. “No,” she said. “Not… alone. Not… if I can help it.”
“But you *want* to,” Tansy said. “I can… feel it. In the way you look at it. Like… it’s calling you. And you’re… calling back.”
Pain flared in Lira’s chest. “It… is,” she admitted, voice low. “It… recognizes what I am. Or what I’m not. It… wants to use that.”
“Then… don’t let it,” Tansy said simply.
Lira laughed, shaky. “I’m trying,” she said. “Believe me.”
Tansy nudged her with her shoulder. “Let Bram help,” she said. “He’s… loud too. In the hum. Maybe… loud plus loud will drown quiet.”
“That’s not… how math works,” Lira said.
“It is with wolves,” Tansy insisted.
Lira considered. “Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe we’ll just annoy it.”
Tansy grinned, a flash of the girl she might have been before blood moons and mad alphas. “Good,” she said. “Make it mad. Mad things make mistakes.”
***
Two days after the ravine wave, Thornfell’s twisted arrived.
They brought her on a litter, carried between two sturdy wolves in human form, accompanied by Malen and a woman Lira recognized from Edrin’s letters—a junior healer named Sella, with ink-stained fingers and a perpetually furrowed brow.
The twisted healer was… small.
Smaller than Lira had expected.
Lira had imagined someone tall, imposing, warped from within. Instead, the woman on the litter was scarcely older than Lira. Pale. Thin. Her dark hair was plaited simply. Her eyes—when she blinked them open—were unfocused, irises clouded with a faint, milky sheen.
Her scent was… wrong.
Not like Lira’s emptiness. Not like surge. Something in-between. A relentless static, like someone had jammed too many signals through a narrow channel and left it buzzing.
“Name?” Mara asked briskly as they settled the litter on an infirmary bed.
“Jorren,” Sella said, smoothing the twisted woman’s hair back from her forehead. Her voice trembled only slightly. “She was… Edrin’s second. Before… this.”
Lira’s stomach dropped. “Second,” she echoed faintly.
“Yes,” Sella said. “She… volunteered. To test a binding. We thought… we could redirect surge. Like a lightning rod. We were… wrong.”
Jorren’s lips moved. No sound came out.
Lira stepped closer despite the wrongness scraping at her skin. “Jorren,” she said softly. “I’m Lira. Thornfell’s—”
“Witch,” Jorren whispered, voice raw. Her unfocused gaze slid across the room and snagged on Lira’s collar. “Empty.”
Lira flinched. “Yes,” she said.
Jorren’s mouth twisted. “Lucky,” she said. The word was bitter. Envious. “It missed.”
Lira’s throat closed. “It didn’t feel like luck,” she said.
Mara stepped in. “Let’s get you both settled,” she said to Sella. “Tired wolves don’t heal well. Or think straight.”
Malen hovered near the door, arms folded, tension in every line of his body. “Cael sends his… regards,” he said. “And his warning that if you break her further, he will be very cross.”
Lira huffed. “Of course he will,” she said.
Malen’s mouth twitched. “He says you’re the only person he’s ever met who makes him feel… underdramatic,” he added.
Bram snorted. “I can see that.”
Lira ignored them both.
She focused on Jorren.
On the way her magic buzzed, twisted. On the way her wolf—yes, there *was* a wolf in there, small and snarling and tangled—scraped against the bent channels.
“I’m going to… touch your wrist,” Lira said. “See… what’s off.”
Jorren jerked away. “Don’t,” she hissed. “You’ll… fall in.”
Lira’s emptiness shivered. “I can’t fall further,” she said softly. “Trust me.”
Jorren laughed, a harsh, broken sound. “You have no idea,” she whispered.
Lira hesitated.
Mara’s hand landed briefly on her shoulder. “We go slow,” she said quietly. “No ravine heroics. You *pull back* if it screams.”
Lira nodded.
She reached.
Her fingers closed around Jorren’s wrist.
Static.
Her emptiness lit up like someone had shoved a live wire into it.
She bit back a gasp.
Jorren’s channels were… a mess.
Where Lira’s emptiness was a hollow—raw but clear—Jorren’s were a series of bent pipes jammed with half-burned magic. Surge had run through them, tried to use her as conduit, and twisted her in the process. Her wolf was caught in the kinks, snarling, caught between wanting to flee and wanting to fight.
Lira didn’t push deeper.
Not yet.
She skimmed the surface. Mapped where the worst bends were. Where the static was strongest. Where, maybe, there was room.
Then she let go.
Her own bones vibrated.
It took effort to keep her face neutral.
“Well?” Mara demanded.
Lira swallowed. “She’s… full,” she said. “Of… half-burned surge. It’s… jammed. I don’t think we can… empty her, not without tearing. But we might be able to… straighten a few… places. Give her… room to breathe.”
“Can you use that?” Corin asked from the doorway. He’d slipped in while she examined.
Lira looked at Jorren.
At the way her fingers twitched. At the dull glaze over her gaze. At the way she flinched every time someone moved too fast.
“Yes,” she said. “If she wants.”
Jorren laughed again. “Want,” she repeated. “Like… I chose… this.”
“You chose to stand in the path,” Lira said quietly. “Like I did. Like Bram did. Want… matters.”
Jorren’s mouth twisted. “I want… to stop… buzzing,” she whispered. “I want… to… remember… silence.”
Lira’s heart squeezed. “Then let’s… see if we can… give you that,” she said.
Mara clapped her hands once. “All right,” she said. “We triage. Lira rests. Jorren rests. We don’t touch channels again today. Tomorrow, we poke. Gently. *Gently,* Lira. Or I’ll smack you.”
“You always threaten that,” Lira muttered.
“And yet you keep needing the reminder,” Mara replied.
Bram stepped up beside Lira, close enough that she felt his heat. “You don’t do this alone,” he said under his breath.
“I know,” she said. “Trig—”
“Say it again,” he insisted.
She met his eyes. “I… won’t do this alone,” she said slowly. “I’ll… let you help.”
He nodded, satisfied.
Malen watched the exchange with a faint frown. “You’ve… changed,” he said to Lira.
“Obviously,” she said.
“Not just… the collar,” he said. His gaze flicked to Bram, then back. “You… feel… fuller. Even empty.”
Lira’s chest tightened. “Ashridge,” she said. “Their web. Their… wolves. It’s… different here.”
He studied her. “Cael will… worry,” he said. “That we’re losing you.”
She swallowed. “He’s not,” she said. “You’re not. I’m… not… choosing yet.”
Bram tensed beside her.
Malen dipped his head. “Just… remember,” he said quietly. “You were Thornfell before you were… this.”
“I know,” she whispered.
He left then, with Sella, to find whatever guest quarters Corin had grudgingly assigned them.
Lira stood for a moment, staring at Jorren’s thin wrist where her fingers had just been.
Bram touched her elbow. “You all right?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “But I will be.”
He smiled, small. “You keep saying that,” he said.
“And you keep asking,” she replied.
They looked at each other.
The ravine hummed, distant.
The new rings sang, faintly.
Jorren buzzed.
Her emptiness ached.
His wolf pressed.
The world waited.
And somewhere under all that weight of magic and history and expectation, something small and soft and stubborn still grew.
Love.
Slow.
Dangerous.
Necessary.