Days bled into each other.
Ashridge adjusted.
Patrols changed their routes, arcing wider around the boundary stones. The old ring used for coming-of-age fights sat empty, grass beginning to creep over the scarred earth. Wolves grumbled. Elders muttered. But no one openly defied Corin’s edicts.
Not yet.
Tansy’s fever broke on the third night. She woke hoarse and hollow-eyed but lucid. Terrified. Lira sat with her for hours, coaxing memories, piecing together the path of her rogue alpha’s ritual recklessness.
“He said the old ways were… pure,” Tansy whispered one afternoon, hands twisting in the blanket. “No councils. No treaties. Just… blood and moon and teeth. I believed him. At first.”
“Of course you did,” Lira said gently. “You were… young. Hungry. For… something more.”
Tansy’s gaze darted to Bram, who sat near the doorway, pretending not to listen. “He made us feel… big,” she said. “Like the old stories.”
“The old stories forget to tell you how many wolves died building them,” Bram said, voice mild. “Or what the land thinks of being… used.”
Tansy flinched. “We didn’t… want to hurt,” she said. “We just—”
“Got hurt first,” Lira finished softly.
The girl’s mouth trembled. “Yes.”
Bram’s wolf stirred uneasily. He remembered being sixteen. Littermates at his side. A world he thought he could shape with his teeth and stubbornness. Corin younger. The previous alpha—Corin’s father—louder.
“We might need you to show us where he led you,” Bram said. “When you can stand.”
Tansy went white. “No,” she whispered. “I can’t.”
“You don’t have to,” Lira said quickly. “You’re safe here. Corin won’t force you.”
Bram shot her a look. Bit his tongue.
Tansy’s hands shook. “If I go back… he’ll smell me,” she said. “In the stones. In the hum. He’ll—”
“Hey,” Lira cut in. “We’re not going tomorrow. Or the day after. We gather information. Prepare. We don’t… walk blind into cracks.”
“We did that once,” Bram muttered. “Turns out badly.”
“Exactly,” Lira said.
Tansy sank back, breathing ragged.
Later, when the girl slept, Bram cornered Lira near the herbs shelf.
“You shouldn’t have promised that,” he said.
“I didn’t,” she said. “I said ‘we don’t go blind.’ *We.* Not ‘you alone.’ Not ‘Tansy as bait.’”
He scowled. “You know we’ll have to.”
“Yes,” she said. “But we don’t *lead* with that. She’s not a tool either.”
He exhaled. “You’re making this harder.”
“Good,” she said. “Easy breaks.”
His mouth quirked despite himself. “You and Mara,” he said. “Sharpened on the same stone.”
“Different quarries,” she replied.
He sobered. “Corin’s pushing for a scouting party,” he said. “Small. Quiet. Fast.”
Her stomach dipped. “You,” she guessed.
“Yes,” he said. “Me. Garron. Maybe Rane.” His gaze slid to her. “And you.”
Her breath caught. “Of course,” she said. “Because if we’re going to stumble into a web of wild magic, we should bring the one person it… recognizes.”
His lips twitched. “And the one person who can… bite it back.”
She shivered. “It’s not… a game,” she said.
“I know,” he said.
“Do you?” she pressed. “I feel like you still think this is… something you can beat with brute force and stubbornness.”
“Brute force and stubbornness have gotten me this far,” he said. “Along with Mara’s yelling.”
“And nearly killed you,” she pointed out.
“Nearly,” he said. “I’m still here.”
“Because I stepped in,” she snapped. “Because you’re *lucky.* Luck runs out, Bram.”
He stepped closer, scent spiking. “You think I don’t know that?” he demanded. “You think I don’t wake up every night with Ren’s blood in my nose? Jessa’s laugh in my ears? I know exactly how fast it runs out. That’s why I can’t sit here while this thing creeps closer.”
His wolf pressed against his skin. Teeth bared.
Her emptiness rippled in response.
They stood, breath mingling, tension sparking.
“You’re not… the only one who can walk into the dark,” she said, voice low. “I’ve done it. I’ve… lived there. Don’t act like you’re the only one with scars.”
“I never said—” he began.
“You didn’t have to,” she said. “The way you throw yourself at it says enough.”
He swallowed. “What do you want me to do?” he asked hoarsely. “Hide? Let it take more? Sit on my hands and watch pups come in twisted?”
“No,” she said. “I want you to… be smart. To use what we’ve learned. To… not make me… catch you in pieces again.”
The last words ripped out of her, raw.
He froze.
His hand rose slowly. He cupped her jaw, thumb brushing the edge of her mouth where she’d bitten it in her dream.
“Lira,” he said softly. “Look at me.”
She did. Reluctantly. Eyes burning.
“I am not afraid to die,” he said. “I am *terrified* of leaving you to fight this alone.”
Her breath stuttered. “Why?” she whispered.
“Because you already did,” he said. “For three years. That’s enough.”
A drop of water from some busted dam inside her slipped free. A tear tracked down her cheek.
He wiped it away with his thumb, gentle.
“Don’t,” she choked. “Don’t… say things like that.”
“Why not?” he asked. “They’re true.”
“They make it… harder,” she said.
“To leave,” he said.
“To choose,” she corrected.
“Choose what?” he pressed.
“Where I belong,” she said.
Silence.
His thumb stroked her cheekbone once, then fell.
“I’m not asking you to choose now,” he said quietly. “I’m asking you to… let yourself imagine a choice.”
She shut her eyes. “I don’t know how,” she whispered.
“Then we’ll learn,” he said. “Slow.”
“Slow,” she repeated numbly.
“Slow,” he said again. “We have… time.”
She wanted to believe that.
Old magic laughed in the distance.
***
That evening, as the sun bled out behind the ash-dark mountains, Corin gathered them in council room two.
Smaller table. Fewer elders.
Just Corin, Garron, Rane, Mara, Bram, Lira.
“We go north,” Corin said without preamble. “Tomorrow at dawn.”
Lira’s stomach clenched. Bram’s wolf whuffed, excited and wary.
“Who?” Garron asked, though he already knew.
“You,” Corin said. “Bram, once Mara clears him.” Mara grunted, which wasn’t a yes but also wasn’t a no. “Rane, for her sense of the stones. Lira, for her… emptiness. Me, because I’m not sending my people where I won’t go.”
“And Idris?” Mara asked.
“Stays,” Corin said. “Someone has to patch us up if we crawl back.”
Lira swallowed. “Tansy?” she asked.
“Stays,” Corin said firmly. “She’s given us enough. We have a general location. We’ll find the ravine without dragging a traumatized pup into it.”
Rane nodded approval.
“Thornfell?” Garron asked. “Do we tell Cael?”
“After,” Corin said. “He’ll want to send his own. Complicates everything. I want eyes on it first. Then we talk alliances.”
Lira hesitated. “He won’t like being left out,” she said.
“He doesn’t have to like it,” Corin said. “He has to live with it. Like the rest of us.”
She pressed her lips together. “I can… send word,” she offered. “After. From your side. Less… insult.”
He considered. “Do that,” he said. “If you’re in any condition.”
Bram’s hand tightened around the back of his chair.
“You sure about taking me?” he asked quietly. “I’m… not at full strength.”
Corin met his gaze. “I need your nose,” he said. “Your memory of that knot. Your willingness to throw yourself between whatever we find and everyone else.”
Bram snorted. “So you *do* want me to be an idiot.”
“I want you to be you,” Corin said. “Just… with Lira yelling in your other ear when Mara’s not enough.”
Lira made a strangled noise. “That’s a lot of yelling,” she muttered.
“Good,” Corin said. “Maybe between the three of you, you’ll balance out my worst instincts.”
Garron rubbed his face. “We’re doomed,” he said.
“Likely,” Rane agreed.
Mara smirked. “At least we’ll go out shouting.”
Corin’s expression sobered. “We move at first light,” he said. “Travel in wolf where we can, human where we must. Lira, you ride.”
She stiffened. “I can run.”
“Not as fast as us,” he said. “And I’m not losing you to exhaustion halfway there.” He looked at Bram. “You can carry her?”
Bram’s wolf perked.
Lira’s insides did a strange flip. “That’s… not necessary,” she said.
“Do you want to be the one lagging behind on two legs while we’re chasing surge?” Corin asked.
She grit her teeth. “No.”
“Then you ride,” he said. “Bram’s bigger. More stable.”
Her cheeks burned. “He’s still healing,” she protested weakly.
“Which is why you’ll be with him,” Mara said. “If he starts smelling wrong, you jump off and smack him.”
Bram made a face. “Your faith in my dignity is inspiring.”
“You have no dignity,” Mara said. “You gave it away the first time you tripped over your own paws in front of the elders.”
Garron snorted. “He was ten.”
“And yet,” Mara said.
Lira bit back a laugh.
The tension in the room eased, just a fraction.
“Sleep,” Corin said. “All of you. Dawn comes fast.”
They dispersed.
In the corridor outside, Bram fell into step beside Lira. Their shoulders almost brushed.
“You okay?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “But I will be.”
“You keep saying that,” he said.
“It keeps being true,” she replied.
He grunted. “You’ve never… ridden another wolf, have you?”
The image his words conjured made heat rush up her neck. She nearly tripped.
“No,” she said, a little too fast. “Hasn’t… come up.”
His mouth twitched. “Don’t overthink it,” he said. “It’s like riding a very judgmental horse.”
“That does not help,” she said.
“It will be fine,” he said. “I’ve carried worse.”
She arched a brow. “Worse what?”
“Garron,” he said. “Once. He got drunk. It was… unpleasant.”
She laughed, properly this time.
He smiled, satisfied.
They paused at the fork—her cot this way, his bed that.
He hesitated. “Lira,” he said.
She looked at him.
“If I… lose it,” he said quietly. “Out there. If that web wraps me again. If I start… to twist. You… run. You do *not* drain me again.”
Rage flared, sudden and bright. “No,” she said.
He blinked. “No?”
“No,” she repeated. “You don’t get to tell me how to spend my life. Or my emptiness. If it comes to that, I decide.”
“It’s my—” he started.
“It’s *ours,*” she cut in. “This… thing. This web. This… bond.” Her hand flew up, pressing to her sternum. “You’re in here now too, Bram Kade. Whether I asked for it or not. If you go down, I go. That’s… *my* choice.”
He stared at her, stunned.
His wolf pressed hard, snarling something that felt suspiciously like *mine.*
He swallowed. “You’re insane,” he said hoarsely.
“Probably,” she said. “You like it.”
He huffed a breath. “Terrifyingly,” he said.
Silence stretched.
He lifted a hand. Hovered. Let it fall without touching.
“Sleep,” he said roughly. “Big day tomorrow.”
“You too,” she said.
He turned away.
She watched him go, his shoulders squared against pain and fate and old magic.
Then she went to her narrow cot.
Lay down.
Stared at the ceiling.
Her heart beat against the collar at her throat, as if testing the metal.
Tomorrow, they’d walk into the web.
Tomorrow, she might have to drain more than residue.
Tomorrow, she’d ride a wolf she was starting to want in ways that had nothing to do with magic.
She shut her eyes.
“Slow,” she whispered into the dark.
The world didn’t listen.
But Bram’s wolf did.
Somewhere in the quiet of the infirmary, it lifted its head.
And waited for dawn.