The raven arrived at dawn.
Mira knew it was council business before she even opened her eyes.
The weight of that kind of message had a particular feel to it. The air went still. Wolves in the den outside moved differently, footsteps quick and contained. Voices dropped, not out of respect, but out of wary curiosity.
She lay there for a moment, listening to the hush.
Rafe’s breathing, a slow, steady rhythm from the main room, anchored her.
Her bitten arm throbbed dully. The curse-wound still pulled when she flexed her fingers, but the crawling had not returned. For now, that was enough.
Someone pounded on the cabin door.
“Mira?” Wren’s voice, sharper than usual.
Mira groaned and shoved the blanket back. “I’m not dead,” she called. “Yet.”
“Open up,” Wren snapped. “I’m not talking through wood.”
Mira swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, resisting the urge to swear when her knees complained. She grabbed the nearest tunic—one of Rafe’s, she realized belatedly when the hem brushed mid-thigh and the shoulders hung loose—and yanked it over her head.
It smelled like him.
She hesitated for half a heartbeat, fingers bunching in the fabric, then set her jaw and stepped out into the main room.
Rafe was already up.
He stood by the table, half-turned toward the door, expression alert. He wore only loose pants, his bandaged side a stark line against tan skin. The morning light from the small window traced the ropes of muscle in his chest and arms, the pale scars like old stories written over them.
His gaze flicked to her, sweeping from her rumpled hair to the oversized tunic.
One brow arched.
“Nice shirt,” he said.
“Shut up,” she muttered, cheeks warming. “It was on the chair.”
“I know,” he said. “I put it there.”
She spluttered. “You—”
The knock came again, impatient.
“Mira,” Wren barked. “Now.”
Mira stalked to the door and wrenched it open.
Wren stood on the porch, cloak thrown over sleep-mussed clothes, hair half out of its braid. Kai hovered at her shoulder, bow strung but not drawn.
On Wren’s forearm, claws gripping the thick leather guard, perched a raven.
Bigger than the ones that nested in Ashridge’s pines. Its feathers were a deeper black, almost blue in the light, eyes sharp and unsettlingly intelligent. Around one leg, a thin bronze band gleamed.
Council messenger.
“Is this about the rogue,” Mira asked without preamble, “or about my patient?”
“Both,” Wren said grimly. “And more.”
The raven cocked its head, then croaked in a harsh, oddly human cadence, “Message. For Ashridge. From northern council.”
Mira narrowed her eyes. “Of course they sent one that talks.”
Rafe came to stand just behind her, his presence a solid warmth at her back. Wren’s gaze flicked over his bare torso and bandages, then pointedly back to Mira’s face.
“Later,” she said under her breath, mouth twitching. “For now—”
She extended her arm. The raven hopped deftly from her forearm to the cabin’s doorframe, claws clicking.
“Speak,” Wren commanded.
The bird ruffled its feathers, shook itself once, then recited in a surprisingly clear voice, “By order of the High Council of Packs, under the seal of Elder Corin, Ashridge and Ironclaw are summoned to the Stone Circle within seven days’ turn of the moon, to answer for disturbances reported in the northern territories.”
“Disturbances,” Mira repeated. “That’s vague.”
Rafe’s shoulders tensed. “What kind of disturbances?”
The raven twisted its head toward him, bead-black eyes fixing on his face.
“Possessions,” it croaked. “Curses. Old magicks. Wolves turned on kin. Bonds… interfering.”
Mira’s stomach went cold. “Interfering how.”
The raven tapped its beak against the doorframe. “Witness Corin reports bond between Ashridge healer and Ironclaw enforcer. Council seeks examination. Clarification. Assurance that such bond is not the source of these… cracks.”
Kai swore softly under his breath.
Rafe’s hand clenched on the back of the table hard enough that his knuckles went white.
Mira felt the bond thrumming under her skin, like a plucked string.
“Of course,” she said. “Why not blame us. We haven’t ruined enough of each other’s lives yet.”
The raven continued, voice flattening into the intonation of rote memory. “Alpha Wren of Ashridge is requested to appear, accompanied by her healer. Alpha Joren of Ironclaw is commanded to appear, accompanied by his enforcer. Failure to attend will be noted as refusal to cooperate with council investigation, with consequences as per treaty clause—”
“We know the clause,” Wren cut in sharply. The bird fell silent.
Seven days.
The Stone Circle lay three days’ travel north, near the confluence of three territories. Neutral ground. Old ground. Mira had been there once, as a very young girl, clinging to her mother’s hand, more interested in the strange carved stones than the droning of elders.
She remembered the weight of that place. The way the air felt thick with the howls of generations.
“You’re not fit to travel that far,” Rafe said immediately, turning to her. “Your arm—”
She rounded on him. “You are in no position to talk to me about fitness, Ironclaw. Your stitches still pull when you sneeze.”
“That’s not the point,” he said. “The council can send someone here. They already did.”
“What they’re asking now is different,” Wren said quietly. “Corin came to check a wound. This summons… is for judgement. For decisions. They want us under their stones. Where they can feel big.”
“Do we have a choice,” Yara asked from the path, where she and Ede had hovered just outside earshot.
“No,” Wren and Mira said together.
Wren glanced at the raven. “Tell the council Ashridge will be there,” she said. “Two days to prepare, three to travel. We’ll meet their seven.”
The raven bobbed its head. “And Ironclaw?”
A new voice answered.
“We’ll be there.”
Everyone turned.
A wolf stood at the edge of the clearing.
Not in their pack’s leather and furs. The cut of his cloak was different, the dye a darker, glossier black. His posture was loose but contained, every line speaking of someone used to balancing on thin ice.
Reva.
Mira’s lips peeled back from her teeth.
“How long have you been listening,” she demanded.
“Long enough to hear my name,” Reva said, sauntering forward. “And the words ‘curses’ and ‘bond.’ I assume that concerns me. And my alpha.”
“Your alpha’s ears burn in his den,” Wren said. “He can scratch them when he hears the council’s call from your lips.”
Reva inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the jab with a little flash of teeth. She spared Rafe a swift, assessing look, eyes lingering on the fresh pink of his healing wound, then let her gaze slide to Mira.
“You look… peaky,” she said. “Cursed roots don’t agree with your complexion.”
Mira bared her teeth in a parody of a smile. “You smell like fox piss. I assume that’s intentional.”
Reva’s lips twitched. “I missed you too, healer.”
“You two flirt like enemies,” Yara muttered.
“We are enemies,” Mira and Reva said in unison.
Rafe rubbed a hand over his face. “Mother save me from competent women with sharp tongues.”
“Your Mother’s busy,” Mira said. “Dealing with the fallout of her sense of humor.”
Wren stepped between them, physically cutting off the line of sight from Mira to Reva like she was separating two pups about to squabble over a bone.
“Reva,” she said, voice cool. “You have your message. You have seen my healer alive and my enforcer present. Take the raven. Go.”
Reva’s gaze flicked, once more, to Mira’s arm.
“You sure you don’t want me to stay,” she asked lightly. “Watch your… cursed one… while you trot off to the Stone Circle?”
“No,” three voices snapped.
Wren’s, Mira’s, and Rafe’s.
Reva’s smile sharpened. “Very well,” she said. “We’ll see you under the stones. Try not to bleed all over them before we get there. The elders hate messy rituals.”
She whistled low.
The raven fluttered from the doorframe to her forearm, claws gripping her leather bracer. Its eyes, on her, looked almost docile. On the rest of them, they were hard beads.
Reva stroked its back once, murmured something under her breath, then turned and walked back into the trees.
The raven’s voice floated back as they disappeared.
“Seven days,” it croaked. “Seven days. Seven—”
The sound cut off abruptly.
Mira exhaled, tension she hadn’t realized she’d been holding leaking out.
“Fuck,” she said.
“Eloquent as always,” Wren murmured.
Mira swung around to face her cousin, the oversized tunic swishing around her thighs.
“You’re not seriously thinking of leaving me behind,” she said. “Are you?”
“I was,” Wren said. “Right up until Corin’s name landed on that raven’s tongue. They called you specifically. I could fight it, argue you’re… indisposed. But that would only make them more certain you have something to hide.”
“They’re right that I have something to hide,” Mira snapped. “Namely the fact that my heart is apparently attached to an Ironclaw enforcer by some invisible leash and I don’t know what to do about it.”
Rafe shifted, uncomfortable.
Wren’s mouth softened briefly. “I know,” she said. “But hiding doesn’t untie the leash. It just makes it easier for others to cut it when you’re not looking.”
Mira’s throat tightened.
“Besides,” Wren went on, voice dropping so only Mira (and, by virtue of proximity, Rafe) could hear, “Corin will be there. He saw the curse in your arm. He saw the rogue. If old magic is creeping, we need his voice on our side. He trusts his own eyes. And he’s seen you fight.”
“He’s also seen me break into a sweat merely thinking about public rituals,” Mira muttered.
Wren’s lips quirked. “He has that effect on wolves.”
Yara shifted her weight. “What about the den?” she asked. “We go, we leave it… thin. Especially with rogues sniffing around.”
“We don’t take everyone,” Wren said. “Small party. Me. Mira. Yara. Two warriors. Toren if he whines enough and Mira clears him. That’s it. The rest stay. Guard. Watch the wards. If another cursed wolf slinks near our pens while we’re playing nice under the council’s stones, I want someone here to set it on fire.”
“I can set things on fire from a distance,” Mira grumbled.
“Not your own den,” Wren retorted.
Rafe shifted closer to the doorway. “What about me,” he asked quietly.
Mira looked at him.
Under the casual question, under the controlled tone, she heard the strain.
“If you think Wren’s leaving you here unsupervised while we go to the council, you’re dumber than I thought,” she said.
His lip curled. “So I’m baggage.”
“You’re evidence,” Wren said bluntly. “Proof. Of the wound. Of the bond. Of the fact that if the world wants to accuse Ashridge of mishandling old magics, they have to look an Ironclaw enforcer in the eye while they do it.”
His shoulders squared slightly. “Fine,” he said. “I’d rather stand in front of them than be spoken about in absentia.”
Mira made a face. “You actually like council halls?”
“No,” he said. “But I know how they work. Joren trained me to. If they’re going to make decisions that affect both our packs and… us… I’d rather hear them firsthand.”
She hated that he was right.
“Seven days,” she muttered. “We’re not ready.”
“We weren’t ready for the raid,” Wren said. “We weren’t ready for the rogue. We weren’t ready for… this.” She gestured between Mira and Rafe. “Readiness is a luxury we’ve never had. We survive anyway.”
Mira’s wolf lifted its head, hackles rising. It liked Wren’s defiance. It liked the idea of standing under old stones and baring its teeth.
Mira’s human half mostly wanted to crawl back under her blanket and pretend the raven had hit the wrong den.
“We leave in two days,” Wren said. “Pack light. Mira, stock what you can. Herbs. Powders. I’ve seen too many ‘controlled rituals’ go sideways not to bring my own healer’s kit. Rafe…”
He lifted his chin. “Alpha.”
“If you collapse halfway to the Circle, I’ll drag you the rest of the way by your hair,” she said. “Work with Mira. Get as strong as you can. No heroics that tear your stitches.”
“I’ll behave,” he said.
Mira snorted. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”
Wren’s gaze softened briefly as she looked between them.
“For what it’s worth,” she said quietly, “I won’t let them hurt you. Either of you. Not if I can help it.”
Mira swallowed. “You can’t stand between us and the council’s teeth forever.”
“No,” Wren said. “But I can make sure they see yours.”
Her wolf rumbled approval.
Mira’s lips twisted. “Fine,” she said. “We’ll go. We’ll dance their dance. But if any elder tries to lay a hand on me without my consent, I’m dosing him with laxatives and pointing him at the nearest ceremonial fire.”
Rafe choked on a laugh.
Wren’s mouth curved. “I’ll hold your cloak.”
* * *
Preparing to leave Ashridge felt like peeling her own skin off.
Mira moved through the familiar rooms and paths with a strange sense of detachment, like she was already gone and watching herself from above.
She packed with ruthless efficiency.
Dried yarrow, comfrey, and willow bark in small leather pouches. Two vials of the precious coagulant powder. A bundle of blessed sage and rosemary for hastily strengthened wards. Bone needles, clean and sharp. Linen rolls. A jar of the bitter powder she’d flung in the rogue’s face.
Rafe watched from the table, winding and unwinding a strip of cloth between his fingers as if restraining the urge to help.
“You’re forgetting something,” he said.
“If you say ‘my sense of humor,’ I’ll stab you,” she muttered.
He tilted his head. “Your own bandages. For your arm.”
She paused.
He had a point. In worrying over everyone else’s wounds, she had a bad habit of ignoring her own.
“You’re very smug when you’re right,” she said.
“So are you,” he replied.
She grabbed an extra roll of linen and tossed it at him. He caught it with a smirk.
“Wrap my arm,” she said. “You seem so invested in its continued function.”
He sobered.
“Sit,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t take that tone with me in my own house, Ironclaw.”
“Sit,” he repeated.
Something in his voice made her obey without another quip.
She perched on the edge of the table opposite him, extending her bitten arm. The wound had scabbed over in a jagged line, the skin around it ugly and mottled. It still hurt when she moved certain ways, but less like it was trying to eat her and more like any deep cut.
He unwrapped the old bandage with careful fingers.
His touch was surprisingly gentle. He didn’t prod unnecessarily, didn’t hiss or swear at the sight. He just… looked.
“Better,” he murmured. “Angry, but… yours again.”
“Mine,” she echoed softly. The word felt different on her tongue when applied to her own flesh. Empowering.
He wound the fresh cloth around her forearm, not too tight, not too loose. His fingers brushed her skin with each pass, leaving a trail of slow heat in their wake.
“You’re good at this,” she said.
“My mother made me bandage my own cuts,” he said. “Said if I was going to be stupid enough to get them, I should learn how to fix them.”
“Smart woman,” Mira said.
“She was,” he agreed quietly. “Until… she wasn’t.”
She glanced at him. “What happened?”
He hesitated.
“After my father died,” he said slowly, “she broke. Not… visibly, at first. She still cooked. Still laughed. Still snarled at anyone who looked at me wrong. But something in her… left. When winter came and the food ran thin, she gave the best bites to everyone else. Wolves with pups. Old ones. Me.” His jaw flexed. “One morning, she just… didn’t wake up.”
Mira’s heart clenched.
“She starved,” she said.
“She chose,” he corrected softly. “Her way of… paying a debt. To the pack. To us. To the fact that my father died following Joren’s orders.” He shook his head. “I sometimes wonder if she’d have made different choices if she’d had… more. Beyond us. Beyond Ironclaw.”
“Like what,” Mira asked.
“A bond,” he said simply.
Her breath caught.
“You think a mate would have… kept her here,” she said. “Made her choose life.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Someone whose voice in her head would have been loud enough to cut through her guilt. Someone to say, ‘no. Stay. I need you.’”
Mira swallowed.
“Is that what you’re worried about,” she asked. “That if you choose… wrong… about us, you’ll end up like her?”
He met her gaze.
“What I’m worried about,” he said quietly, “is waking up one day and realizing I chose out of fear instead of… truth. That I stayed with Joren because it was… familiar. Or left for you because it was… intoxicating. And that either way, I dragged more wolves into my choice than I meant to.”
She looked down at her arm, at the neat wrapping.
“You overestimate how much power we have,” she said. “The council. The elders. Joren. Wren. The thing under the earth. They’re the ones pulling. We’re just… knots.”
“We’re more than knots,” he said. “We’re teeth. Hands. Healers. Enforcers. We act. That’s where power is.”
She hated that he was right.
Again.
“You’re very tiresome,” she muttered.
“You like me,” he said.
She snorted. “Like is a strong word.”
His mouth curved. “So is hate.”
She huffed.
“How’s your side,” she asked abruptly. “You going to make it to the Circle without reopening everything and making me look incompetent?”
He straightened, flexing his torso experimentally.
The wound still tugged, but the pain was manageable. He’d been walking more each day, longer circuits around the clearing. Kai had tailed him like a shadow, ready to catch him if he wobbled.
“I’ll make it,” he said.
“If you faint halfway there, I will leave you in a ditch,” she said.
He smirked. “Liar.”
She exhaled through her nose. “Fine. I’d maybe roll you onto a softer patch first.”
“See,” he said. “You do care.”
She flicked her fingers at his forehead, a tiny snap of annoyance. He caught her hand and, before she could yank it back, pressed his lips to her knuckles.
Her breath stuttered.
The contact was brief. Chaste, technically. A bare brush of mouth over scarred skin.
The bond hummed.
Heat flared up her arm, pooling low in her belly.
She yanked her hand back like it burned.
“Don’t,” she said. It came out more like a plea than she liked.
He looked at her, something raw in his gaze.
“Don’t… what?” he asked softly. “Touch you? Want you? Show it?”
“All of the above,” she snapped.
He huffed a pained laugh. “Honesty, we said.”
She ground her teeth.
“We also said restraint,” she reminded him.
His lips twitched. “Right.”
He stepped back.
The space between them felt cavernous, absurdly so in the small cabin.
“Two days,” he said. “Then three walking. Then… stones.”
“Then judgment,” she said bleakly.
“Then… whatever comes next,” he countered.
She shook her head. “You really are hope, huh.”
“Someone has to be,” he said. “You’re busy being sarcasm.”
She snorted.
He smiled.
And for a moment, in the cluttered warmth of the healer’s house, with curses burned and wounds bound, the looming shadow of the Stone Circle felt… less.
It wouldn’t last.
But it was something.
* * *