Not forced. Not stolen.
Freely given, and stronger because of it.
The Mountain Cat stronghold appears on the horizon as the sun begins to set. I can see watchtowers, defensive positions, and—importantly—scouts who’ve already spotted us. Marked us as approaching.
I just have to hope they recognize me despite my new wings before they decide I’m a threat.
“Almost there,” I tell Lyra. “Stay with me.”
“Always,” she murmurs. “Where else would I go?”
13
LYRA
The Mountain Cat stronghold rises from the ice and stone like it grew there naturally—all sharp angles and defensive positions, carved directly into the living mountain. As Magnus carries me closer, I can see watchtowers bristling with guards, their attention locked on us with predatory focus.
“They’re going to shoot us down,” I manage, exhaustion making my voice thin.
“No.” Magnus adjusts his wings—still learning, still adapting, but growing more confident with each beat. “They know me. They’ll recognize?—”
An ice-bolt streaks past us, close enough that I feel the cold burn of its passage.
“You were saying?”
“They see the wings,” Magnus realizes, his voice tight. “They don’t know it’s me. They think I’m?—”
Another bolt, this one closer. Warning shots, but the next volley won’t be.
Magnus banks hard, diving toward the main platform despite every defensive instinct screaming at him to flee. “AlphaKeira!” he roars, his voice carrying with ice-magic amplification. “It’s Magnus Ironwood! Hold your fire!”
For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happens. The guards remain ready, weapons trained on us, and I’m certain we’re about to be turned into pincushions for the crime of looking wrong.
Then a voice cuts through the tension—ancient, powerful, absolutely commanding: “Stand down. Let them land.”
The guards lower their weapons reluctantly as Magnus touches down on the main platform. His legs nearly buckle—exhaustion and inexperience combining—but he holds us both upright through sheer determination.
“Magnus Ironwood.” The voice belongs to an imposing woman who moves from the shadows like she’s made of them. Alpha Keira Frostmane, I realize, even before Magnus straightens to address her properly.
She’s massive for a woman, easily six feet of corded muscle and predatory grace, with frost-white hair that falls past her shoulders and ice-blue eyes that miss nothing. Those eyes track over Magnus’s new wings, note the way he’s holding me protectively, catalog every detail of our condition with clinical precision.
“Alpha,” Magnus says, lowering his head in respect but not submission. “I bring urgent news and request aid for?—”
“I can see what you bring.” Keira circles us slowly, nostrils flaring as she scents. “Storm Eagle heritage in your wings. Fresh bonding in your scent. And...” Her gaze locks on me. “A mate you haven’t yet claimed properly.”
Heat floods my face despite my exhaustion. Mountain Cats don’t mince words, apparently.
“The situation is complicated,” Magnus says.
“Situations always are.” Keira gestures to her guards. “Get them inside. The healer looks ready to faint, and you’re bleeding through your shirt, Ironwood.”
I hadn’t noticed, but she’s right. Magnus’s shirt is soaked with blood from reopened wounds, and now that we’ve stopped moving, I can feel him trembling with the effort of staying upright.
“I’m fine,” he says automatically.
“You’re standing here with wings you acquired hours ago, carrying a mate who’s clearly drained herself healing you, after what I’m guessing was a fight that nearly killed you both.” Keira’s expression doesn’t change, but something in her voice sharpens. “That’s not fine. That’s stubbornness. Inside. Now.”
Magnus doesn’t argue, which tells me how badly he’s hurting. We’re ushered through corridors bearing centuries of claw marks—territorial signatures from generations of Mountain Cats. The cold here is different from the facility’s chemical chill. This is natural, clean, the kind of cold that preserves rather than destroys.
