They settle us in what appears to be a healing den—warm furs, a central fire pit with flames that burn blue-white, and supplies that smell familiar despite their Mountain Cat variations. A healer appears immediately, an older male with silver streaking his dark hair and hands that move with practiced confidence.
“I can tend myself,” Magnus protests as the healer approaches.
“You can sit down and accept help,” Keira counters, positioning herself where she can watch us both. “Healer Frost, see to them. I want a full assessment.”
I try to stand, to help with Magnus’s treatment, but my legs won’t cooperate. The exhaustion I’ve been fighting crashes overme like an avalanche, and suddenly I’m on the furs without remembering how I got there.
“Easy, Storm Eagle.” Healer Frost’s hands are gentle as he steadies me. “You’ve overtaxed your reserves. Badly. When did you last eat? Sleep properly?”
“I...” I can’t remember. Days blend together. “I’m fine. Magnus needs?—”
“Magnus needs you to stop trying to heal everyone else when you’re running on empty.” The healer’s voice is kind but firm. “Let me do my job. You do yours—which right now is resting.”
He presses a cup into my hands—some kind of warm broth that smells of herbs and meat. My stomach growls embarrassingly loud, and Keira makes a sound that might be amusement.
“The Storm Eagle has some sense, at least,” the Alpha observes. “Drink, healer. You’re no use to anyone if you’re incapacitated.”
I drink because arguing takes energy I don’t have. The broth is rich, warming me from the inside out, and I have to force myself not to gulp it down too fast.
Meanwhile, Healer Frost examines Magnus with methodical thoroughness. He notes the wounds—some fresh, others reopened—and pays particular attention to the wings, running his hands along the new bone structure with fascinated precision.
“These aren’t grafted,” he says finally. “They’re grown. Integrated at the cellular level. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Bond-bridge transformation,” I explain, my voice steadier now that I have food in me. “When mates heal each other, their magic can merge. Create changes that wouldn’t occur otherwise. My storm-touched heritage offered itself through our connection, and his body accepted it.”
Keira leans forward, interest sharp in her expression. “Freely given, not taken?”
“Yes.” I meet her ice-blue gaze directly. “The opposite of what’s happening in that facility.”
“Tell me about the facility.” It’s not a request.
So I do. Between Magnus and me, we lay out everything: the abandoned Haven’s Heart station, Dr. Crane’s chimera experiments, the Broken victims trapped between forms, the twenty-three prisoners still suffering in that nightmare. I show her the data drive with Crane’s research, explain his connection to Voss’s weaponization programs.
Keira’s expression grows darker with each revelation, her ice magic manifesting as frost patterns that spread across the floor around her feet—physical manifestation of barely contained rage.
“Haven’s Heart,” she says, the words bitter. “Of course. Their kind always think they can improve on nature. Force what should be earned. Take what should be given.”
“Crane approached you,” I say suddenly, remembering fragments from the downloaded files. “Months ago. Before the integration, before the trade routes. He wanted samples.”
Keira’s eyes narrow. “How did you know that?”
“His research notes mentioned contact with isolated clans. Mountain Cats were listed as ‘initially receptive, ultimately uncooperative.’” I pull the relevant file up on a portable screen. “He wanted ice-magic samples. Genetic material from your strongest warriors. Offered payment, resources, medical technology.”
“We refused.” Keira’s voice is flat, absolute. “Mountain Cats don’t sell our heritage. He left angry, making threats about how we’d regret our ‘short-sightedness.’ I thought he was just another arrogant human who couldn’t accept being told no.”
“He targeted traders after that,” Magnus says quietly. “Anyone traveling through these territories. Looking for rare bloodlines, dual heritage, unusual magical signatures.”
I pull up more files, cross-referencing with what we know about the missing traders. “Look at this. Every victim had something unique—storm-touched ancestry, ice affinity in non-Mountain Cats, rare shifting variants. He wasn’t grabbing random people. He was shopping.”
Keira’s claws extend involuntarily, scraping against stone. “A shopping list of stolen lives.”
“There’s more.” I navigate to Crane’s personal logs—the ravings of a man descending into madness. “He started experimenting on himself six months ago. The same time Elena publicly defected from Voss’s programs and revealed the weaponization plans. Crane took his research underground, convinced he was perfecting what Voss abandoned.”
Magnus reads over my shoulder, his presence warm and solid against my back. “He’s degrading fast. The entries get more erratic, more desperate. He needs stabilization, needs someone who understands integrated healing.”
“He needs you specifically,” Keira says, looking at me with uncomfortable precision. “A healer who’s worked with Elena’s techniques. Who understands how to merge incompatible magical systems. That’s why he baited you into that facility.”
“And nearly succeeded in capturing me,” I admit. “If not for Magnus and the bond-bridge transformation, we’d both be dead or worse.”
