“Then allow me to clarify,” Archon said, and with a snap of his fingers, the chamber darkened. A three-dimensional image hung in the air above the table—Aspen’s bakery, the bloodied sigils on the paper bag, the face of the green-jacketed man, captured by security cam. Maltraz glared at the crowd. The display shifted—next, to the clearing where Aspen destroyed the Wyrdmother, the entire event replaying in supernatural slow motion.
“There was a demon tracking sigil in the bakery,” Archon continued. “The demon Maltraz must have collaborated with the Wyrdmother to orchestrate the abduction and forced transfer of magical power from my daughter to herself. This was not just an attempted murder. It was a breach of Council law, the inter-species treaty, and the Magical Convention.”
He paused, letting the information settle over the room like fallout. Even the demon lawyer paled, then he spoke. “This evidence is circumstantial. Any demon could have influenced that man. There is no proof it was Maltraz.”
Pietro cleared his throat. “We agree. This evidence is damning, but we cannot ascertain who left this sigil. And Archon, we… appreciate your clarification. But there is still the matter of the, ah, excessive force used.”
Archon folded his hands, all patience. “Would you have preferred my daughter’s mate and my daughter die?”
“No, of course not—”
“Then the matter is settled,” Archon said. He looked at Aspen, pride shining out of him like heat. “She is not a threat. She is not a weapon. She is a young woman who defended her mate and her family. Anyone in this room would have done the same.”
Silence. It stretched for an entire minute, the longest sixty seconds of my life. Then the Council chair scribbled a note, whispered to the others, and rapped the table with his pen. “This session is adjourned. Iron Valor is cleared of all charges. Ms. Waters, you will submit to regular magical evaluations, to be overseen by the angel king himself. Is that acceptable?”
Aspen nodded, too stunned to speak. Papa’s eyes closed with what I could only call a prayer.
We were ushered out by the wolf shifter in the suit, back through the marble and gold and the endless security. In the elevator, it was just us, Archon shining like a thousand-watt bulb, Aspen and Papa holding hands, me staring at my boots and realizing, for the first time, that maybe Iron Valor could survive the next hundred years after all.
As the elevator dropped, I looked at Aspen, at the small pink scar on Papa’s neck, at the face of Archon. “You okay, kid?” I asked her.
She smiled, a little bit shaky. “Yeah. I think I might be.”
Archon clapped me on the shoulder, nearly knocking me through the back of the elevator. “You did well, son. You all did.”
The doors opened on the city below. Outside, the wind howled, and the old world waited for us to come back. I took a breath and braced for whatever came next.
I could still feel the weight of all those eyes, the endless scrutiny, the suspicion. But for once, it didn’t feel like a death sentence.
It felt like hope.
The next morning before “church,” Pearl insisted on feeding us all breakfast. The scent of fried bacon hit you at the threshold, a wall of comfort and cholesterol, followed by the even heavier thump of biscuits drowning in sausage gravy.
I found my usual seat at the corner of the big table, back to the wall, direct sight line to the kitchen and both exits. Habit. Gunner was already there, two plates in, mop of auburn hair wild from his morning run. He looked up and grinned, brown eyes bright. “You’re late, city boy,” he said, and slid a pile of bacon onto my plate.
“Don’t start,” I shot back, but took the bacon anyway. He was right. I preferred this—real food, real faces, real problems—to the politics and artifice of Chicago. The memory of the Council chamber still sat like a stone in my gut.
Pearl herself ran the kitchen, apron smeared with flour, voice carrying over the crowd. “Sit down, eat, then you can solve all the world’s problems,” she shouted, and every shifter in the building obeyed without question. Even Bronc got in line for the buffet. He wore a black T-shirt stretched tight over his chest, arms folded, eyes always scanning.
Aspen and Papa walked in just as Pearl started pouring the coffee. Aspen was a changed creature. No trace of the scared, hungry ghost she’d been at the edge of the clearing just days ago. She laughed easily, bumping hips with Papa and making a beeline for the cinnamon rolls. Even Oscar, her furry sidekick,had a fresh swagger. She spotted me and gave a little salute with her fork.
We piled our plates and then settled in for the morning ritual. Bronc called us to order by clearing his throat and rapping his knuckles on the tabletop, sending half the drinks sloshing.
“Alright, shut up and listen,” he said, tone half-serious, half-fatherly. “We’re here because we have unfinished business. The Council cleared us, but the job isn’t done. Wrecker, you got an update?”
Wrecker set down his fork, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and leaned forward. “Morgantown Pack is dirty. I’ve been digging in their books—there’s weird wire transfers, shell corporations, and a whole lot of cash that ain’t going through legitimate channels. They’re not just running a chop shop. They’re moving product. Maybe people.”
A growl ran down the table—real, low, animal. Even Gunner’s voice dropped half an octave. “Trafficking?”
“That’s the best guess,” Wrecker said. “And every time we get close, something blows up. Last week, their Beta got shot in a parking lot in Fort Worth. No one’s talking.”
Bronc nodded, chewing it over. “So what’s the play?”
“We need eyes on Steiner,” Wrecker said. “He’s the only one with a clean record. Never seen him in the same room with any of the heavy hitters. He’s more like a mafia kingpin than an Alpha.”
Bronc’s gaze moved to me. “Arsenal, you and Gunner are on recon. Nothing fancy. Watch, learn, report. We don’t want a fight. Yet.”
I gave a nod, and Gunner thumped the table, eager. “About damn time.”
