The words cut, sharp enough that I don’t answer.
“You’re wrong,” she continues. “Magic is not the only light. The wolf in you is older than any spell we wield. You think it less because it doesn’t glitter. But there is strength in blood and bone, in the howl that carries across mountains. That is magic too, Mary. The oldest kind.”
Her words linger in the room, in my chest. My wolf presses forward, ears pricked, tail raised, not in challenge but in acknowledgment.
I breathe out slow, my arms loosening. I don’t reply. I don’t have to.
The others return to their work, the spy still slumped, the night pressing quiet beyond the shutters. I stay where I am, my wolf steady inside me, and for the very first time in way too long, I wonder if maybe Tessa is right.
Maybe the light in me doesn’t burn the same as theirs. But it burns all the same.
20
SILAS
The night runs long after the women’s gathering. The spy sleeps, his breath even now, the magic worked through him settling deep into his bones. The others drift back to their cabins, their wolves restless but quiet for the moment, though the ridge hums with tension like a taut bowstring. The Brotherhood is never silent for long. Even their stillness feels like pacing.
I stay awake by the fire, my shoulders pressed against rough timber, my lip still raw from Darius’s fist. The flames crackle low, their light licking shadows up the walls, and I can feel eyes on me even when none are here. Wolves don’t trust foxes. They never will. And maybe they shouldn’t.
When the council reconvenes at dawn, the air is heavier, thicker with the smell of pine and sweat, and the ground outside crunches with the frozen weight of too many boots. The table is crowded again, the map rolled open, the spy’s words already marked into lines of ink and stone. Darius stands at the head, his hands gripping the edge as though the wood itself offends him. His gaze sweeps the room, but when it lands on me, it lingers longer, sharper, harder.
“This is it,” he says, his voice carrying like a growl held tight in his throat. “Roman’s next strike. He’ll hit the villages to the east. He’ll bleed us slow, starve us, burn us until we bend. We cannot let him.”
The Brotherhood murmurs, voices rising, sharp with agreement.
“And you,” Darius continues, his voice low but steady, his eyes locked on me now, “will go to him.”
The room falls silent. Every head turns. The fire hisses in the hearth, the wood popping.
I straighten, my wolf still in my chest, heavy but steady. “You want me to crawl back into Roman’s den.”
“You’ve lived in his shadow,” Darius says, each word bitten clean. “You know his camp, his soldiers, his movements. You can walk among them where no wolf can. We need to know when he’ll strike, where, and how. You’ll go. You’ll listen. You’ll return. And you’ll prove, once and for all, which side you bleed for.”
My jaw tightens. My hands form fists against my thighs. The fire inside me surges, my wolf restless, snarling against chains that aren’t even there anymore.
It’s a test. Not just of loyalty. Of worth.
If I go, I risk everything. Roman will gut me the moment he smells doubt. His eyes cut sharper than blades, and he’s always known when I hesitate. If I don’t go, I prove every suspicion right—that I’m a fox waiting for the chance to run.
I draw in a slow breath, let it burn through me, then nod once. “I’ll go.”
The Brotherhood stirs. Some mutter approval. Others scoff. Rafe, at the far end of the table, leans forward, his eyes narrowed but not as sharp with hate as before. “If he’s willing to crawl back into hell for us, let him. If he dies there, we lose nothing. If he lives, maybe we gain something worth keeping.”
The wolves growl, restless, but none contradict him.
Darius only nods, slow, deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine. “You leave tonight.”
The council breaks. The wolves file out, their voices low, their eyes cutting toward me as they pass. Some spit on the floor near my boots. Some shake their heads. Some watch me too long, unreadable. But none stop me.
When the cabin empties, the silence is heavier than before. The fire snaps, sending sparks up the chimney. I remain where I stand, my hands braced on the edge of the table, the map spread before me. Roman’s camp marked in ink. Villages circled in red. The bones of a war that I helped build.
My chest feels hollow, my wolf pacing restless, but my decision is already made.
Mary finds me before I find her.
I step out into the cold, the wind biting, the snow crunching under my boots, and she’s there at the very edge of the ridge, her hair tangled in the breeze, her eyes sharp as winter itself. She doesn’t speak at first, doesn’t move, just watches me with the kind of look that sees too much.
“You’re going,” she says at last. Not a question. A truth.
