Raegan’s expression becomes distant as her psychic abilities engage. “Describe the chains again. The darkness around their hearts.”
“Cold. Suffocating. Like it was squeezing until nothing was left but hollow shells.” Sera wraps her arms around herself. “I could feel it even though I was asleep. The weight of it. The wrongness.”
“Binding magic.” Raegan’s eyes refocus. “What you’re describing feels similar to cursed objects I’ve encountered. Magic designed to suppress or control rather than enhance or protect. The darkness you saw is probably the actual mechanism of the curse. The physical manifestation of whatever spell was cast.”
“So it’s real.” Sera’s voice cracks. “My pack really is cursed. We’ve been living under magical suppression for three hundred years, and nobody knew.”
“Some people knew.” I gesture to the research materials spread across my table. “The Hysopp Coven documented theworking. Leadership at the time must have commissioned it. The question is why, and whether current Llewelyn leaders have any awareness of what was done.”
“You think my aunt knows?” Sera looks horrified at the possibility. “That Matriarch Lydia is aware we’re all magically suppressed?”
“I think someone in Llewelyn’s past made a choice that affected every generation since.” I choose my words carefully. “Whether that knowledge passed down through leadership or got lost over time, I can’t say. But we need to access the original commission documents to understand what was done and why.”
“The Hysopp Coven’s archives.” Raegan nods. “That’s our next step. I can help with that. My connection to Oren gives me some pull with the coven leadership, and my psychic abilities mean they take me seriously when I ask about magical workings.”
“But first, we need to brief Oren and Matriarch Lydia,” Wyn states.
Sera sits up straighter in panic, but Raegan squeezes Sera’s hand. “Your aunt needs to know about the attack. About Thornridge targeting you. She’ll be furious that you left without telling anyone, but she’ll be more furious if we keep this secret any longer.”
“The vision said not to tell anyone in Llewelyn.” Sera pulls her hand away. “What if warning my aunt is exactly what triggers the curse to stop me? What if telling her makes everything worse?”
“The vision said not to tell anyone in Llewelyn territory,” I point out. “We can arrange to make sure she’s on neutral ground for the meeting, even if she won’t come here. That technically doesn’t violate the vision’s warning.”
Sera looks at me like I’ve just offered her a lifeline. “That could work. Meeting her away from Llewelyn lands means the curse’s influence might be weaker.”
“Or it could mean you’re overthinking a supernatural warning that was probably more metaphorical than literal.” Wyn’s pragmatism cuts through the theorizing. “Either way, we need official authorization before we start investigating three-hundred-year-old curses that affect an entire pack. That means bringing in leadership now, not later.”
Sera sucks in a long, shaky breath and replies, “Okay. We tell them.”
Raegan starts typing on her phone, presumably crafting a message to Matriarch Lydia, while Wyn gets on the phone with Oren. I watch Sera sitting on my couch, bruised and exhausted but refusing to break. My mate. The woman my wolf recognized the moment I saw her fighting for her life.
She catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing.” I look away before she can read too much in my expression. “Just thinking about next steps. The Hysopp Coven visit. What we might find in those archives.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” She doesn’t call me on it further, just returns her attention to Raegan’s phone conversation.
Wyn glances at me with that knowing look again. The one that says he sees exactly what I’m trying to hide and thinks I’m an idiot for bothering.
Maybe he’s right.
Chapter 9 - Sera
The Grayhide pack hall looms ahead like a fortress carved from desert stone.
I’ve been here before—during the whole Bastian debacle, for Raegan’s wedding, for inter-pack gatherings—but walking through these doors today feels different. Every wolf we pass turns to stare, and their eyes track me with curiosity mixed with wariness.
A Llewelyn woman in Grayhide territory without an official delegation is unusual enough. One being escorted by their historian to a council meeting is practically unprecedented.
“Ignore them,” Reeyan mumbles from beside me. “They’re just curious.”
“They’re wondering what I’m doing here.” I keep my spine straight and my expression neutral, the way I was taught. Llewelyn women don’t show discomfort. “Wondering if I’m a threat.”
“You’re under my protection. That makes you a guest, not a threat.”
The words should comfort me. Instead, they remind me how precarious my position really is. The guest implies temporary. Implies I’m here by choice rather than coercion, dressed up in treaty language.
We enter the main hall, and I’m struck again by how different it is from Llewelyn’s council chambers. Where ours are austere and cold—designed to emphasize functionality over comfort—this space is filled with warmth. Rich wood panels line the walls, and the afternoon sun streams through high windows to paint everything in golden tones. The long table at the centeris worn smooth from decades of use, surrounded by chairs that look comfortable rather than formal.
