My hand trembles against the soil as the violation deepens. This isn’t residual magic. This is active contamination, alive and purposeful, reading me from the inside out. The feeling of being known, catalogued, owned makes my stomach lurch.
My muscles lock. My breath catches. The sensation crawls under my skin like ice water in my veins. Familiar. Personal. Like someone traced their finger along my bones and left their signature behind.
I pull back sharply, but the feeling lingers—a psychic fingerprint pressed into my system.
“Nova?” Lyanna asks quietly.
I school my expression. “Just residual magic.”
She doesn’t push, but her eyes track the minute tremor in my fingers as I brush dirt from my palm. Her calm never wavers. She simply shifts, creating a small barrier between me and the open forest with her body.
“Isla told me once,” she says, voice soft but steady, “Capria said Faelan learned to fracture bonds without breaking them. Just twist them enough that no one noticed until it was too late.”
The woods remain unnaturally still.
“How would anyone know?” I ask.
“They wouldn’t,” Lyanna answers. “Not until something snapped that shouldn’t have.”
My pulse hammers against my throat. The residue on my skin doesn’t fade. It sinks deeper, threading into places magic shouldn’t reach. Into the bond with Dane that I both refuseto acknowledge. Into the pack connections forming despite my resistance.
“It’s fading,” I lie, standing up and brushing dirt from my hands.
Lyanna rises with fluid grace, her expression neutral. She doesn’t challenge me.
I turn to face the deeper forest, scanning the shadows between trees. Nothing moves. Nothing breathes.
But something watches. I feel it—patient and cold. Waiting.
Not for an attack. For something worse.
I follow Lyanna back toward camp, the lingering cold settling under my skin. The magical residue clings to me like a shadow, rooting deeper with every step. I focus on breathing. On moving forward. On not looking back at the boundary where something waits that knows me too well.
The first wolves notice us before we’re fully in sight. Conversations halt. Eyes track our approach, then slide away when I meet their gaze. Not directly hostile. Not exactly friendly either.
Just watchful.
A cluster near the training area goes silent as we pass. Three younger wolves huddle closer, murmuring too low for me to catch. By the equipment shed, Callum pauses mid-instruction, his hand freezing on a map. His eyes lock with mine for a second before he deliberately returns to his task.
The silence has texture. Weight. It follows me like humidity before a storm.
Lyanna stays at my side, her presence a buffer. She doesn’t speak. Her calm cuts through the tension without acknowledging it exists.
Harper leans against the post outside the Lodge, steam rising from a ceramic mug between her hands. Her copper hair catches afternoon light, her expression unreadable as we approach.
When I reach her, she doesn’t ask questions. Just extends the mug toward me.
“Chamomile with goldenseal,” she says quietly. “Thought it might help.”
I take it. The warmth seeps into my palms, fighting against the chill locked in my bones. I don’t drink. My throat constricts at the simple kindness.
Mateo hovers nearby, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. His gaze bounces between the ground and my face. The kid can’t hide emotion any better than a puppy.
“Speak already,” I tell him, tired of the silent scrutiny.
He swallows hard. “You were gone a long time. Dane was looking for you. Then you looked dead when he brought you back, but your magic was ...” He hesitates, searching for the right word. “Wild. What happened out there?”
“Nothing that matters now.”
