“The contract is binding,” the herald continues. “House Silverthorne has already agreed to the substitution.”
Beside me, Callum hasn’t moved—but I can feel the effort it costs him. Every muscle rigid, jaw locked, hands fisted at his sides. His restraint vibrates like a wire about to snap.
I raise my hand subtly, palm down—a silent command to the bristling wolves around us.Hold.
“I acknowledge receipt of this notification,” I say, forcing my voice to remain steady and cool—the perfect fae court tone. “The Inter-Realm Accord grants me ten days for consideration of the terms.”
The herald’s silver eyes narrow slightly. “There is nothing to consider. The substitution has been approved by both courts.”
“And yet the Accord grants me ten days.” I meet his gaze unflinchingly. “Unless you wish to formally challenge established supernatural law before witnesses?”
Harper moves closer, her presence solid and reassuring at my shoulder. Ben shifts his weight, creating a subtle barrier between the delegation and the pack’s most vulnerable members. Nova’s eyes gleam with dangerous intelligence as she assesses the fae guards.
“Ten days,” the herald concedes with cold precision. “At the end of which your presence is required in Doria.”
He gestures, and the air tears open again, the portal’s silver light casting eerie shadows across the Lodge. The guards step backward in perfect unison, spears held at identical angles. The herald gives me one last penetrating look before following them.
The portal collapses with another thunderclap. In the reverberating silence that follows, I feel everything we’d just begun to build shatter like glass.
For three heartbeats, nobody moves. Then the pack erupts—voices overlapping in outrage and disbelief. Dane steps forward, his Alpha authority cutting through the chaos.
“Everyone, calm down,” he commands, his voice level but brooking no argument. “We need to think, not react.”
Callum’s control snaps. His hand finds mine, gripping with desperate intensity. The bond between us flares with raw anguish, fury, and helplessness. The touch is brief—mere seconds—before he forces himself to release me, knowing any prolonged contact could be detected by lingering court surveillance.
“They can’t do this,” he growls, the words rough with barely contained rage.
“They already have,” I say quietly, staring at the scroll in my hands. “My sister is dead, and I’m the replacement piece on their political chessboard.”
The reality crashes over me. Less than two weeks until I must choose between my mate and preventing a war.
Chapter 16
Callum
Iscan the gathering as the pack slowly disperses, their movements weary but determined. In every face the same fierce loyalty burns beneath exhaustion. Harper squeezes Lyanna’s shoulder as she passes, her eyes communicating what words can’t. Nova catches my gaze across the room and gives a subtle nod—they’ll handle things, give us space.
Lyanna stands beside me, unmoving, still clutching the scroll. Her face maintains that perfect fae court mask, but I can feel her trembling. The shock rolling off her in waves makes my chest ache with helpless fury.
Ten fucking days until they try to tear her away.
“Lyanna.” I keep my voice low, just for her. Her fingers are ice-cold when I take her hand. The bond flares between us, raw with fear, rage, and desperate determination.
She blinks, seeming to return from somewhere distant. “We need to understand the legal framework,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “There might be precedent, loopholes in the Accord ...”
Even now, her mind works through solutions. My warrior, my healer.
As we move toward the hallway I grab several books on Inter-Realm law from the shelves, tucking scrolls under my arm. We need to fight, and that means information. Strategy. Anything to keep her from disappearing into Gleann na Sidhe.
Her hand reaches out to steady a sliding document as we walk, our movements automatically syncing as we navigate the darkened hallway. The Lodge settles into quiet around us, firelight fading behind as we move deeper into the private wing.
My office door opens with a soft creak. Books line the walls, maps spread across the desk, weapons carefully arranged on stands. It’s a warrior’s workspace, but tonight it becomes our war room.
The door clicks shut behind us, a fragile barrier between us and a world determined to tear us apart.
I drop another leather-bound volume onto my desk and reach for a second lamp.When did it get so dark?The afternoon hasbled into evening while we’ve been buried in research. Dozens of scrolls and treaties fan across the surface, spilling over the edges. The legal language blurs before my eyes, but I can’t stop searching.
“Article seven, section twelve,” I read aloud, voice rough with urgency. “No binding contract shall be enforced when established through death, manipulation, or undue influence ...” I trace my finger down the dense text.
