“I didn’t even get to say goodbye,” she chokes out. “I didn’t know it was the last time.”
“I know,” I murmur into her hair. “I know.”
She cries for her sister—really cries, the grief she’s been holding since the herald’s announcement finally breaking free. I don’t try to fix it or offer empty comfort. I just hold her, letting my presence anchor her through the storm.
Eventually, the sobs quiet. Her breathing evens. Her body grows heavier against mine, the tension draining away as exhaustion claims her.
I stay awake long after she falls asleep, memorizing the weight of her in my arms, the soft rhythm of her breathing. My wolf settles, satisfied at having her close. Safe in our den.
Tomorrow, we fight. Tonight, she grieves. And I’m here for both.
I wake to soft dawn light filtering through the window. Lyanna’s silver-white hair spills across my chest, her warm body nestled against mine. In sleep, her face shows none of the tension from last night—just perfect peace, her lashes casting delicate shadows on her cheeks, skin luminescent with that subtle fae glow.
My wolf is deeply satisfied having her here—her scent mingled with mine, her warmth pressed against my side. I watch her sleep, memorizing the way dawn light catches in her hair, noting the peace in her expression that wasn’t there last night.
She stirs, eyes fluttering open to meet mine. I see it, the same fierce determination that burns in my chest, reflected back at me. For a moment, confusion crosses her face—then recognition. Her eyes darken with renewed grief before determination replaces it.
“Nine days,” she says quietly.
“Nine days,” I agree. “We make them count.”
She slips into the bathroom to change back into her clothes from yesterday. I dress quickly, already running through the day’s priorities: research teams, investigation assignments, potential allies to contact.
When she emerges, her expression has sharpened into something I recognize—the focused calm she wears when facing a medical crisis. The grief isn’t gone, but she’s channeled it into purpose.
“The pack will be gathering,” I say. “Dane and Nova will want to coordinate.”
She nods, smoothing her hair back. “Derek’s investigation skills. Rhonan’s dragon court knowledge. We’re not fighting this alone.”
“No.” I open the cabin door, cold morning air rushing in. “We’re not.”
Chapter 17
Lyanna
Ienter the Lodge with Callum, the familiar scent of woodsmoke and coffee wrapping around us. Morning light streams through the windows, warm and golden, but it can’t soften what we’re facing. I straighten my shoulders. There’s work to do.
Pack members already occupy the main room, gathered around a large table covered with maps and documents. Some bear the weary look of having worked through the night. Their faces turn to us as we enter, expressions shifting from concern to determination when they see my steady stance.
I move directly to the strategy table, where documents and legal texts are already spread. The timeline pounds in my chest, but I force my shoulders back, my chin level.
Dane stands at the head of the table, his steel-gray eyes measuring me carefully. I meet his gaze without wavering. Last night I broke; this morning I forge myself anew. His subtle nod acknowledges the transformation.
Nova approaches from the side, placing a stack of documents beside me. Her touch lingers briefly on my arm—silent solidarity from someone who understands political manipulation all too well.
Ben enters, carrying a tray of steaming coffee mugs—an unexpected gesture from someone who usually keeps his distance. His movements are efficient, methodical as he distributes them around the table. When he hands one to me, I notice the careful way he’s prepared it—exactly as I take it, with a drizzle of honey from the pack’s hives.
Something tightens in my throat. He’s not one for words, but this small kindness says what he won’t: You helped us when we were sick. We’re here for you now.
“The surveillance reports came in an hour ago,” he says, voice low. “We’ve identified at least three different magical signatures monitoring the territory.”
Dawn Rivera slips in quietly—the youngest wolf with magical abilities in the pack. At twenty-three, her natural talent for ward-weaving caught my attention during the contamination crisis, and she’s been training under my guidance ever since. She crosses immediately to the window, adjusting the blinds so the golden light no longer exposes us quite so completely to outside observation. Her fingers touch each windowpane briefly, glowing with soft violet light as she reinforces the protective wards she’s been developing.
I take a deliberate sip of coffee, feeling its warmth spread through my chest. My sister’s face flashes in my mind—not as she appeared in the formal portrait delivered with the news, but laughing by the river when we were children. Somethinghardens in me. Her death will not be for nothing. I will not be manipulated without fighting back.
The map before me shows Ash Hollow territory, marked with observation points and potential weaknesses. I place my hands flat against it, feeling the connection to this place, these people. This is my home now, not the fae courts. This is worth fighting for.
Callum stands beside me, his body warm and solid. The pack knows what’s between us—they can sense it through their own bonds, feel the way our connection hums in the spaces between heartbeats. But the fae courts can’t know. Any observers beyond our wards must see only a healer and her pack, nothing more.
