“How?” Ben asks, leaning forward, his attention sharpening. “What are we dealing with specifically?”
Nyxiana’s violet eyes scan the room, making sure everyone is paying attention. “Fae surveillance isn’t crude observation. It’s systematic pattern analysis across multiple dimensions.”
She gestures to different sections of her diagram, fingers emitting that faint violet glow when they touch certain symbols.
“First, magical scrying—they monitor emotional signatures, magical output, and bond formations. They can detect when a fae forms attachments to other species through changes in their magical resonance.”
A chill races through my blood. Every moment with Lyanna, every touch, every private conversation—the courts could have been watching. My hands clench against the table edge.
“Second, informant networks,” Nyxiana continues, her tone clinical. “The courts maintain observers throughout connected communities. Anyone who’s visited Silverwood in the past month could be reporting back. The festival would have been the perfect opportunity—strangers blending in with crowds, no one questioning unfamiliar faces.”
Kari leans forward. “What about ward-based countermeasures? Could we establish perimeter protections?”
“Standard wards won’t work,” Nyxiana replies, shaking her head. “Fae court surveillance specialists can detect ward signatures. They’d know immediately we’re hiding something.”
Dane’s Alpha attention sharpens. “So, they’re likely already aware of Lyanna’s relationship with Callum?”
Nyxiana’s pause is answer enough. “Possibly. If they’ve been monitoring emotional signatures since the festival ...” She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t need to.
The question hits like a punch to the gut. I glance toward Lyanna, sitting beside Harper, her face composed but her knuckles white where she grips her cup of tea.
“Communication intercepts are their third method,” Nyxiana continues, moving to another diagram.
“Any magical communication, including standard pack bonds, can be monitored with the right equipment. They specialize in emotional signature tracking—they can literally sense when a fae’s loyalty is shifting.”
The courts likely already know too much. Every tender moment between us, every lingering glance, every conversation about our future—it’s all potentially compromised.
“Now,” Nyxiana says, straightening up, “let’s discuss protection measures.”
I slip past the Lodge entrance with measured steps and controlled breathing that doesn’t fool anyone. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth might crack. Once I’m out of sight, the control shatters like glass.
The training dummy never stands a chance. My fists tear through its canvas and wooden frame with brutal precision, each strike echoing my helplessness. One blow. Two. Three. The dummy’s head snaps back, its chest caves. Stuffing flies as I demolish it completely.
Not enough. Not nearly fucking enough.
I turn to the massive ponderosa at the edge of the clearing. Ancient bark meets my fists with unyielding resistance. The impact jolts up my arms, but I welcome the pain. I strike again. And again. Each hit leaves smears of blood as my knuckles splitopen. My wolf howls inside, demanding I shift, demanding claws and fangs, but I force him down. This rage needs to flow through human hands.
The tree shudders with each impact but stands firm. I hit harder, splitting skin to bone.
Ben appears silently at the treeline, watching. He doesn’t approach, doesn’t speak—just stands witness to my fury, hands visible and non-threatening. I keep punishing the tree. More blood. More pain. Not enough to drown out the helplessness.
When I finally stop, my chest heaves with exertion. My hands are destroyed. Knuckles split wide, blood dripping steadily onto the trampled earth, fingers almost certainly fractured. Around me lies the wreckage I’ve created—three training posts in splinters, the old ponderosa wounded but unbowed, its bark now stained crimson.
Ben approaches slowly. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay. We both know I’m not.
He waits until my breathing steadies before speaking. “If it helps, I’d have done the same. Some threats don’t have throats to tear out.”
“Surveillance.” I spit the word like poison. “Magical signatures. Court informants. They’re watching her—watching us—and I can’t do a goddamn thing about it. I’m supposed to protect her, but how do I fight something I can’t see?”
“Not with your fists,” Ben says quietly, glancing at my shredded hands.
“There’s nothing to fight,” I growl. “No enemy to track. Just politics and magic and—“ I slam my fist into the tree one more time, welcoming the sharp pain.
“She needs you sharp right now, not feral,” Ben says. “The gamma who coordinates security systems courts can’t penetrate. The strategist who builds protection protocols. Not just the wolf who wants to bleed for her.”
“What happens when we get our hands on Faelan?” I ask, voice low and dangerous.
Ben’s eyes harden. “Then you can go feral. I’ll help hide the body.” His voice drops. “But right now, we prove what he did and break the tribunal corruption. Smarter than our enemies. Then we destroy him.”
