“Full spectrum protection,” I explain, gesturing to the stones placed at precise intervals around the room. “Nyxiana’s divine elements, Kari’s tactical positioning, and Toby integrated detection tech that alerts me if anything tries to breach. Magical dampening, sound barriers, emotional signature scramblers. Nothing gets in or out.”
Lyanna walks the perimeter slowly, her healer’s fingers tracing the air above each ward stone. The violet light pulses gently in response to her magic, like they recognize her.
“These are ... remarkably thorough,” she says, her voice losing that careful, measured quality I’ve grown used to hearing whenever we’re in public. “Nyxiana’s divine elements paired with Kari’s tactical positioning.”
Her shoulders visibly drop as she completes her inspection. The rigid posture she’s maintained for days softens, like she’s finally set down a heavy weight.
“They’re solid,” she confirms, turning back to me with the first genuine smile I’ve seen since the ultimatum arrived. “We’re actually alone.”
I nod, relief washing through me. “Harper coordinated a diversion at the Lodge. Anyone watching will see normal pack operations for the next three hours.”
Lyanna steps closer, her eyes suddenly narrowing as she notices my hands. She reaches out, gently turning my palms upward to reveal the torn knuckles and purple bruising. Her fingers trace the dried blood and swollen joints.
“Callum ... what happened?”
I pull back instinctively, shoving my hands into my pockets. “Training. It’s nothing.”
Her eyes—those perceptive forest-green eyes that see through every defense I’ve ever constructed—hold mine. “This isn’t training damage. This is rage.” Her voice softens. “You did this after the surveillance briefing, didn’t you?”
I look away, jaw tightening. “I needed the outlet.”
Lyanna’s hand touches my arm gently. Within these walls, for the first time since her sister’s death notice arrived, we don’t have to pretend. Don’t have to maintain the careful distance, the neutral expressions, the casual indifference when we pass in hallways.
Here, we’re just us. Not a fae noble under surveillance and a pack gamma with a duty to protect. Just Lyanna and Callum.
She whispers, her fingers sliding down to carefully take my battered hand. “We’ll find the proof we need for the tribunal.”
I turn my hand in hers, threading our fingers together despite the damaged knuckles. “We will. But there’s something else you need to know.”
Her eyes search mine, already bracing for more pressure.
“Rhonan heard back from his brothers,” I say, needing her to know everything we’re coordinating. “Jarvald confirmed the delegation is en route. Evren leads it—he’s Prince Korren’s direct representative. They could arrive any day now.”
Her breath catches slightly. “Actual representatives. Not just messages and ultimatums—people expecting my compliance.”
“Rhonan says Evren’s reputation is … complex. Loyal to dragon law above politics.” I meet her eyes. “That might work in our favor if we approach this right.”
“Which is why these wards matter.” I gesture to the glowing protection around us. “Whatever happens tomorrow, tonight we have this. Privacy. Truth.” I pull her close, and she melts against me, her head finding the curve of my shoulder. “We’ll face them together.”
Chapter 21
Lyanna
Istand at the pack compound entrance, hands clasped loosely before me in the formal fae posture of diplomatic reception. The morning frost crunches beneath my boots. Around me Ash Hollow has assembled with calculated precision—Dane and Nova at the center, Ben and Callum flanking them, pack members arranged in a formation that appears casual but isn’t.
We’ve been expecting them, but the sight still makes my heart stutter. The Drakorian delegation process toward us with measured steps, banners of deep crimson and gold unfurling in the morning breeze. They move with synchronous precision, each step choreographed to project power.
Behind them, the portal still shimmers with residual heat—not the cold silver tear of fae magic with its theatrical thunderclaps,but a circular burn in the air itself, edges glowing like heated metal. No drama, no announcement. The Drakorian gateway simply sears through reality, efficient and primal. The scent of scorched stone and ancient fire lingers, sulfurous and clean.
As the last dragon crosses the threshold, the portal collapses inward with a deepthrumthat reverberates through my chest—not a crack like thunder, but a bass note that resonates in my bones. The air shimmers once more with dying embers before reality seals itself, leaving only the faint smell of smoke and the memory of overwhelming heat.
The delegation continues forward, seemingly unaffected by the passage between realms.
Leading them is Evren—Rhonan’s brother, tall and dark-haired, his bearing nothing like the playful young dragon the pack described from a few months ago. Today he carries himself with careful formality, face composed into a diplomatic mask nearly as practiced as my own. I recognize the facade because I’ve worn it myself at countless fae court functions.
He approaches Dane, bowing at precisely the correct angle for a royal representative addressing an Alpha. “Alpha Dane, I present the formal delegation of the Crimson Court, representatives of Prince Korren of Drakoria.”
His gaze finds Nyxiana standing near the hearth, and something softens almost imperceptibly in his formal mask. A slight incline of his head—family acknowledging family across political theater. She returns it with equal subtlety, violet eyes warm for just a moment before both resume their diplomatic facades.
