“You haven’t eaten. Not properly. I watched you at dinner last night. You moved food around your plate and gave half of it to the kid next to you when you thought nobody was looking. You’ve been running on adrenaline and bad attitude for two days, and it’s starting to show.”
“Don’t presume to know—”
“I’ve managed wolves for two decades, Brenna. I know what deprivation looks like. I know what it looks like when someone’s been running too long on too little. And I know what it looks like when they’re too proud to admit they need help.”
The forest goes quiet around us. Not the dangerous quiet from yesterday. The loaded quiet of two people standing three feet apart with too much between them.
“You don’t get to manage me,” she says. Her voice is low and even and dangerous. “You don’t get to walk onto my land, eat at my table, and start telling me how to take care of myself. You lost that right.”
“I’m not trying to manage you. I’m trying to keep you vertical long enough to finish the wards.”
“And what a hero that makes you. Merric Rourke, always looking out for someone. As long as it’s convenient.”
That one hits. She means it to.
I take a breath. Hold it, and then let it go.
“That’s a fair shot,” I say. “Take as many as you need. But eat something first.”
I hold out a protein bar. Sienna packed them in every pocket I own before we left this morning, because Sienna thinks of these things.
Brenna frowns at the bar like it’s a personal insult. Then she takes it, tears it open, and eats it in three bites while staring at the trees with the focused intensity of a woman who refuses to acknowledge that her enemy just did something kind.
We keep walking.
The wards along the eastern ridge are in the worst shape. Long stretches of dead line where the magic has simply given out, exhausted by years of neglect. Brenna works each section, crouching, feeding, and I can see what it’s costing her. The white fire comes slower each time, her hands trembling with the effort.
“Whoever maintained these before you left,” I say, “they had help.”
“My mother. Before she died.” Brenna’s voice is flat. Factual. “She and I walked the wards together every full moon. Took a whole night. She’d feed the eastern lines, and I’d feed the western. After she passed, I did both.”
“Alone?”
“Who else?”
“Cameron. His magic—”
“Cameron was twelve when my mother died. He could hardly light a candle without setting the curtains on fire. I wasn’t going to put ward maintenance on a child.” She stands. Sways slightly. Steadies. “These lines need a full restoration. Not patches. The foundation work has degraded. The original magic my grandmother laid down is barely holding structure. I need a week of sustained work to rebuild it properly.”
“What do you need from us?”
She looks at me. Something flickers behind her eyes, the same quick calculation from the yard this morning. I know what she’s thinking. Can she use me without trusting me?
“I need uninterrupted time on the wards. Which means I need someone else handling the ranch operations, the watch rotation, the repairs, and the daily logistics of feeding everyone. Willow can’t do everything. Not anymore.”
“I can do that.”
“I’m not handing you authority over my pack.”
“I’m not asking for authority. I’m offering labor. You tell Willow what needs doing, Willow tells me, I do it. Your chain of command stays intact.”
She considers this. I can see her testing it for traps, looking for the angle, the leverage, the way this could be used against her later.
“Why?” she asks.
“Why what?”
“Why are you doing any of this? The supplies, the repairs, bringing Cameron home. Don’t tell me it’s the right thing. I want the real answer.”
