“What changed?” Willow asks.
“Someone started organizing them. The purist packs used to be isolated—individual alphas with individual grudges. But they’ve started coordinating. Shared intelligence, jointoperations, standardized communication. The ambush on this ranch wasn’t Hatchett acting alone. It was part of a pattern.”
“The network you mentioned in the briefing,” Rook says. “Someone feeding them Ravenclaw locations.”
“Same source. I believe whoever’s running the network is also coordinating the purist packs into something more structured. An alliance.”
Rook’s eyes narrow slightly. He’s doing the calculations I’ve already done—connecting the purist coordination to the council-level leak, running the implications. Smart wolf. Dangerous in the best way.
“The parley,” I continue. “Hatchett will invoke the old territorial accords. He’ll come with a delegation: his second, a few fighters, possibly representatives from Stoneridge and Blackhollow if they want to show solidarity. He’ll expect us to hand over his wolves and be grateful he didn’t come with his whole pack.”
“He’ll expect Ravenclaw to be what it was two months ago,” Willow says, an edge in her voice. “Thirty wolves with no alpha and no defenses.”
“Exactly. And that’s what we use. He’s coming with outdated intelligence. He doesn’t know about the Frostbourne wolves. He doesn’t know the wards are being restored. And if the runner from the ambush hasn’t figured out who I am yet, he may not even know I’m alive.”
I’ve been thinking this through since the attack. I revealed myself in wolf form, not human. They may not have identified me yet.
The room absorbs that.
“So we surprise him,” Sienna says. She’s looking at me directly, pen paused over her notepad. She seems open, analytical. Not hostile… engaged. The look of a woman whoappreciates a good tactical setup. “He walks in expecting a weak pack and finds a fortified position with an alpha and a ghost.”
“That’s the idea.”
“What’s the desired outcome? We’re not trying to start a fight at the boundary.”
It’s a good question. Direct and practical. I’d resent her less if she weren’t so consistently useful.
“The desired outcome is intelligence,” I say. “Hatchett isn’t the head of the snake. He’s a regional alpha taking orders from someone higher. I want to read his delegation… who defers to whom, who’s nervous, who’s carrying messages they didn’t write. If we can identify even one link in the chain between Hatchett and whoever’s coordinating the network, that’s worth more than three captured wolves.”
“And if he reacts badly to the surprise?” Merric’s voice, calm and low beside me. The first time he’s spoken. “If he sees a dead woman and a Frostbourne alpha and decides the parley is a trap?”
I turn to face him. Mistake. He’s close; the kitchen table isn’t wide, and the chairs are pushed together. His shoulder is eighteen inches from mine. I can see the faint bruise along his jaw where a wolf caught him during the ambush, the silver scar underneath it, the silver-blue of his eyes that I used to think looked like winter sky over Frostbourne.
I used to think a lot of things. Most of them got me nowhere.
“If he reacts badly, we have Briar on the ridge, Dane and Arlen at the flanks, and reinforced wards along the north line.” I hold his eyes because looking away would be worse. “We’re not walking in unprotected.”
“I didn’t say you were. I’m asking what happens to the parley if it breaks down.”
“Then it breaks down, and we’ve learned something from how it breaks. The way a man loses his composure tells you as much as the way he keeps it.”
Something moves behind his features. Not disagreement. Recognition. He knows I’m right. He also knows I’m describing both of us right now, and the faintest shift of his lips tells me he caught it.
I look away first. Back to the map.
“Positioning.” I trace the north boundary with my finger. “The parley point is here… open ground, fifty yards from the ward line. We stand inside the wards. They stand outside. The line is visible if you know what to look for, which Hatchett won’t, but his wolves will feel it. That gives us a psychological edge.”
“Who stands where?” Willow leans forward.
“You and me at the center. Merric to my left.” The words come out before I’ve fully considered them. Merric to my left. The traditional position for a mate or ally in formal wolf proceedings. I see Rook register it. I see Sienna’s pen pause for a fraction of a second.
I could correct myself. Move him to the flank. But the positioning is sound. His alpha presence reinforces ours, and having a high-ranking Frostbourne wolf at the parley table tells Hatchett this isn’t just a Ravenclaw problem anymore.
That’s the reason. The only reason.
“Rook behind us,” I continue, pushing past it. “Sienna with the Ravenclaw wolves at the ward line. Visible numbers, visible readiness. And Greta.”
Greta looks up from her chair. “What about me?”
