“Looking for gaps. Everyone has them. It’s whether you acknowledge them that matters.”
“And you’d know about gaps. Ravenclaw has plenty.”
The dig lands lightly. She’s testing, not attacking. Measuring where my defenses are.
She steps closer. Her eyes move to the mate mark on my throat. The muscles around her jaw shift.
“I’m going to be direct with you,” she says. “Because I think you’re a woman who prefers directness to games.”
“I do.”
“Good. Then hear this clearly.” Her voice drops to a register that carries conviction. “Merric is a good alpha. Strong. Principled. This pack has thrived under him for years. But he has a blind spot, and it’s standing in front of me.”
“That’s one interpretation.”
“It’s the only one that matters. He left this pack for weeks. Abandoned his responsibilities for a woman and a boy nobody knew existed. He came back with a sealed bond and a speech about acceptance, and half this pack is too loyal to tell him what they’re really thinking.”
“And what are they really thinking?”
“That magic-blooded wolves bring destruction. That every pack in the south that sheltered Ravenclaw blood lost something for it—territory, wolves, standing. That’s not prejudice, Brenna. That’s history.”
“History written by men like Nathan Bern.”
Something flickers across her face. Recognition. The understanding of a woman who knows exactly who shapes the narrative and has made peace with standing on his side of it.
“Bern has kept the southern packs stable for decades,” she says. “You may not like his methods. But the wolves under his guidance haven’t been hunted, experimented on, or scattered to the winds. Ravenclaw can’t say the same.”
The hit definitely lands. She’s not wrong about the facts. She’s wrong about the cause, but she doesn’t know that. She’s working with the story she was given, and in that story, she’s the reasonable one.
“I’m not here to fight you, Edda,” I say. “I’m here because my mate asked me to be.”
“Your mate.” The word comes out dusted with something cold. “My husband sat in the room when that bond was dissolved. He told me Merric wept. Said it was the hardest thing he’d ever witnessed a young alpha do. And now you’re here, and I’m supposed to believe that’s a coincidence? That the magic in your blood had nothing to do with it?”
“Mate bonds don’t work that way.”
“How would I know? My mating was natural. No magic. No witchcraft. Just two wolves who chose each other the honest way.”
The honest way. As opposed to the way Merric and I were chosen for each other by something deeper than politics. Something that survived years of separation and still pulled us back together against all odds.
I could fight this. Could argue, could explain, could lay out the biology of mate bonds and the difference between magical interference and fated selection. But Edda Beaumont isn’t looking for education. She’s looking for confirmation that the threat she’s always believed in is real, and nothing I say will change that. Not today.
“I hear you,” I say. “And I understand your concern. But I’m not going anywhere.”
“No.” She looks at me for a long, measured moment. “I don’t suppose you are.”
She turns and walks back toward the compound. Her wolves follow. The conversation is over, but the message lingers. Not a threat, exactly. A declaration of position. She’s drawn her line. I’ve drawn mine.
I stay at the border for another hour. Not assessing anymore. Thinking.
Edda’s wrong about the magic. Wrong about me. But she’s not wrong about the cost. Merric’s absence hurt this pack. His announcement last night divided it. And however just the cause, however right the choice, the wolves who are nervous and confused and angry have a point. Their alpha changed the rules without asking, and they’re the ones who’ll live with the consequences.
I need to earn this. Not by argument or force. By being here, being useful, being the wolf they didn’t expect instead of the witch they feared. Petra’s handshake was a start. The sparringring gave them something to see that wasn’t a speech or a mate mark; it gave them competence. Skill. A woman who can hold her own without magic, who fights clean and hard and gets back up when she goes down.
That’s the language Frostbourne understands. Not words. Work.
Cameron finds me at the edge of the forest as the sun starts to drop. He’s sweaty from the training yard, grass stains on his knees, and there’s a looseness in his walk that wasn’t there this morning.
“The sparring wolves are good,” he says. “Lena almost took my head off.”
