Not the kind Bern would send. Professional. Syndicate-backed. Operatives with anti-magic darts designed for Corvus magic. A design they probably perfected while experimenting on my son.
“How long?” I ask.
“Weeks. Maybe a month if nothing hits it.”
Weeks. Maybe a month. The same timeline Merric laid out for the coalition. And if Bern moves before then… If he decides that Ravenclaw without its matriarch is a target worth hitting before we can build our case—
“I’m coming back,” I say.
“Brenna, don’t. You’ve got work to do there. The Bern thing—”
“The Bern thing means nothing if he hits the ranch while I’m miles away playing politics.”
“We can hold—”
“You can hold against a patrol. Against scouts. Against anything Bern has sent before. But not against what he’s capable of sending now that he knows we have the evidence. He’s cornered, Willow. Cornered animals don’t send patrols. They send everything.”
Silence on the line. I can feel her processing, the stubborn independence warring with the reality she can’t argue away. Willow doesn’t ask for help. She doesn’t need to, because I can hear the truth in what she’s not saying.
“When?” she asks.
“Soon. I need to figure out the logistics.”
“Don’t come alone.” Her voice is quiet. “Whatever you’re bringing, bring enough.”
I end the call and stand at the kitchen window. The Frostbourne compound spreads out below the cabin… the lodge, the training ground, the rebuilt south gate. A stronghold of wolves, well-trained, well-resourced, organized under an alpha and a council and a structure that’s held for decades.
And to the south, my pack sits with thinning wards and a woman who learned to be brave by watching me leave.
The equation is simple and impossible. I can’t stay here. I can’t go back alone. I can’t split myself in two, no matter how many years of practice I’ve had at trying.
Merric comes in from the compound and hesitates when he sees me. He reads my face the way he reads everything about me now: through the bond first, then the eyes.
“You called Willow,” he says.
“South boundary’s thinning. East isn’t far behind.”
He’s silent. I feel the information landing, being processed, running through the same calculations I’ve already run. He arrives at the same place I did. I can feel it.
“How long?” he asks.
“Weeks. Maybe less if Bern pushes.”
He nods. Sits down at the table. Looks at the chessboard. Picks up the same knight Cameron was holding and turns it in his fingers.
“Cameron asked when we’re going home,” I say.
“I know. He asked me the same thing this morning.”
“He’s right. We need to go back. I need to go back.”
“I know.”
The word hangs between us, carrying the significance of everything he’s built and everything I’m asking him to let go of. The lodge his grandfather built. The compound he shaped. The pack that’s finally starting to heal from the crisis he brought to their door.
“I won’t ask you to come with me,” I say. “This is your pack. Your home. You’ve already given—”
“Don’t.” His voice is quiet. Firm. The knight goes back on the board. “Don’t give me the speech about sacrifice and duty and doing this alone. I’ve heard that speech. I gave that speech.Eighteen years ago, to you… and it was the worst thing I’ve ever said.”
