I studied the space. A cave system, expanded by hand, shelving carved into the walls held supplies, jars, dried food, medical equipment that looked salvaged from multiple sources. A workstation in the corner was covered in documents and hand-drawn maps.
This wasn’t a hiding place.
This was an intelligence operation run by one man for over a decade.
My eyes tracked back to my father. He’d already tended to his own wounds. The graze on his shoulder was covered with a paste I didn’t recognize. Not lycan medicine. Not human either. A hybrid probably developed.
His hands were steady as he worked. The same hands I remembered from childhood, guiding mine through sword forms, pressing against the back of my neck when I was too young to understand that the gesture meantI’m proud of you.
“You’re staring,” he said without looking up.
“You’re alive.”
“Surprisingly.”
He finished with his shoulder and turned to me. His pale silver eyes, identical to mine, moved over my face. Observing lines that hadn’t been there before.
“You look tired, Solomon,” he said quietly.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
“I know.”
His hand came up. Hovered near my face without touching it, the way you’d approach a wound you weren’t sure had healed. Then he pressed his palm against my cheek.
My throat closed.
“Your king needs attention,” I said.
Father’s hand dropped. He nodded, understanding the deflection without resenting it.
He moved to Lucian’s cot and examined the wound. His fingers traced the edges without touching the darkened veins.
“The compound they used on the blade is a concentrated variant of their standard silver toxin. They’ve been refining it for years.” He straightened. “I have a treatment but it needs to be applied by someone with steady hands and medical training. I can stabilize him until then.”
He produced a different paste from his supplies, darker than the one he’d used on himself, and began applying it around the wound’s perimeter. Lucian didn’t stir.
“He was stabbed,” Percival said from the wall. His voice was steadier now, the counter-agent doing its work. “By Mira.”
Father’s hands didn’t pause. “I saw.”
“You were watching the whole time,” I said.
“I’ve been watching that compound for years, Solomon. I watched you arrive five days ago. I watched you plan your approach.” His jaw tightened. “And I watched your mate walk into that clearing with a blade and a performance that was either the best acting I’ve ever seen or the most effective conditioning.”
The word landed in the room and sat there.
Conditioning.
“She didn’t hesitate,” I said. “She didn’t look at us after the darts hit. Didn’t flinch. The woman I knew would have broken.”
“Maybe she did break,” Percy said. “Maybe that’s what Thiago’s been doing for weeks. Breaking her down and building her back into what he needs.”
“She’s been there for weeks.” I forced myself to say it. “I was sure he’s been feeding her a version of history designed to make us the enemy. Add the rejection on top of it.”
Percy’s fist hit the stone floor. The sound echoed. “So we just accept that? We lost her?”
“Nobody said that.”
