Those eyes held no shine from the fluorescents. They were too old for the room.
Behind him came a woman with braided hair pinned at the nape of her neck, her expression composed to the point of indifference. A thin line of gold ringed one iris.
The third looked younger, though Mac’s instincts rejected the idea of measuring age against any of them. He carried a leather folio under one arm, fingers resting along its spine as if it were a weapon.
Mac became aware of the medic in the hallway, who should have been shouting, pushing, demanding access. But the hallway no longer seemed to matter. The center figure’s gaze swept the room once. His attention paused on the bed rail still warped where Reynolds had dented steel. Then it moved to Reynolds’ face, to the restraints, to the monitor. Last it settled on Mac and Melvin with a recognition that felt uncomfortably certain.
“Lieutenant Carter,” the man said. His voice was quiet, but it carried through the sealed room as if the air itself had been told to listen.
“Lieutenant Hayes.” Melvin did not move, but Mac saw the shift anyway. The quiet reset into command bearing.
Mac kept his posture neutral. He refused to give ground to anything that had not earned it. The man stepped fully into the room and stopped at a distance that was respectful only on paper. The womanand the younger figure spread slightly behind him, not flanking in the military sense, but forming a pattern that felt ceremonial.
An old pattern repeating itself. Some structures cared less about respect than precision. Titles weren’t courtesy. They were jurisdiction. Mac chose his carefully.
“High Steward,” he said.
A flicker crossed the man’s face. Recognition.
The younger figure opened his folio without being asked. Leather whispered softly in the muffled room.
“Specialist Reynolds,” the High Steward said. “You are aware you have been restrained.”
Reynolds’ throat worked. He didn’t answer at first. His eyes kept cutting to the edges, to the ceiling, to the corners where shadow sat too still.
Mac saw it, the way Reynolds’ chest rose and fell with too much effort, the way his hands flexed in tiny pulses against the straps, like his muscles were receiving instructions out of order.
“Yes,” Reynolds managed, voice rough. “Yes, sir.”
The High Steward’s eyes didn’t change. “I am not in your Army,” he said calmly.
Reynolds blinked hard, as if that distinction had to fight through new noise. Mac felt Melvin shift a fraction closer. Not touching. Anchoring the air. Mac stepped forward half a pace, careful to keep his voice even. “He’s disoriented.”
“Of course he is,” the High Steward replied, as if Mac had offered him weather. “He is in the earliest stage of an imprint. Disorientation is the least costly symptom.”
The woman spoke then, her voice flatter, sharper at the edges. “The bite was sustained. The contact was unregistered. There was no severance.”
Mac did not like the language. It was too clean.
Melvin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “It withdrew.”
The High Steward’s attention slid to Melvin, weight settling there. “You observed restraint.”
“Yes,” Melvin said. “It evaluated. It chose distance.”
The younger figure’s pen moved in silence. Mac felt the wolf in him press closer. Not in threat. In protection. Reynolds wasn’t pack. Not yet, maybe not ever. But he was theirs in the way soldiers always were, assigned to them, responsible for them, carrying them whether he wanted to or not.
Mac kept his voice steady. “If he’s in early imprint,” he said, gaze shifting briefly to Reynolds and the uneven rhythm of his breathing, “what does that mean for him?”
He met the High Steward’s eyes again, not challenging, just deliberate. “He’s still reachable,” he said. “If this is the beginning, tell us how we keep him that way. What do you recommend?”
The High Steward regarded him for a long moment. “Truth,” he said finally. “And compliance.”
Mac’s jaw tightened. “You’ll get the truth. Compliance depends on what you’re here to do.”
That earned him the first real expression from the woman, a flicker of amusement, gone before it could become anything friendly.
Reynolds’ breathing hitched. His fingers curled. The monitor gave a small protesting spike, then steadied again. Mac saw it clearly now. Reynolds wasn’t calming because of one voice or one hand. He wasaligning to a shape. When Mac stepped closer, the spikes eased. When Melvin shifted his weight, Reynolds’ shoulders lowered by a fraction. It wasn’t comfort. It was instinct.
