Melvin’s eyes stayed on Reynolds, not on politics. “Because I wasn’t prey.”
Mac felt that answer land in the room like a blade.
The High Steward stepped closer to the bed, stopping at the foot, eyes on Reynolds with a kind of clinical patience. “Specialist,” he said. “Do you understand what is happening to you?”
Reynolds’ eyes flicked toward the High Steward and then away again. “It’s probably infected,” he said, breath uneven. “Or venom. My pulse won’t slow down and everything’s too sharp. That’s just shock. Right?”
He flexed against the straps, frustrated more than afraid. “I just need something to knock it down.”
Mac didn’t like the helplessness in that. “You don’t knock it down,” Mac said. “You ride it out.”
Reynolds’ eyes snapped back to him, as if Mac’s certainty was the only thing in the room that didn’t require translation.
The High Steward watched the exchange with quiet interest. “You have conviction,” he observed.
Mac didn’t answer.
The woman spoke again, sharper. “Conviction does not alter governance.”
Melvin finally looked up. His voice was even. “You asked for the truth. That’s what you’re hearing.”
The woman’s gaze narrowed.
The High Steward lifted a hand again, and the tension didn’t vanish, but it stopped escalating.
“Enough,” the High Steward said, almost gently. Then he looked at Reynolds. “The Stewardry does not kill without necessity. That is not mercy. That is policy. Understand the difference.”
Reynolds swallowed, throat bobbing. His hands twitched again, smaller this time, his body fighting itself in waves rather than storms.
Mac kept his palm on Reynolds’ forearm. He could feel the heat under the skin, the restless tremor of muscle. Not sickness. Adaptation.
The High Steward’s eyes moved to the dented rail again. “Your strength has increased.”
Reynolds looked down, horror flickering. “I didn’t mean to.”
Mac cut him off, firm. “Don’t apologize for what your body’s doing. Apologize if you choose violence. Until then, you’re learning.”
Reynolds’ breathing hitched, then eased.
Mac felt Melvin’s attention flick briefly to him. Recognition. The sharper kind.
The High Steward’s voice lowered. “This imprint is unknown,” he said. “Not aligned to wolf. Not aligned to panther. It is not pack-bound.”
Mac kept his voice calm. “Then teach him to bind himself.”
The woman’s mouth twitched. “Pack binds. Individuals fracture.”
Mac met her eyes. “You’re standing in my medical room telling me you’re not in my Army. Don’t insult me by pretending you don’t understand stubbornness.”
For the first time, the High Steward’s expression shifted into something like amusement, thin and controlled. “You are difficult,” he said.
Mac didn’t flinch. “I’m protective.”
“Of him?” the High Steward asked, gaze sliding to Reynolds.
Mac didn’t answer right away. Mac chose the simplest answer. “Of mine,” he said quietly.
The High Steward held that for a moment, then nodded once as if filing it away. “You will provide a full account,” he said. “Both of you. Separately. Not as punishment. As clarity.”
