A runner was sprinting through the trees, breath puffing, boots crunching on the hard ground.
“Alpha,” she called, slowing as she reached the clearing. She dipped her head to him, then to Chase. “Message from the Volkhov.”
Arthur’s shoulders bunched. “What now?”
“Dominic requests your presence at The Anchor this evening,” the girl said. “He says it’s urgent.”
Of course he does.
Arthur shared a flat, knowing look with his brother.
“Tell him I’ll be there,” he said.
***
The Anchor was already loud when Arthur arrived, lantern light spilling onto the snow-packed street. Wolves crowded the long tables, voices rumbling, the tang of ale and roasted meat thick in the air. The storm that had been pacing the horizon all afternoon finally broke, sleet hissing against the windows, but inside, the warmth was almost oppressive.
Arthur shouldered his way through the crowd, nodding at familiar faces. Volkhov and Nordan alike stepped aside for him without thinking, that old instinctive deference clearing a path. He’d walked this route a thousand times, to Dominic’s bar, to Dominic’s fire.
Tonight, the air felt different. Charged.
He spotted Layla first.
She stood by the hearth, as she so often did, one hand curled around a mug, the other resting absently over the curve of her belly. Her dark hair caught the firelight in rich waves, eyes bright as she listened to something her brother Theodore was saying. Whatever it was, it clearly wasn’t complimentary; she rolled her eyes and swatted at his arm. Theodore barked a laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing.
Layla looked up, as if sensing Arthur’s gaze. Their eyes met across the room. She offered him a small, wry smile and raised her mug in greeting.
Arthur’s chest squeezed in a way he’d never admit.
He’d fought beside Dominic at Voskresen. He’d watched the young Alpha nearly die. Had watchedherfight for him. Layla had not just survived all of that; she’d come out the other side standing tall beside Dominic, weathering the pack’s suspicion, its resentment, its fear.
He respected her for that, even if a small, stubborn part of him kept a careful distance from whatever strange power seemed to hum under her skin.
He didn’t have the luxury of thinking about it much longer.
Dominic was at the bar, speaking quietly with Julian. The spymaster slipped away the second he saw Arthur approach, melting into the shadows near the stairs like mist.
Arthur had never liked Julian, but he could say one thing for the slippery male. He knew when he wasn’t welcome.
“Arthur,” Dominic said, straightening, “thank you for coming.”
“Aye, you sent for me,” Arthur replied.
Dominic gestured towards the stairs. “Come on, let’s go somewhere quieter.”
Arthur followed him through the press of bodies, catching Layla’s scent again as they passed the hearth, ink and herbs and something that reminded him, faintly, of charged air before a storm. He didn’t look back as they climbed the stairs.
The door shut behind them with a dull thud. The noise of the bar muffled to a low roar.
Dominic poured them each a drink from a bottle on the sideboard. His movements were deliberate, his expression composed, but Arthur could see the strain riding his shoulders. Years of leadership, of war, of worry had carved darkness into his face.
Arthur took the glass but didn’t drink. “All right. What’s this about?”
Dominic didn’t waste time.
“You’ve no doubt heard the reports from Severney,” he said. “Hybrids are on the move. They’re not just scavenging anymore; they’re hunting with direction. Coordination. Julian’s sources confirm the same across the range.”
Arthur nodded once. “Chase briefed me.”
