“A fucking omega doing an alpha’s work,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt. “How far we’ve fallen.”
Fallon’s hands didn’t waver. His magic flowed steady and sure, mapping Alistair’s signature, calibrating the suppression parameters, building the containment structure layer by layer. “You haven’t fallen. You’ve been brought down. There’s a difference.”
“By wolves and traitors and omegas who forgot their place.”
“By people who remembered theirs.” The ward sealed with a soft pulse of purple light. “You’re done, Alistair. All of you are done. And for what it’s worth, you weren’t brought down by an army. You were brought down by the people you spent centuries saying were worthless. Might want to sit with that during your time at the castle.”
He stood and moved on before Alistair could respond because the man’s opinion had stopped mattering the day Fallon had walked out of the Murphy clan and into a life where his worth wasn’t determined by the alphas who’d abused him.
Kerry was last among the Murphys. The strategist sat in silence, his restrained hands resting on his knees. He didn’t taunt. Didn’t sneer. Just watched Fallon work with those cold, intelligent eyes, cataloging everything, filing it away for future use.
“You know it won’t hold,” Kerry said quietly as Fallon placed the ward. “Containment wards degrade over time. You’ll need to reinforce them weekly, possibly more often for the stronger among us.”
“I know. I designed the degradation rate deliberately. It gives us a maintenance schedule that allows for regular welfare checks on the prisoners. Because, unlike your clan, we actually care about the conditions we keep people in.”
Kerry blinked. For one satisfying moment, the strategist had no response.
Jermon appeared at Fallon’s shoulder as they moved toward the basement stairs. “You good?”
“Fine. Tired, but fine.” Fallon rolled his shoulders, working out the stiffness that came from two hours of sustained magical output. “Just Cladhaire and Baoth left.”
Jermon put a hand on his shoulder. “Erwan and I will take care of them.”
“I can do it.”
“I know you can, but this is something we need to do ourselves.”
Fallon could understand that.
He took a moment to rest, simply leaning against the nearest wall and closing his eyes for a moment to recalibrate. After downing an energy bar and a can of Coke, he stepped outside again.
The compound yard was organized now—two rented vans parked near the gate for the prisoners, several cars and trucks arranged for the freed dragons and omegas, blankets, water bottles, and some initial food supplies in every vehicle.
Jermon appeared beside him, looking as drained as Fallon felt. “Wards are holding. All prisoners secured. We’re ready to load.”
“Then let’s load.”
The older Doyle omega, who’d kept Tiernan company, gripped his hand as Fallon helped her into a vehicle. “Where are we going?” she asked, her voice carrying the bewildered fragility of someone who’d been imprisoned so long she’d forgotten what choice felt like.
“Home,” Fallon said. “We’re taking you home.”
Fallon climbed into the passenger seat of the lead freed-prisoner vehicle. He fastened his seatbelt—mundane, absurd, the intersection of modern life and ancient magic that never stopped being surreal—and pulled out his phone. He had two messages from Yitro waiting.
Is it over? Are you safe?
Come home, my love. We’re waiting.
Fallon pressed the phone against his chest and closed his eyes. The exhaustion hit him all at once—magical, physical, emotional, the accumulated toll of channeling a clan’s power, countering dark magic, warding all the prisoners, and holding himself together through all of it.
He thought about Yitro, warm and steady, pacing the cabin with Ainle on his hip. He thought about Duer, quiet and brilliant, worrying in his methodical way. They were waiting for him. They loved him. And he was going home to them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The cabin was quiet. Almost too quiet, like the walls themselves seemed to hold their breath.
Fergal was on the couch with a law text open on his lap, his reading glasses perched on his nose—the same glasses that had spent days in Gregor’s breast pocket, pressed against his heart like a talisman. They were slightly bent from the journey. Fergal hadn’t mentioned it. Gregor suspected he knew exactly where they’d been and had chosen not to say anything, the way he chose not to say so many things. His baby boy had learned patience, and Gregor was both grateful for it and sad about the reason why.
Him.
