They’d worried about it being too much for Cedric to teleport everyone, but apparently, Fallon had taught Cedric how to tap into the powers of the clan, and so Cedric had, even borrowing some of Lidon’s power through Palani. Jermon had to believe that meant the gods—or, as the wolves would say, the earth and moon—were on their side. Still, the staggering feat of magicalendurance left the omega swaying on his feet. Jermon steadied him with a hand on his shoulder.
“Everyone intact?” Blair’s voice was steady, his red dragon fire already warming the air around them as the Canadian cold hit like a wall. The man had the battlefield composure of someone who’d been born for this—no wasted movement, no wasted words, every ounce of energy directed at the mission.
“I’m fine,” Cedric said, though his face was the color of old parchment.
The staging point was a clearing about a mile from the Fitzgerald compound, sheltered by a dense stand of pine that blocked the worst of the wind and, more importantly, blocked the line of sight from the compound’s watchtowers. “We used to sneak out here as children when the alphas weren’t looking,” Cedric had said quietly during the planning session, and something about the way he’d said it—the casual revelation of a childhood spent evading surveillance—had made Jermon’s chest ache.
Nadiv caught Jermon’s eye and grinned—his little brother, always the one to find levity in the dark—and Jermon allowed himself a brief grin in return. They were here. They were doing this. And somewhere two hundred miles to the south, Gregor and Erwan and the True Alpha himself were preparing to do the same.
Blair gathered them in a tight circle, speaking low. “Cedric, remind everyone of the layout.”
The omega stepped forward, his exhaustion pushed aside by focus. He drew in the frost-covered ground with a stick, sketching the compound from memory. “Main building here, with the administrative offices, the king’s quarters, the great hall. Barracks to the east, that’s where the loyal alphas are locked up. Omega quarters in the west wing. Guard posts here, here, and here.” He marked three positions. “The watchtower has athree-hundred-sixty-degree view, but it’s manned by a single guard. Take the tower first and you control the sight lines.”
“Entry points?” Blair asked.
“Main gate, east service entrance, and a kitchen door on the south side that’s been broken since I was a hatchling and has never been properly warded because no one thinks of kitchens as security vulnerabilities.” Cedric’s mouth curved. “I’d recommend the kitchen door.”
Blair nodded. “Right. Three teams. Jermon, you take the wards down and then lead Crowell and three wolf alphas through the main gate—loud, visible, the distraction. I’ll take Nadiv and three wolves through the east entrance to the barracks, free the alphas, and secure Duncan and Donovan’s quarters. Bray, you take Palani, Zack, and the remaining wolves through the kitchen entrance to the omega quarters. Free the omegas, secure the west wing, and lock down anyone who tries to resist.”
“And the watchtower?” Crowell asked, his voice carrying the barely contained eagerness of a fighter who’d been waiting for this since he’d arrived at the Hightower pack. The omega’s red dragon blood ran hot, and the prospect of actual combat had him practically vibrating.
“Cedric teleports one wolf alpha to the tower before we breach. Silent takedown, no alarms. That’s our opening move.”
Jermon watched the team absorb the plan, checking faces for doubt or hesitation and finding none. They were as ready as they could be.
Blair checked his watch, then grabbed his phone and sent out the agreed-upon text.
Team One in position. Awaiting your signal.
The response came back within seconds.
Go.
Blair opened his eyes. “Move.”
The watchtower fell first. Cedric teleported a wolf alpha—a Hightower pack fighter named Adar who moved like smoke—directly behind the lone guard. The man was zip-tied and gagged before he’d registered the presence behind him. Adar’s hand signal from the tower window confirmed success, and Blair’s hand dropped in the gesture that meant breach.
Jermon hit the wards at the main gate with everything he had. Purple magic surged from his core, amplified by the collective power of the dragons around him—he could feel them all, their fire feeding his, the clan bond that Erwan’s White Dragon magic had strengthened thrummed like a power line. The wards resisted for approximately four seconds before shattering like glass, their crude construction no match for the focused power of a purple dragon who was connected to the White Dragon, the True Alpha, and his entire clan.
The gate swung open, and Jermon walked through with Crowell at his side and three wolf alphas at his back, making no effort whatsoever to be quiet.
“Attention!” Jermon’s voice rang across the compound yard, amplified by a touch of magic that carried it to every corner. “By order of King Fergal of the Fitzgerald clan, this compound is now under the authority of the True Doyle clan alliance. Stand down, and you will not be harmed. Resist, and you will be subdued. We will use deadly force if needed. The choice is yours.”
For three heartbeats, nothing happened. Then guards started emerging from doorways, some armed, some not. Some dropped their weapons immediately. Others hesitated, looking at each other for cues, searching for someone to tell them what to do. The habits of obedience ran deep, but so did the instinct forself-preservation, and the sight of a purple dragon flanked by a red dragon and three snarling wolf alphas was apparently persuasive.
Two guards charged. Crowell stepped forward with a grin that was frankly terrifying and dropped the first one with a spinning kick that would’ve made a martial arts instructor weep with joy. The second skidded to a halt, reassessed his life choices, and put his hands up.
“Wise decision,” Crowell said, barely out of breath.
Jermon left Crowell to manage the yard and moved toward the main building, his magical senses sweeping ahead of him like sonar. He could feel the people inside—a cluster of frightened omegas in the west wing, a group of angry alphas in the eastern barracks, and two specific signatures in the administrative wing that pulsed with panic.
Duncan and Donovan. Even without Gregor’s detailed briefing, Jermon would’ve recognized them by the quality of their panic. These weren’t warriors. They were politicians, paper-pushers, puppets—men whose power came from manipulation and proximity to authority, not from any strength of their own. And their authority had just been revoked.
He met Blair in the central corridor. The red dragon was moving fast, four wolf alphas at his back, heading for the administrative wing. “Barracks are open,” Blair reported without breaking stride. “Nine alphas freed. They’re angry but controlled. I’ve got them securing the perimeter.”
“The omegas?”
“Palani’s team is at the west wing now.”
