“Every patrol you’ve moved,” he says. “Every line you’ve reinforced. Every second you’ve spent organizing defenses.”
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“You’ve been pulled exactly where he wants you.”
I don’t like how clean it sounds. Too structured. Too planned. My mind starts running through the perimeter reports again—north ridge, east road, southern line?—
All holding. All stable. But stretched. Spread thin. Exactly like Tessa said earlier. My focus snaps back to Felix.
“Tell me what he’s actually after,” I say.
Felix exhales slowly, eyes half-lidded now, but still sharp.
“Displacement,” he says.
I stare at him.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is,” he insists. “You just don’t like it.”
Wind moves through the trees above, shifting branches like something watching from above the canopy. Felix’s voice lowers slightly.
“He doesn’t want Redwood Crossing,” he repeats. “He wants what comes after you leave it exposed.”
That hits differently. Because it aligns too well with something I’ve been trying not to think about. I tighten my jaw.
“Who,” I say slowly, “is coming in behind him?”
Felix studies me. Not defiant now. Not amused. Just… measuring how much truth I can handle. Then he says it.
“You’re not the only pack moving in this territory.”
The words land heavy. Not a threat. A confirmation. My grip loosens just slightly—not in weakness, but in recalculation.
“Say that again,” I say quietly.
Felix watches me carefully now, like he’s deciding how far to go.
“There are other predators moving through the region,” he says. “Damon’s job wasn’t to win this town. It was to pull you, Magnus, and every defender you’ve got into one fixed point.”
My mind locks onto the implications instantly. A fixed point. A concentration. A distraction. A magnet.
“So while we’re here,” I say slowly, “something else moves in.”
Felix nods once.
“Exactly.”
A cold weight settles in my chest. Because that means this fight was never about control of Redwood Crossing. It was about timing. Spacing. Positioning. Felix coughs again, then shifts slightly under my hold.
“You’re good,” he admits. “Better than most would’ve been.”
“Save it,” I say.
A faint smirk returns to his face despite everything.
