CHAPTER 1: The Treaty

I stared at the dregs of my tea, watching a single tea leaf swirl in the dark liquid. It looked like a drowning beetle. Fitting.

"Lilura."

The name wasn't spoken; it was pushed into my mind, a psychic nudge that felt like a cold finger pressing against my temple. I flinched, my hand jerking, sending a splash of lukewarm Earl Grey onto the scratched wooden table.

"I’m coming," I muttered to the empty room, grabbing a rag to wipe the spill. The amethyst glow in my eyes flared briefly, a reflex of irritation, before dimming back to a dull purple.

You didn’t keep Elder Sibal waiting. Not if you wanted to keep your standing in the Coven of Whispers, and certainly not if you wanted to keep your mind intact.

I grabbed my coat—a heavy, wool thing that had seen better decades and stepped out into the mist. The streets of Oakhaven were gray, paved with cobblestones that always seemed slick with moisture. We were the buffer zone, the neutral ground between the human world and the Hollows, and the atmosphere reflected it. We were the purgatory of the supernatural world.

I kept my head down, hands jammed into my pockets to hide my fingernails. They were naturally black today, shimmering with an iridescent sheen that looked like oil on water. A sign my magic was high. A sign I needed to release it before it started burning my skin.

The Coven house stood at the center of the town, a looming Victorian structure that looked less like a home and more like a mausoleum. The iron gates groaned as I pushed them open, the sound echoing like a dying animal.

Inside, the air smelled of beeswax and old blood—metallic and sweet. I hated it.

I found Elder Sibal in the Solarium. It was a joke of a name; there was no sun here. Just walls of glass looking out onto the fog. He was pruning a plant that looked like it had teeth, his movements slow and deliberate.

"You’re late," he said, not turning around.

"I’m on time, Elder," I replied, keeping my voice flat. "The bells just rang."

Sibal turned then. He was a handsome man in the way a statue is handsome. Cold, chiseled, and utterly lifeless. He wiped his hands on a silk handkerchief, his eyes scanning me with a predatory sort of hunger. Not sexual. Worse. He looked at me the way a mechanic looks at a car battery. He was checking my charge.

"You look vibrant, Lilura," he murmured, stepping closer. "Your aura is… leaking."

I stiffened as he reached out. His fingers were ice cold as they brushed my jawline. I had to fight the urge to slap his hand away. Instead, I let him touch me. I let him siphon off the excess magic buzzing under my skin.

It was a violation, but it was the price of rent.

I felt the pull instantly, a sickening lurch in my stomach, like missing a step on a staircase. The faint runic markings on my neck flared hot, then faded as he drew the power out of me. It left me feeling hollowed out, lightheaded, and slightly nauseous.

Sibal sighed, his cheeks flushing with borrowed color. He looked five years younger. I felt five years older.

"Much better," he said, patting my cheek. "We can’t have you walking around buzzing like a broken power line, can we? It upsets the humans."

"Is that all you needed, Elder?" I asked, taking a small step back, my knees trembling slightly. "I have potions to brew for the market."

"Always working," he tutted, walking back to his desk. "But no, that’s not why I called you. The potions can wait. The Treaty cannot."

My stomach dropped. "The Treaty?"

"The Ironwood Pack," Sibal said, his lip curling slightly as he said the name. "The wards along their northern perimeter are failing. The alpha sent a message this morning. He claims the barrier is thinning, letting the raw magic from the Hollows leak into his territory. He demands a fix."

"So send the Maintenance Circle," I said quickly. "They handle the structural wards."

"The Maintenance Circle is busy preparing for the Equinox," Sibal waved a hand dismissively. "Besides, they are… delicate. The wolves are not. I need someone who can handle the rougher elements. Someone expendable—excuse me, adaptable."

He didn't correct himself because he didn't care. I was the Coven's errand girl. Powerful enough to do the heavy lifting, but bloodline-poor enough that no one would miss me if a wolf decided I looked like a chew toy.

"I am not a structural ward specialist," I argued, though I knew it was pointless. "My affinity is alchemy and minor illusions. Touching the Ironwood wards… that requires deep earth magic. It will drain me dry."

"Then you better pack snacks," Sibal said, sitting down and picking up a pen. He was dismissing me. "You leave within the hour. The Alpha, Guilermo Santander, is expecting a representative. Try not to embarrass us, Lilura. And try not to let them smell your fear. I hear they find it appetizing."

"I hate wolves," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

Sibal paused, looking up with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "We all do, my dear. That is why we put them in the woods and keep the town for ourselves. Now go. You’re wasting daylight, and the wolves get cranky after dark."

I didn't pack snacks. I packed whiskey and a silver dagger.

The walk to the edge of Oakhaven took forty minutes. As I moved away from the town center, the cobblestones gave way to dirt, and the manicured hedges turned into sprawling, tangled undergrowth. The air changed, too. The smell of sage and stale incense faded, replaced by the heavy, loamy scent of pine, wet earth, and something muskier.

Animal.

The Ironwood territory began where the trees became so thick they blotted out the gray sky. There was a physical marker, a line of ancient stones covered in moss but the real border was the hum of the wards.

Even from twenty feet away, I could feel them. They were like a low-frequency vibration in my teeth.

I stopped at the edge of the tree line, adjusting the strap of my leather satchel. My amethyst eyes scanned the shadows. I didn't see anyone, but that didn't mean I was alone.

"I know you’re there," I called out, my voice sounding thin against the wall of trees. "I’m the witch sent by Sibal. I’m here to fix your damn fence."

Silence. Then, a rustle of leaves.

I tightened my grip on my bag. I hated this. I hated the wild. Witches were creatures of intention, of precise circles and measured ingredients. Wolves were chaos. They were instinct and blood and breaking things just to see what was inside.

"You’re small."

The voice came from my left. I spun around, my hand instinctively going to the pocket where I kept a vial of blinding powder.

A boy. No, a young man, maybe nineteen was leaning against a tree. He was shirtless, despite the forty-degree weather, wearing only ripped jeans and dirt. He had the shaggy, unkempt look of a creature that slept on the ground.

"And you’re underdressed," I shot back, relaxing my hand slightly. He wasn't the Alpha. He was just a pup. "Where is Santander?"

The boy smirked, pushing off the tree. He moved with that unnerving fluidity all wolves had, like his bones were made of water. "Alpha doesn't come to the border for maintenance workers. He’s at the main house. I’m supposed to make sure you don’t get eaten on the way there."

"I can handle myself," I said, channeling a bit of Sibal’s arrogance.

"Sure you can, Witch," the boy laughed. It was a barking, sharp sound. "That’s why you smell like anxiety and lavender laundry detergent. Come on. Keep up."

He turned and bolted into the woods without waiting.

I swore under my breath, hitching my bag higher on my shoulder, and followed him.

The trek was miserable. The ground was uneven, slick with mud and decaying leaves that tried to suck the boots off my feet. Brambles caught at my coat, tearing small holes in the wool. Every step felt like a fight against nature itself.

And the magic… it was heavy here.

In Oakhaven, magic was a resource we bottled and sold. Here, it was wild. It pulsed from the ground, raw and unfiltered. It made my skin itch. My runic markings, usually invisible beneath my clothes, began to tingle, reacting to the ambient power.

"Hey, slow down!" I shouted ahead. The boy was just a blur of tan skin and denim moving through the trees.

"Alpha hates waiting!" he called back, not slowing down a bit.

We walked for another hour. The deeper we went, the more oppressive the atmosphere became. I could feel eyes on me. Not just the boy’s. The woods were watching. I saw shadows shifting in the periphery, shapes that looked too large to be deer.

Finally, the trees broke.

The Pack lands opened up into a massive clearing. It wasn't a town like Oakhaven; it was a compound. Several large log cabins were scattered around a central fire pit, but "cabin" was an understatement. These were mansions made of timber and stone, rugged but expensive.

And everywhere, there were wolves.

Some were in human form, chopping wood, sparring, or just lying in the weak sunlight. Others were shifted. Massive, hulking beasts the size of ponies, trotting between the houses with terrifying casualness.

The noise hit me next. Shouting, laughing, the clang of metal, the growls. It was a cacophony of life. It was so loud compared to the hushed, library-like silence of the Coven.

"Fresh meat!" someone yelled.

Heads turned. Dozens of them.

I stopped walking, my boots sinking into the mud. I felt suddenly very exposed. I was a solitary figure in a black coat standing in a sea of muscle and fur. I stuck out like a bruise.

The boy who had escorted me stopped and turned, grinning. "Welcome to Ironwood, Witch. Try not to faint."

"I’m not going to faint," I hissed, though my heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Just take me to the Alpha so I can get this over with."

"Get what over with?"

The new voice cut through the noise like a blade.

The activity in the clearing didn't stop, but the tenor of it changed. Shoulders straightened. Heads lowered slightly.

I turned toward the largest structure, a sprawling house made of dark timber that sat on a slight rise overlooking the rest of the camp. Standing on the porch was a woman.

She was beautiful, in that sharp, glossy way that made you check your own reflection for flaws. She had cascading blonde hair, terrified-perfect skin, and was wearing a white cashmere sweater that looked ludicrously clean for a muddy forest.

She walked down the steps, her gaze fixed on me. It wasn't a friendly look. It was the look a homeowner gives a termite.

"You must be the help," she said, stopping a few feet away. She wrinkled her nose, sniffing the air theatrically. "God, you reek of sulfur."

"I’m Lilura Firmin," I said, keeping my tone professional. "From the Coven. I’m here to repair the northern wards."

"I know why you’re here," she snapped. She looked me up and down, her eyes lingering on my muddy boots with disdain. "I just expected Sibal to send someone… more competent. You look like you’re about to collapse."

"I’m fine," I lied. I was exhausted. Sibal’s drain earlier, combined with the hike and the ambient magic of the woods, had left me feeling brittle.

"I am Ibbie," she announced, lifting her chin. "I speak for the Alpha when he is indisposed."

"Is he indisposed?" I asked. "Because the contract states I need the Alpha’s blood signature to reseal the wards. I can’t do it with a proxy."

Ibbie’s eyes narrowed. "I am not a proxy. I am the future Luna of this pack. My signature is as good as his."

"Not according to the Treaty," I said, feeling a perverse spark of satisfaction at her annoyance. "Blood magic requires the blood of the land’s ruler. Unless you’ve killed him and taken over, I need Guilermo Santander."

The clearing went quiet.

I realized, too late, that I had said the wrong thing. You don't joke about killing Alphas in the middle of a wolf pack.

Ibbie’s face twisted into a snarl, her human mask slipping for a second to reveal the beast beneath. She took a step toward me, her hand raising as if to shove me.

"You watch your tongue, witch, or I’ll—"

"Ibbie."

The name was spoken softly, but it carried more weight than Ibbie’s shout. It came from behind her, from the shadows of the porch she had just left.

A man stepped into the light.

He was huge. That was my first thought. He took up space in a way that felt unfair. He was taller than the others, broader, wearing a dark henley that strained across his chest and mud-splattered cargo pants.

But it was his face that made the breath catch in my throat. He looked rough, like he’d been carved out of granite and left out in the rain. Dark hair, shot through with premature silver, hung in his eyes. And those eyes…

They were liquid gold.

He moved down the stairs, ignoring Ibbie entirely, his gaze locked on me. He didn't look angry. He looked bored. And underneath the boredom, there was an intensity that made the hair on my arms stand up.

He stopped beside Ibbie, dwarfing her. He didn't look at her; he looked at me. He sniffed the air, just once, subtle and sharp.

"You’re early," he said. His voice was a deep baritone, scratching against my senses.

"I was told I was late," I managed to say, holding my ground.

"Sibal lies," he said simply. He looked at my muddy boots, then up to my face, pausing at my eyes. "And Ibbie is wrong."

Ibbie bristled. "Guilermo, she insulted—"

"You smell like sage," he interrupted, still looking at me. "And fear."

"I’m not afraid," I lied again.

He smirked. It wasn't a nice smile. It was a predator realizing the prey has a limp. "If you say so, Ms. Firmin."

He stepped closer, invading my personal space. The heat coming off him was palpable, a furnace against the damp chill of the air.

"Fix my walls, Witch," he murmured, low enough that only I could hear. "And try not to die while you do it. I hate filling out paperwork for Sibal."

He turned and walked away before I could respond, heading toward the northern tree line.

"Well?" Ibbie snapped, glaring at me as if Guilermo’s rudeness was my fault. "Follow him. Or do you need a written invitation?"

I grit my teeth, adjusting my bag. I was cold, I was tired, and I was surrounded by monsters.

"I hate this job," I whispered to myself, and stepped into the mud after the Alpha.