Chapter 88

Mira's pov.

“Borders look soft tonight,” the Blood Fang scout whispers, his voice scraping past my ear and making my skin crawl. He jerks his chin. I track the motion, catch sight of the north wall, guards up there all drawn in by the decoys we tossed their way. Suckers. All it takes is a little distraction; suddenly, a fortress is a sieve.

“East side,” I mutter back. “We go in from the east. No mess. No bodies unless we have to. We want eyes and ears, not trophies. Let ’em dance for us before the horns even start.” The guys nod, falling in behind me like they’ve been rewired for it. That kind of obedience is addictive.

We slip through the dark, quiet as any ghost story you ever heard. The Blood Fangs know these woods like they know their own scars on me, I’m just trying to keep up, but I learn quickly.

Right near the border, where old cabins are just piles of rot and moss, my first contact shows. I remember an omega from when she walked around the palace kitchens, always head down. She drops to her knees, but her eyes, wide and wild, lock onto mine. “My lady,” she whispers.

“Don’t call me that,” I snapped. “Just Mira.” My voice wobbles, softer than I meant. I can taste blood...mine, bite my cheek or

something, and it’s got my heart ticking faster. “Tell me what you’ve heard.”

She spills everything, people grumbling, food heading north, scouts getting sent the wrong way. When she says Elora’s name, her whole body shakes. “They love her,” she says. “They’d follow her off a cliff, I think. She talks, and they listen.”

“So she’s got them eating out of her hand,” I mutter, then give the omega the lie she needs: “She’ll be the first to go.”

She shoves a folded list into my palm, names of traitors. I run my thumb over the ink, burning each letter into my brain. Names move best in whispers, not shouts. I send riders out, faces hidden, pouches loaded with just enough coin and empty promises. Men who used to kneel for my father? Now they’re reading my name and thinking maybe it’s time to switch teams.

I watch Cael, the Blood Fang alpha, from outside his battered tent. The guy’s a monster, shoulders like tree trunks, jaw split by an ugly scar that makes him look like he chews on bones for fun. He studies me like he’s deciding if I’m a threat or a meal. I give him a tight grin, spread my stolen maps on the table: schedules, stashes, payoffs.

“You’re going for the throat,” Cael says, his words all gravel and threat. Sounds almost like respect.

I shrug. “I make it so we win before the first sword’s drawn. Take the ridge, choke them out. Cut the passes, their wagons stall. Take their scouts, they’re blind.”

He grins widely, too many teeth on show. “You’re trouble, Mira. The good kind.”

Later, with only the dying fire for company, I write. Not sappy letters, no time for that. Just orders, cold as stone, names and instructions folded up in a code only my riders get. I send them back, disguised as traders or messengers. Sometimes a cup of cheap wine in the right hands does more damage than a blade ever could.

Not everyone needs a bribe. Some people just want to see the world burn, or at least the part that burned them first. I offer them what they crave...land, new titles, a clean slate. They show up where I tell them, ready to jump ship the second things look shaky.

The plan is a live wire under my skin. I can feel it, like I’m finally plugged into something real, something big.

But, of course, nothing ever goes smoothly. My father, eyes shadowed, beard greyer than last week, corners me in the morning. We stand over the map, the air thick with things we’ll never say. My men stay back, nobody gets close when Luca is in a mood.

“You aren’t singing the old songs,” he says, voice quiet but rough as gravel. No anger, not yet. Just tired. “This... this isn’t honor.”

I look at him and, honestly, in that flickering torchlight, he’s not the mountain from all those old stories. He’s just a man, smaller now, like the weight of what’s coming is pressing him down. Or maybe it’s just me, seeing him through different eyes, not the kid who listened to bedtime legends anymore. He folds his hands behind his back.

“Honor keeps men from crossing the line you must cross,” I say. “Honor would’ve left me kneeling and forgotten. I’m not asking for honor’s blessing.”

His jaw locks. “You want power,” he says, flat as a stone. Not judging, just calling it what it is.

I tilt my head, voice coming out quieter than I’d planned. “I want to win,” I tell him. I want him to feel the loss he shoved onto me. I want Silver Crest to be a warning, a big, loud sign for every pack thinking they can toss us away.

He studies my face like he’s hunting for a secret trail on some ancient map. Confusion flickers, then worry, then, that’s fear, even if it’s just a glint. “Be careful,” he says, using his general’s voice now. “Don’t make enemies of those you might need later.”

“Father,” I answer, and it comes out all steel and command, no daughter left in it, just the leader I became while he slept. “I’m making them.”

It should’ve been enough to shake him out of his hesitation. But it wasn't. He sucks in a breath, like he’s listening to the ocean and trying to decide if he should let the tide swallow everything. “No one stands between me and my house,” he finally says. “But remember, winning without honor just means more wars down the line. You need a plan that outlasts you.”

I smile...couldn’t help it. The warmth is still there, quick and sharp, just for a second. “No, Father. I don’t want honor. I want the throne. I want them to kneel.”

He turns his back, and I let whatever softness I’ve got left hide in his shadow. The rest of me, hard edges, sharp smiles, the woman who learned to play dirty, steps forward. Cael’s camp is waiting. Riders are ready. My scouts will dance to the tune I taught them, and soon enough, the valley’s going to taste fear like I’m tasting triumph right now.

I move through buckles and maplight, the whole scheme clicking into place. My men will follow me, not because I promise glory or some flowery future, but because I offer fire, a real, burning chance to change everything. I’ll build something out of ashes, and it’ll be mine. Nobody’s going to remember the girl they tossed out of the house that smelled of lavender and laughter. They’ll remember the sound of my voice. They’ll learn to fear it.

When I finally leave the tent, morning’s barely here, and the first rider’s already moving, the first message slipping over the border like a blackbird. My plan is flying now.