Chapter 3: Silent Allegiance

The corridors of the packhouse were humming with their usual rhythm by the time Nicole made her way downstairs. Warriors passing between shifts nodded politely, and younger pack members ducked their heads with a quick “Luna” as she passed.

The title still fit their lips naturally, she noticed. It hadn’t yet been stripped from her. That alone was leverage.

She was heading for the training grounds when she caught sight of someone she hadn’t expected—Marcellus, the pack’s chief medic.

He was kneeling beside one of the younger warriors, inspecting a gash along the boy’s forearm. His hands were steady, practiced, and his voice was calm.

Nicole slowed her steps. Marcellus wasn’t political by nature—he cared more about stitches and poultices than power plays—but his word carried weight. People trusted him in their most vulnerable moments, and that trust was currency.

When he looked up and spotted her, his expression softened. “Luna.”

“Marcellus,” she greeted. “Bad injury?”

“Nothing that won’t heal,” he said, tying off a neat bandage. “But he’ll be out of drills for a few days.”

Nicole crouched slightly so she was level with the boy. “Rest. Listen to Marcellus. And next time, keep your guard higher—you can’t win a fight if you’re bleeding before it’s halfway done.”

The boy gave a sheepish nod.

When she straightened again, Marcellus was studying her. Not suspiciously—curiously. “I heard what happened last night,” he said quietly.

Nicole met his gaze. “Then you know the pack will need steady hands. And steady voices.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, assessing. “What exactly are you asking me?”

“That when the winds start shifting, you keep your footing—and you remind others to do the same,” she said. “Change can’t come from panic. And panic will tear us apart faster than any enemy.”

Marcellus was silent for a moment before giving a single, decisive nod. “You’ll have my voice.”

It wasn’t an oath, but it was a step.

Nicole reached the training grounds twenty minutes later, just as a group of warriors was breaking into sparring pairs. Brian wasn’t there, which was exactly what she’d hoped for.

Without announcing herself, she stepped to the edge of the sparring ring, watching them move. She knew this routine well—every feint, every counterstrike. When one warrior’s footwork faltered, she called it out sharply.

“Too slow on the pivot, Desmond. You’ll be flat on your back before you can blink if you telegraph like that.”

The warriors turned toward her almost instinctively, the training master himself stepping aside to let her speak.

Nicole didn’t raise her voice; she didn’t need to. “The enemy doesn’t wait for you to feel ready. Neither will your opponent. We train until readiness isn’t a question—it’s the air you breathe.”

The set of their shoulders told her everything—respect, familiarity, even a hint of relief. She still had them.

That night, alone in her quarters, she allowed herself a single lapse in control. She sat on the bed, the lamp casting gold across her hands, and thought about the first winter she and Brian had spent here.

Snow had fallen heavy that year, and he’d insisted on waking her before dawn to take her hunting in the quiet white forest. She’d been freezing, half-asleep, and furious at the idea. But when the sun rose over

By the time Nicole left the training grounds, her mind was already mapping the next two moves. Marcellus was a start, but a single thread wouldn’t hold the pack together when the fabric started to tear. She needed more.

Her next stop was the greenhouse. Most people forgot it was even part of the packhouse complex—it was quiet, humid, and filled with the scent of damp earth. There, bent over a tray of seedlings, was Evelyn, the pack’s head gardener and one of the few who’d been around longer than Nicole herself.

“Luna,” Evelyn said without looking up. Her voice was warm but laced with the kind of frankness only the old could get away with. “I thought you’d be storming war rooms, not walking among my herbs.”

Nicole smiled faintly. “Storms need roots, Evelyn. And you’ve been keeping this pack’s roots alive longer than most of us have been breathing.”

The old woman’s hands didn’t stop their careful work, but Nicole could see the flicker of curiosity in her eyes. “You want something.”

“I want you to remind them what we’ve survived before. Remind them how many times someone’s tried to take this place apart, and how many times they’ve failed.”

Evelyn finally straightened, wiping her soil-stained hands on her apron. “I can do that. But you’d better give them a reason to believe it’s true again.”

Nicole inclined her head. “I will.”

The second stop came almost by chance. She found Callen, the weapons master, in the armory. His presence was pure steel—tall, scarred, built like a fortress.

“You’ve been quiet,” Nicole said, stepping into the room.

“Noise is for people who need to be heard,” he replied without glancing up from the blade he was oiling.

“Then hear me,” Nicole said, stepping closer. “If Lilith takes this pack, she’ll strip our defenses first. The warriors will have nothing but their claws. That’s why I need you to stand ready—without question, without hesitation.”

Callen looked up finally, meeting her eyes. There was no softness in his gaze, but there was recognition. “You always did know how to prepare for a fight before it came knocking.”

“Because by the time it knocks, it’s already inside,” Nicole replied.

His mouth curved into the faintest of smirks. “You have my word, Luna.”

Two more voices. Two more anchors.

By late afternoon, the training grounds were humming again. Nicole didn’t step into the center this time—she didn’t need to. She leaned casually against the railing, arms crossed, watching.

When the warriors noticed her, their movements sharpened, their posture straightened. Not because she spoke, but because her presence demanded it.

One young fighter, clearly eager to impress, made a sloppy lunge that sent him sprawling into the dirt. Nicole didn’t move, but her expression—just the smallest tightening at the corner of her mouth—was enough to make him scramble up and correct his stance without a word.

That was the thing about authority. The moment you begged for it, you’d already lost it.

That night, Nicole sat alone in her quarters, the air thick with the scent of rain. She let her guard down just enough to remember another winter—years ago, when Brian was still hers.

It had been a hunt, deep in the snow. She’d been shivering, teeth chattering, and cursing him under her breath for dragging her out at dawn. But then he’d stopped, pointing through the frost-covered trees at a clearing where the sun broke over the horizon, painting the snow in molten gold.

“This is why I brought you,” he’d said, his voice low, almost reverent. “So you’d remember that not everything worth fighting for comes easy.”

She’d laughed then, breathless in the cold, thinking there was no one else she’d rather freeze beside.

Now, the memory felt like a wound—one that hadn’t stopped bleeding, no matter how tightly she wrapped it.

And tomorrow, she would have to face him.

The first ally came to Nicole without her needing to summon him.

Ronan stood in the doorway of the war room, tall, broad-shouldered, the faint scent of rain clinging to him. His eyes scanned the maps she’d spread across the table—territories marked, patrol schedules shifted in subtle ways Brian’s new “order” wouldn’t immediately notice.

“You’re making changes,” Ronan murmured, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear.

“I’m making corrections,” Nicole replied without looking up. Her hand slid one of the pieces on the board into position. “If I don’t, the cracks in our defenses will widen.”

He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat of him. “I’ll back you. You won’t have to ask.”

It was said so simply, as though he was promising to sharpen a blade instead of risk his life. Nicole glanced at him, letting a rare flicker of warmth touch her features. “Good. Keep your eyes on the northern patrols. If anyone questions it, tell them you’re following my orders.”

The second ally took a little more effort.

Mara was all sharp edges and suspicion, the kind of wolf who trusted no one without proof. Nicole found her in the storage room, stacking crates of supplies for the next hunt.

“You’ve been quiet,” Nicole said, leaning casually against the doorframe.

“I’ve been watching.” Mara didn’t stop moving, but Nicole could see the tension in her shoulders.

“And?”

“And I see what you’re doing,” Mara replied finally, straightening to meet her gaze. “You’re keeping the pack from walking straight into a trap. I’m not blind.”

Nicole tilted her head. “Then you know I’ll need help keeping it that way.”

For a moment, Mara hesitated—but then she nodded once, quick and decisive. “I’m in. Just… make sure we don’t all get dragged down when this explodes.”

“It won’t explode,” Nicole said softly, though they both knew she was lying. “It will burn—and I’ll make sure the right people get scorched.”

By dusk, the training grounds were alive with the sounds of impact—thuds, grunts, the metallic ring of weapons clashing. Nicole stood on the edge, arms folded, watching the younger wolves spar under the watch of Brian’s appointed captain.

When one of the boys stumbled, the captain barked at him, too harsh, too careless.

Nicole didn’t move.

She didn’t raise her voice.

But the next time the captain turned his head, he found her gaze fixed on him—steady, cold, unblinking. It lasted only seconds, but it was enough. His tone softened immediately, the bark fading to instruction.

The other wolves noticed. They always did. She didn’t have to announce her authority. She wore it like a second skin, and the smart ones remembered who had kept this pack alive before Brian’s return.

That night, the quiet was almost unbearable. Nicole sat by the window in her quarters, moonlight spilling across her lap. Her fingers toyed with the chain around her neck—a simple silver pendant Brian had given her years ago.

She remembered the night he’d pressed it into her palm, his eyes alight with something unguarded, something real. “So you’ll always have a piece of me with you,” he’d said. She’d believed him. She’d wanted to.

The memory twisted now, sharp as a blade.

She let the pendant fall against her chest and closed her eyes, the ache settling deep.

Tomorrow, she would play the loyal second again.

But tonight, just for a breath, she let herself remember the man she’d loved before the betrayal—because soon, she would need to kill what remained of him in her heart.