Masuk“I already checked that patient twice.”The healer’s voice was tired, but Oliver did not look up from the small wooden desk.“Check again,” he said simply.The room in the healer hall was already warm from morning activity. Light came through the high windows in thin strips, falling across rows of neatly arranged herbs, glass jars, and folded cloths. Most children would have hated the smell. Oliver did not seem to notice it anymore.He was eight, seated with his feet not touching the ground, a pencil in his hand. A small stack of notes sat beside him, each one written in neat, careful lines.The healer sighed and walked away.Oliver did not react. He just waited.This was how most days started now.Not school first. Not play. The healer hall first.At first, the pack had brought him here to “observe.” Then to “assist.” Then to “learn basic care.&rd
“You’re early again.”Haven doesn’t turn when her instructor steps into the yard. The ground is still damp with morning dew, cold seeping through the thin soles of her boots. Her breath comes steady, controlled, each movement sharp and clean as she finishes the sequence she started before sunrise.“I couldn’t sleep,” she says, shifting her weight, pivoting, striking at an invisible opponent.That is not a lie. It is also not the truth.The instructor watches her for a moment, arms folded. “You say that every morning.”Haven finally stops. Her chest rises once, twice, but she is not winded. She rarely is anymore. She wipes her palm against her shirt and looks up, eyes clear, focused.“It’s easier when I start before everything gets loud,” she says.The yard is quiet now. No voices. No movement. Just the faint rustle of leaves and the soft sound of her
“Call the vote.”Iris’s voice carries across the chamber, calm and steady. It fills the space without effort, settling into the stone like it belongs there.Because it does.Hands rise around the table.Not hesitant.Not unsure.Clear.Counted.Done.“Passed,” the recording Elder says.The sound of his voice echoes softly against the high walls. The chamber is full, but it feels ordered. Controlled. Every seat filled. Every voice accounted for.Iris sits at the center.The seat no omega was allowed to touch eleven years ago.Her fingers rest lightly on the table, not gripping, not tense. Just present. The wood is smooth beneath her skin, worn by years of use, reshaped by time and hands that came before her.She feels the history of it.And the change.Around her, the Council moves into the next item. Papers shift. Pens scratch. Voices speak, measured and precise.Nothing here is loud anymore.Nothing needs to be.Power does not shout.It holds.Iris listens, stepping in only when need
“One year,” Donovan says quietly. “You have been doing this for one year.”Iris does not look up right away.Her fingers move across the page in front of her, tracing lines of ink, numbers, names, reports. The desk is covered, but not messy. Everything has a place. Everything matters.“One year,” she repeats.The words feel steady in her mouth. Not heavy. Not light. Just true.Morning light slips through the tall windows, soft and pale. It catches on the edge of the papers, the ink faintly shining where it is still fresh.She leans back slightly, letting her eyes move over the room instead of the work.This office still feels strange sometimes.Not because it is unfamiliar.Because of what it means.Supreme Elder.A year ago, she stood in this place and took something that had never been shaped for someone like her. Then she changed it anyway.Donovan steps closer behind her, one hand resting lightly on the back of her chair. He does not touch her yet. He does not interrupt.Through t
“Sit here, next to me.”Iris pulls the chair slightly closer with her foot, the wood scraping softly against the stone floor. The sound echoes in the chamber, small but clear. Oliver climbs up without help, steady and quiet, like he has done this a hundred times before.He is six.His legs do not quite reach the floor, but he does not swing them. He sits still, hands resting on the table, eyes moving slowly across the room. Watching. Always watching.The Council chamber feels different now.It is the same space. Same stone walls. Same long table. Same raised platform at the front. But the air has changed. It is lighter, but heavier too. More voices. More weight behind every word spoken here.Iris stands at the head of the table, not rushing. Papers are laid out in front of her, neat, ordered. She presses her palm against them for a second, grounding herself.Supreme Elder.The title still feels new, ev
“You can come in.”My voice is steady, but the room feels smaller than it should.The door opens slowly.Damon steps inside.For a moment, neither of us moves. The distance between us is not far, but it holds years in it. Things said. Things done. Things left undone.He looks older. Not in a way that shows on the surface first. It is in the way he stands. Less certain. More aware of what he carries.I close the door behind him. The sound is soft, final.“Thank you for agreeing to this,” he says.His voice is careful. Measured.Not the same man who stood across from me five years ago.“This is not a favor,” I reply. “You asked for an audience. You have one.”He nods once. Accepts that.Silence stretches.Not empty.Full of everything that is not being said.I move to the table and take a seat. I do not offer him one. No
"Week four is about making sure we don't die," Sage says, spreading a map across the breakfast table like the eggs and toast aren't even there.Nobody argues with her.One week until Summit. Seven days to close every gap the conspirators might find and use against us. The map shows the convention ce
"Do you need anything?"Nine months pregnant, and I've never felt more alive or more terrified.I look up from the rocking chair the pack carpenter made for me. Donovan stands in the doorway of the nursery with that expression he's worn for the past week. Concerned. Protective. Hovering."You've as
"Are you sure about this color?"Rejection ceremonies are ancient, brutal, and designed to humiliate. Perfect.I spend the first day in the pack library. The west wing has one. Small and dusty and full of books no one reads anymore. Old pack histories. Ceremony protocols. Laws written centuries ago
"I brought you real food."Three days I spend in that hospital bed, and not one person visits except Octavia.The machines beep constantly. Monitoring. Recording. Making sure my baby's heartbeat stays strong and steady. It does. Defiant little thing. Holding on despite everything Clarissa tried to







