Thirty-Four: Wren

I step into the final cell with my face as blank as I can make it. The instinct is to bare my teeth and glare, to let the whole world know it can’t rattle me, but my jaw’s so tight it feels wired shut and there’s no way I’m giving Nightwind the show it wants. The air is heavy, seasoned with a thousand years of old secrets and fresh sweat, and the dimensions are so mean that even standing up straight, my elbows brush stone on either side.

The cot’s less a bed than a threat—thin wool over hard wooden slats, one of which is snapped at the edge so it juts up like a splinter with ambitions. The blanket is exactly what you’d expect: threadbare, stained in places, and so rich with the scent of former occupants that I wonder how many ghosts I’ll be sleeping with. I run my fingers along the underside, find a crust of something that could be blood or mildew, and make a mental note to never, ever get desperate enough to use it as a pillow.

Jace stands in the doorway, half-shadowed. He’s watching my hands, like maybe I’ll pull a shank from my sleeve and try to take him out in the four seconds before the guards down the hall arrive. If I had the strength, I might. But I’m burning calories just staying upright, the silver in the cuffs bleeding me at a molecular level.

“The rules,” he says, voice clipped and efficient. “You will be escorted to meals at designated times. Training—control training, for now—begins tomorrow, early. You’ll be allowed hygiene once a day, always under supervision. No unscheduled movements, no talking to other pack members without approval, and absolutely no shifting, partial or full. Lights out at dusk. Guards change every four hours. If you need something, you ask for me or the current guard. There is no ‘later’ or ‘tomorrow’ for requests. You ask, you get a yes or a no, and you live with it.”

He pauses, eyes flicking to the bucket in the corner. “Use that if you have to. They’ll empty it daily.”

I wait, letting the silence stretch so he’ll have to fill it. When he doesn’t, I laugh—just a single, sharp exhale, more bark than amusement. “Is this how Nightwind treats all its guests, or am I special?”

The mask slips for a second. Not much, just the faintest crumple at the edge of his mouth. “You’re not a guest,” he says. “You’re not a prisoner, either.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What does that make me, then?”

He hesitates, gaze flickering away, then back. “Insurance.”

The word lands, heavy and cold. I want to ask if Lucian wrote that line for him, or if it’s the best Jace could do. Maybe it’s true. Maybe I’m just a living IOU for a future nobody wants to pay.

He steps out, pulls the door shut. The lock clicks in two stages, and then it’s just me and the mattress and the bucket and the rules nailed to the wall like scripture.

I test the door—shoulder pressed hard to the seam, palms flat against the iron bands. The cell doesn’t even creak. I put my ear to the wood and listen. Footsteps, slow, fading. A single cough from a distant guard. Nothing else.

Back on the cot, I let myself breathe for the first time in an hour. It’s not much, but it’s mine. The pain in my wrists is worse now that I’m still. I trace the metal with my thumb, feeling the skin pucker and burn where the silver sits deepest. There’s a kind of comfort in it—a reminder that the wolf is still in there, snarling, waiting for a chance.

I look at the ceiling, counting the seams between the stones. My mind drifts to the bond, the way it snapped under Lucian’s words, the phantom ache that still reverberates in my chest every time I think about him. Even now, with half a manor and a dozen locked doors between us, I can sense him—an absence so strong it’s almost a presence, a gap in the world’s logic where he should be.

For a while, I just lie there, letting the darkness settle around me like a shroud. Then I sit up, draw my knees to my chest, and press my forehead to the cold wall. It’s not comfort, but it’s something like solidarity—a pact between stone and flesh to outlast the bastards who built this place.

Tomorrow, they’ll drag me out and put me through whatever training circus Lucian thinks will make me safe, or docile, or useful. Maybe I’ll fail. Maybe I’ll survive. Either way, the only thing I know for sure is that I’m still here, and as long as the wolf is caged with me, I’m not alone.

I close my eyes and trace the edge of the burn, over and over, until the pain and the memory blend into something almost holy.

If Nightwind wants insurance, it should pray it never has to cash me in.