Thirty-One: Lucian

The wolves in Nightwind know how to end a meeting. Clean, efficient, and if you’re lucky, with only the minimum amount of blood on the floor.

As soon as the last word falls, the guards move in. The detail is handpicked—my insurance against Soren’s goons, but even so, I watch for hesitation, a sideways glance that might betray a hidden allegiance. None. The men I chose lift Wren by the elbows, quick but not rough, and unlock the chain from the bench with a click that echoes more than it should.

She stands. She does it like a woman who’s forgotten what it means to kneel.

For a heartbeat, the whole room freezes. The elders, the juniors, even the runners in the gallery—all eyes are on her, waiting to see if she’ll collapse, cry, try to make a scene. Wren does none of it. She just squares her shoulders, lets the guard adjust the cuffs so her hands are in front now, and meets every gaze in turn. She even smirks at the baby-faced councilor who flinched before, and he looks away like he’s seen a ghost.

I don’t want to stare at her. I do anyway. The bond, the broken thing, flares as she moves past—raw heat in my chest, a nerve exposed to the wind. For a split second, I imagine the future: every night like this, her on display, me forced to pretend I don’t feel her pulse echo mine. It’s a vision I want to tear out of my skull, but it won’t leave.

Jace stands at my shoulder, waiting for orders. I give them without looking away from Wren. “She gets the east wing. Double guard. No food or water from Soren’s line. Report every hour.”

Jace nods, expression unreadable. He says nothing about the tremor in my voice.

The guards lead Wren down the aisle, the crowd parting ahead of them as if she carries a disease. At the exit, Soren stands waiting, arms crossed, jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumps. He leans in as she passes, and his voice is just loud enough for everyone to hear: “This changes nothing. The Moon’s mistake will be corrected, one way or another.”

Wren doesn’t flinch. She turns her head, looks Soren up and down, and says, “I survived being torn apart once. I can do it again.” The words aren’t loud, but they land like a knife in the gut.

Soren hisses something back, but Wren’s already walking away, bare feet padding silent over the cold stone. The councilors left behind immediately reform into clusters, the low buzz of their plotting starting up as if the whole meeting was a commercial break in the war.

I keep my eyes on Wren’s silhouette, the way her shoulders never dip, not even when the doors slam shut behind her. For a moment, the hall is empty except for the iron stink of sweat and fear, and my own heartbeat, too fast, too loud.

I look down and realize my hand is clenched so tight I’ve drawn blood. Red dots the palm, wells up between my nails. I rub it off on my trousers, but it keeps coming.

Tessa appears at my side, gaze flicking from my hand to my face. “You going to be all right?” she asks, quiet.

I laugh, and it’s an ugly sound. “Never have been.”

She doesn’t argue. She just looks at the door where Wren disappeared, then at the clusters of councilors still whispering at the edge of the chamber. “They’ll try again,” she says.

“They always do.” I shake my hand out, flexing the fingers. It hurts, but in a good way.

For a while, we just stand in the silence, listening to the distant scrape of guards moving Wren through the house, the high-pitched whine of a saw somewhere in the north wing, and, underneath it all, the low, secret rhythm of Nightwind deciding what it wants to become.

Tessa nudges my arm, not quite a comfort, more a reminder that I’m still standing. “You did what you had to. Even if nobody else knows it yet.”

“I’m not sure I know it, either.”

She shrugs. “Welcome to leadership.”

A councilor with a nose for trouble steps up, offers a stiff bow, and asks what the next session will address. I answer automatically, already thinking about the future—about Wren, about the prophecy, about the way the pack will try to turn this into another excuse for violence.

After they leave, Tessa lingers a moment longer. “Get some sleep,” she says. “You’ll need it.”

I nod, but I don’t move. I wait until the chamber is empty and the torches burn down to dull orange coals. Only then do I allow myself to feel the ache behind my ribs, the shape of a thing I lost but can’t forget.

When I finally leave, the echo of my steps joins the memory of hers, and the cold in the stone feels like a promise.

If the Stray Moon dies outside these walls, Nightwind will fall from within.

I wonder if anyone in this place knows how to survive falling.

I’m about to find out.