Twenty-Eight: Lucian

They reconvene the council at dusk, as if waiting for the last drop of light will lend authority to what comes next. The wolves are already half-shifted, the masks of civilization slipping as tempers climb. The noise is thicker, less words than snarl, and the stink of adrenalized sweat rises even above the pitch of old blood on stone.

Soren is first out of his seat. His face is a ruin—three scars run from brow to lip, proof that tradition is enforced here with more than memory. He slaps his palm to the railing, pointing directly at Wren. “We’ve never let a turned wolf live,” he spits. “Not in my grandfather’s time, nor his, nor the Alpha before you, Lucian. They’re a vector. They rot the pack from inside—turn every pup soft and every bitch into a traitor.” He glares at Mira, who gives him nothing in return.

“You forget the seer’s warning,” Mira says, voice calm but sharp as a scalpel. “We break prophecy at our peril. Nightwind’s strength is not in blood, but in survival. Only fools invite extinction to preserve their pride.”

Soren laughs, the sound like gravel in a woodchipper. “Your kind always preferred words to action. But when the feral comes, it’ll be your throat they tear first.”

The insult lands; Mira’s knuckles turn white on the edge of her seat, but she holds her tongue. There’s nothing to say to men like Soren—their brains stopped growing the day their teeth came in.

The rest of the council barks agreement or protest, and for a moment the chamber feels as if it might tip over, a riot in the making. The guards on the floor shift their weight, one hand on the stun batons, the other on nothing at all. They know a killing can happen in these walls, and that’s part of what keeps order.

Wren sits at the center, statue-still. I want to believe she’s not listening, but I can see from the way her shoulders rise and fall that every word lands. If it hurts, she never lets it show.

I let the argument crest, then kill it with the only weapon that matters: my voice.

“She stays.” The words come out low, but the effect is immediate—every head snaps my direction, even the ones that spent the last hour pretending not to notice I was in the room.

Soren’s mouth hangs open, then clamps shut so hard I hear his teeth click. He looks ready to lunge, but the way Jace steps up beside me—subtle, not showy—is enough to remind the old man who leads the pack now.

“Under guard,” I continue. “Within these walls. Not as pack, not as prisoner, and not—” I hesitate, feel the eyes of the council, the ghost of the bond. “Not as mate.”

Wren’s expression doesn’t change, but I see the flick of her pupils, the way her jaw tenses. She knows the omission for what it is: a mercy, or maybe just a coward’s brand of hope.

Elowen leans forward from the gallery, her mouth curving into a smile so thin it could slice stone. She’s seen this play out before, maybe a thousand times. Or maybe just once, and it was enough.

The rest of the council goes quiet. Soren slumps back into his seat, glowering, but I see the calculation in his eyes. Mira breathes out, relief almost invisible, but I know the tells. The guards relax, just a fraction, and the room’s temperature drops back into something less than fever.

I motion to the guards at Wren’s side. “Take her to the east wing. The old archives. Seal it, and no one enters without my word. Not even you, Soren.” I don’t have to say the threat out loud; the way his nostrils flare tells me he heard it all the same.

They unlock her chain, re-cuff her wrists, and lift her to her feet. She stands on her own, even after twelve hours in the same position. If the silver burned, she’ll never let them see the scars.

As they guide her from the chamber, I see her glance over her shoulder—not at me, but at Elowen, who waits at the edge of the circle. For a split second, the two share a look, an understanding built on the same raw material: survival at any cost.

The council empties out, the elders limping or swaggering back to their dens. The verdict will be gossiped to every house by midnight, and by dawn, half the pack will have chosen sides. That’s the point of these meetings. You don’t win, you just outlast.

I stand alone by the dais, staring at the empty chain still bolted to the floor. It would be easier if the law had teeth for this. Instead, it’s all compromise, all bloodless wounds.

Elowen appears at my side, silent as a shadow. “You did well,” she says, voice cool as the moon. “For a man who’s never doubted before, you hide it almost perfectly.”

I don’t look at her. “Is this the part where you tell me it gets easier?”

She tilts her head, considering. “It never does. But you know that already.”

The silence stretches, comfortable in its own discomfort.

“I don’t trust her,” I say, not sure if I mean Wren or Elowen.

“Good,” she replies. “Neither do I. But trust is for prey, Lucian. You’re not prey, are you?”

It’s a test. Everything with Elowen is.

I shake my head. “Never.”

She smiles, then leans in, whispering so low only I could possibly hear it: “Nightwind falls only if you let it.”

Then she’s gone, her footsteps lost in the echo of the room.

Outside, the air has grown colder, the wind sharper. The moon is high, bright enough to erase every shadow. I find myself wanting to run, to shed the trappings of Alpha and let the wolf have its way, if only for a night. But the job is to watch, and to wait, and to never, ever look away.

I take one last look at the empty chamber, at the benches where ghosts now sit. Then I follow the corridor to where Wren waits, her fate suspended, the future a blade balanced on the edge of prophecy and will.

We are what the law says, and we are what the law cannot say. The rest is just waiting for the next full moon.