Twenty-Nine: Lucian

The circle is supposed to be an equalizer. No corners for secrets, no shadows to hide in, just a smooth ring of ancient stone meant to level every wolf in the room. Tonight, it only amplifies the rot.

I kneel at the dais, hands locked on the arms of my chair so hard the wood creaks under my grip. Tessa flanks me on the right, her face drawn tight and eyes flicking to the edges of the council at intervals too precise to be random. Luka on my left is looser in posture, but every muscle under the suit is wired, waiting for my signal to go feral. They know this could fracture the pack, and they know who gets blamed if it does.

Below, on the stone bench that serves as both pedestal and pillory, Wren Cade crouches. Her wrists are chained in front, silver links so tight they’re nearly flush with the bone. The skin beneath them is red and raw, nerves shot from the hours she’s already spent on display. I see the quiver in her thigh, the shiver she tries to hide. But when her eyes rise, there’s nothing but venom in the look she throws at the crowd.

The amphitheater’s packed. Every seat on the first row is filled with an elder: Soren at due north, Mira at east, two others whose names are less important than the debts they hold over the rest. Behind them, the lesser councilors, the scavenger wolves, some still in the habit of showing up with their collars half-unbuttoned or their boots muddy, a show of disrespect they hope I’ll someday have to ignore. They’ve all come for blood, or for the chance to see me fail.

Soren makes the first move. He slams his fist on the curved rail, the sound bouncing around the chamber like a gunshot.

“Our laws are clear!” he roars. “The turned are unstable—dangerous! She must be put down before she infects the rest of the pack.” The veins on his neck stand out, blue against the sunburned skin. Every time Soren speaks, he sounds like a man auditioning for the memory of his own ancestors.

I watch the wood under my boot vibrate with the impact, the way the closest councilor—barely out of his teens, and still showing the puff of a baby face—flinches and hides it by rubbing his eye. Two seats down, an older omega is already sweating through his shirt; I can smell the sour panic from here.

Mira doesn’t shout. She never does. Instead, she threads her gloved fingers together, knuckles pale under the thin leather, and says in a voice so soft it nearly evaporates: “Exile would satisfy the prophecy, Elder Soren. No need for blood. Let the Stray Moon go, beyond our borders. If it’s meant to end us, it will do so without staining the stone.”

Her words are all silk, but I see the tremor as she tugs at the seam of her glove, a nervous loop she can’t stop once it’s started. The chain of command is visible in gestures like that, and I know every one.

The chamber explodes. Voices batter each other, every old argument spat out at twice the usual volume because nobody wants to be caught on the wrong side of the line when it gets drawn.

“She’ll come back with a pack of her own!”

“It’s the seer’s words—if we kill her, we bring the curse ourselves!”

“Satisfy the moon, not the myth!”

Every syllable is a stone, thrown at my authority or at each other. The torches gutter as the draft picks up, shadows flickering over the faces of men and women who would eat me alive if given the chance. Tessa doesn’t blink. Luka’s jaw works side to side, already bored of the show.

I let the noise build, just to see who comes out on top. Soren’s voice is always the loudest, but Mira’s quieter brand of violence gets more traction than he thinks. I clock every pair of eyes that follows her, the way she leans in just enough to suggest conspiracy without ever owning it.

Wren is supposed to be cowed by now. She isn’t. Instead, she scans the room with a predator’s efficiency, counting the votes, judging who might take her side if the wind shifted, daring anyone to say her name like it’s an epithet. She lifts her chin, blood streaked down her forearm, and meets Soren’s glare head on.

I feel the knot behind my sternum tighten. The mate-bond is supposed to be dormant, dead, but I taste the echo of it every time she makes contact. It’s a phantom limb, a missing sense, but I know exactly where it is at all times. Tonight, it aches worse than usual.

The shouting isn’t debate; it’s a pack hunt, and I know who the prey is supposed to be.

“Alpha!” someone yells from the back. “Make the call!” It’s one of Soren’s proxies, a second cousin with more ambition than rank, but the point lands. All eyes pivot to me.

I stand, slow. The bench squeals under the shift in weight. I raise my hands—not for silence, but for the appearance of control.

“Councilors,” I say, voice cold as the stone beneath us, “you’ve all heard the prophecy. You all know the cost of ignoring a seer’s warning. But you also know the law. You can’t have both.” The words taste like iron on my tongue, but I keep going. “If the Stray Moon dies by our hand, Nightwind falls from within. If we let her go, we risk all the world outside these walls.”

Soren opens his mouth, but I cut him off with a look. “I will hear every voice, but no more shouting. If you wish to speak, do so now.”

There’s a lull. Soren, to his credit, controls his temper enough to let the silence hang. Mira is already preparing her next line, but Tessa’s gaze flicks to me—her way of asking if I want her to tip the scale.

I shake my head, the subtlest motion.

Luka makes a low sound in his throat, almost a growl. “Let the girl speak,” he says, tossing his head toward Wren. “She’s the reason we’re here.”

It’s an unusual move. Luka doesn’t usually show his cards until the kill is certain. The council shifts in surprise.

Wren straightens, her voice hoarse but audible. “You’re all afraid of the prophecy, not me. Kill me, exile me, chain me up in your dungeons—it won’t matter. You’re just looking for someone to blame when the moon decides to fuck you.”

The effect is instant. Some of the younger councilors grin, a few of the old guard recoil as if she’s spit at their feet. Mira almost smiles, but Soren hammers the rail again.

“This isn’t about fear, girl. It’s about the pack. We protect the blood. You’re an aberration—a threat to every wolf in these walls.”

Wren shrugs, chains rattling. “Then why haven’t you done it already?”

I see the crack in Soren’s anger. It’s the oldest trick: show you don’t care, and the ones who do have to scramble to explain themselves.

I lean forward, putting every ounce of Alpha behind the words. “If anyone here can provide evidence that Cade has endangered the pack, speak now. If not, we move to vote.”

Nobody moves. Not a single hand goes up.

I nod. “The motion is threefold: kill, exile, or contain.” I glance at Tessa, who produces a slip of paper and three black stones from her pocket. “You know the protocol. Mark your choice and place it in the vessel.”

The voting is fast, efficient, brutal. The stones clatter into the copper bowl one by one, each drop echoing through the chamber. Tessa collects them, counts, then hands me the result.

The tally is exactly as I expected: kill, four; exile, four; contain, five.

I hold the bowl up for all to see. “Majority for containment,” I announce, letting the decision ring. “Cade stays. Under guard, under my authority. Any councilor wishing to contest may challenge—formally.”

Soren stands, bristling, but Mira grabs his arm and shakes her head. The message is clear: not yet. The old man sits, fuming, and the sweat on the baby-faced councilor at his side goes cold.

I watch Wren absorb the verdict. Her shoulders don’t drop, her jaw doesn’t unclench, but there’s something like relief in the way she sags against the bench. It won’t last, but it’s there.

I look out over the council, holding each gaze as long as it takes to ensure obedience. “This is not a reprieve. It is not mercy. It is insurance.” I slam my own fist on the armrest, just to let the room know who’s still in charge. “Cade will be monitored. Any incident, any risk to the pack, and the verdict is immediate.”

The council grumbles, but nobody moves to challenge.

I nod to Luka and Tessa. “End session.”

They rise in tandem, flanking me as I descend the dais. The torches spit and gutter, the circle already thinning as wolves file out. Soren storms out first, Mira trailing, her glove twisting in that same endless seam. The lesser councilors follow, their whispers already morphing the night into a new set of rumors.

I approach Wren last. She looks up, and for a moment, the chamber is just the two of us. The bond shivers, a low note in the bones.

“You made a lot of enemies tonight,” I say, voice low.

She grins, bloody and bright. “So did you.”

I can’t help it. I almost smile.

“Don’t make me regret it,” I say, and turn to leave, the echo of her laughter haunting the stone long after the torches go dark.