Twenty-Six: Lucian

The Nightwind council chamber is a perfect circle, but tonight the geometry is all jagged lines—fear, ambition, the old blood feuds that turn every gathering into a game of knives. I stand with my back to the high windows, letting the moon’s glare bisect the room and paint half the council in white, the other in shadow. They like to think the effect is dramatic, but really it’s just for show. Wolves are pack animals, but in these meetings, every one is out for its own throat.

Wren sits chained to the stone bench at the center, a focal point designed to amplify shame. They left her wrists raw with the old silver, the kind that bites and lingers even after the cuffs come off. She’s hunched, head down, the mop of her hair hiding most of her face. I tell myself I’m glad I can’t see her eyes, that it makes this easier.

The rest of the room is an amphitheater of enemies. Tiered stone, ringed with benches wide enough for a wolf’s bulk and flanked at every cardinal point by a flag—Nightwind, of course, always at north, the others arrayed like the conquered dead. The elders fill the first row, their faces fossilized into permanent sneers. Beyond them, the juniors and the hunger dogs, the ones who haven’t yet learned the grace of stillness. Their energy is what keeps the room alive; it’s also what makes me want to shut it down with a single word.

I don’t look at her. Not directly. If I focus, I can taste the air—Wren’s scent, sour and sharp with pain, barely masked by the detergent stink of the borrowed clothes they gave her. Under that, the deeper, older smell of the chain itself, a warning baked into its molecules by centuries of pack law. Even from here, the bond throbs like a bruise. I keep my spine straight and my hands behind my back, as if posture could deflect attention from the storm in my chest.

The sound in the chamber is a low, grinding hum—elders muttering, councilors passing judgment in half-heard fragments, the shuffle of boots on cold stone. Every so often, a torch gutters in its bracket, the hiss of burning pitch filling the silence where a verdict might fall. They all want the same thing, but no one wants to say it first.

Tessa stands at my left, back ramrod-straight, her face blank as a new moon. She’s been here longer than most, and knows exactly what’s expected: loyalty without question, but not without eyes. Luka lurks to my right, hand resting on his hip in a casual way that fools no one—if the order comes down, he’ll be the first to move, and the last to regret it.

Across the circle, Jace holds his post with less grace. He’s watching Wren, or maybe watching me not watch her. Either way, he’s wound tight, eyes never quite still. I know what he’s thinking: the law is clear. The problem is, so is the bond.

The tension peaks just as the doors blow open with a sound like the start of a storm. Cold air rips through the chamber, torches bowing in their sconces, every head snapping toward the entrance as if on a single string.

Elowen Frost enters without hurry. The wind follows her, wrapping her silver-white hair around her head like a halo of smoke. Her skin is the color of salt, her eyes two chips of glacier, so pale they look almost blind. But there’s nothing she doesn’t see. She walks with her hands behind her back, the long coat trailing, and the silence that comes with her is total—no wolf in the room makes a sound, not even the ones who hate her most.

She is the only one I will not challenge in open court.

Elowen takes her time, letting her presence settle like hoarfrost over every row. The elders shrink back, even the ones who’ve killed seers before. The pups in the topmost benches lean forward, unable to look away. Tessa’s hands flex at her sides, an old instinct, and Luka’s eyes go flat as coins.

Elowen stops at the center, less than a yard from Wren. The girl doesn’t flinch, not even when the seer’s gaze flickers over her like a searchlight. I force myself to catalog every move, every detail, because anything less would be a dereliction of my office.

Wren’s wrists are double-cuffed, chain threaded through the iron rings set into the floor. Her hands are curled into claws, knuckles white, the skin beneath the manacles already puckered and angry. She wears the same too-large coat from last night, but the left sleeve is rolled up above the elbow, a detail that makes me want to break something.

Elowen circles her, slow as the moon. Every few steps, she lifts a finger, as if testing the air or stirring invisible water. The council watches, some holding their breath, some daring to whisper behind their hands. Wren keeps her head down, but I see the muscles in her jaw flex, the way her shoulders tremble not from fear, but from holding still when every nerve wants to fight.

The seer stops directly in front of Wren, so close that the cuffs brush her shin. The two of them are study in opposites: Elowen, all ice and clarity; Wren, a dark, smoldering knot of pain and refusal. The bond between us pulses, a reminder that even now, I am tied to this girl in ways the law never meant to allow.

“Stray Moon,” Elowen murmurs, voice soft but carrying. She doesn’t have to shout; the title is an indictment and a prophecy all at once.

The elders shudder, the words ricocheting through the stone like a curse. Even Luka, who pretends not to care, winces. Tessa glances at me, and for the first time, I let myself look back. She’s asking if I want this to happen. The answer is that it doesn’t matter.

Elowen tilts Wren’s chin up with a single finger. The touch is gentle, but the girl’s body reacts like it’s been shocked. Her eyes flick open, wide and black and so alive it hurts. For a moment, the room vanishes; there is only the circuit between Wren, the seer, and me.

The seer’s lips curl into a small, secret smile, as if she’s found exactly what she came for. She leans down, so close that the tips of her hair brush the girl’s cheek. When she speaks again, the voice is not her own.

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

The words hang there, suspended in the cold, for a heartbeat longer than nature allows. Then Elowen steps back, her face clearing as if nothing at all unusual has happened.

The council erupts—some in terror, some in fury, all in noise. I let them, just for a second, because that’s the only time I’ll ever get.

Elowen’s eyes find mine across the circle. She nods, infinitesimal, and I feel the command settle onto my shoulders like a new coat of skin.

I look at Wren, really look at her for the first time since the courtyard.

Her eyes are on mine. She’s not afraid.

Neither am I.

The future is here, and it’s got teeth.