The Weight of Frost

Zyan gripped the arms of the leather chair behind his desk, knuckles white and ready to snap. The office felt like a pressurized chamber, the air dense with a violent static charge that made the fine hairs on his arms rise and sent prickling pain across his skin. Every breath felt like inhaling jagged glass as he stared at the mountain of logistics before him—an event that looked more like a funeral march than a celebration. Eight months into a leadership he never asked for, with the walls finally closing in, the atmosphere in the room was frantic, chaotic, and charged—an echo of the storm in his chest.

Across the room, Xander paced relentlessly from the door to the center, his movement predatory and unyielding, only adding to the tension in the air.

“I just don’t think I can do it, Xander. And for goddess’ sake, stop moving—you’re making the air in here vibrate,” Zyan snapped, his heart pounding a frantic, uneven rhythm. “The Warrior Games. It feels like a death sentence for my sanity. It’s barely been eight months since the massacre, and you want me to invite the world to watch us pretend we aren’t withering away? Every time I look at these plans I’m back in the dirt, hearing all the screaming. Don’t you think the pack will see this as a betrayal—a loud, vulgar insult to the dead?”

Xander stopped pacing, and the silence that followed was dense and electric, nearly visible with the friction between them. “Then let them come, Zyan!” Xander shot back, his eyes flashing with frustration. “If we cancel, the other packs won’t just see a pack still grieving—they’ll see a pack that’s only half what it used to be. Ripe for the picking. They’ll smell blood. We have to host these games to prove we’re still here, still standing. Your mother wouldn’t want her memory to be the reason her pack became prey.”

They stood at an impasse, responsibility and terror colliding, when the door suddenly opened.

Reagan walked in. Gone was her old, confident stride—she immediately gravitated toward Xander, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her cheek against his back, as if he were the only thing anchoring her to the present.

“Why does it feel so electrically charged in here?” she asked gently, her voice missing the sharp bite it once carried.

Before either man could answer, she pressed her face harder against Xander’s shirt. “Xander, your wolf is pacing right under your skin,” she murmured, reading him through the mate bond. “You’re trembling from stress.”

She lifted her head, shifting her gaze to her twin brother across the desk.

“And you,” Reagan said softly, a sad, knowing look spreading over her face, “you’re rubbing your jaw just like Dad used to when a meeting was going off the rails. You only do that when you’re afraid of making the wrong call for the pack.” She angled herself so she could see both men, her hand still on Xander’s hip. “So, out with it. What are we talking about?”

Zyan looked at his sister, a fresh wave of weariness washing over him. Once, Reagan had been a force of nature—the pack prodigy, first in the sparring ring, built of proud muscle and unbreakable will. Now, just looking at her hurt. The knit sweater hung from a frame ravaged by grief; her collarbones jutted sharply, her wrists looked too fragile for the world. The fire in her eyes was barely a spark.

Seeing her like this, Zyan felt the terrified little boy inside him go quiet as the Alpha took over. His resolve hardened. If dragging the pack into daylight—if hosting these games—meant even a chance of reigniting Reagan’s spirit, he would do it. Anything to get her back.

Still, his protective instincts warred with his Alpha duty. He didn’t want to add to her burden.

“It’s nothing, Reagan,” Zyan lied, trying to wave it off. “Just boring logistics. Winter supplies. Patrol rotations.”

She didn’t even blink. “Yep, I call bullshit.”

Zyan winced, breath catching in his chest as if bracing for a blow. Every muscle tensed.

“You’re a terrible liar, Zyan, and you always have been,” Reagan said, a flicker of stubborn fire returning to her hoarse voice. “You don’t rub your jaw over patrols, and Xander doesn’t pace over grain shipments. I may be weak, but I’m not stupid. Tell me.”

He looked at Xander, who gave a firm nod and a resigned shrug. Time to rip off the bandage. Zyan drew a deep breath, bracing for impact. “The Warrior Games. We’re deciding if we should host them this year,” he admitted, voice subdued. “It would mean a lot of work in a short time. If we do it, we have to pull everyone together and move fast—there’s so much that needs to be organized.”