The Lycan King’s Broken Mate
In the afternoon, I prepare the space for the warding rite.
Table moved, carpet smoothed, stone cleaned. Rhaell draws in chalk, Mae cuts the canvas to cover it. Lunathiel arrives precisely—not early, not late. Three of us stand, with two assistants, plus guards outside. The rite is short, objective, each movement has purpose. We say the names, place our hands on the stone, seal it. No flash, no fainting. I cover the rune with canvas. The knot is simple, can be undone one-handed if needed. I never trust double knots.
As the fabric settles over the stone, Cassian clears his throat at the threshold. That signal, in our language, means: all is well, but take note. I step out. The hallway light i