The report reached me during morning briefing.

Six Ironridge warriors showing symptoms now. Two had collapsed mid-shift during a training exercise—their wolves failing halfway through the transformation, which was the kind of biological failure that didn't happen unless something was deeply, systemically wrong. The scout who brought the intelligence was careful to keep his face neutral when he delivered it, but I caught the question underneath: did I know what was happening to them?

I did.

I returned to my quarters after the briefing and pulled my old wolfsbane protocol notes from the journal. The timeline was clean. Two days after I dismantled the last neutralization station, the first warrior showed fatigue. Four days, nausea and weakened healing. Six days, the failed shifts. It was exactly what I'd mapped two years ago when I first identified the contamination—except then, I'd been the only thing standing between Ironridge and collapse.

Now I wasn't standing there anymore.

My wolf stirred, restless but not guilty. She didn't mourn what we'd left behind. Neither did I. I locked the journal back in the box Silas had given me and left for the eastern rampart. There was a border alert earlier—minor, already resolved—but Declan had asked me to review the patrol response anyway. Not because he needed my analysis. Because he knew I worked better when I had something concrete to examine.

He was already there when I arrived.

The rampart overlooked Silvercrest's eastern perimeter, a long stone platform built into the ridge with clear sightlines across the forest below. Declan stood near the edge, hands braced on the parapet, studying the tree line with the kind of attention that looked casual but wasn't. He glanced up when I approached, nodded once, and returned his gaze to the woods.

I joined him. We stood in silence for a long time. The wind carried the scent of pine and cold earth. My wolf settled, quieter than she'd been all morning.

"The patrol response was clean," I said finally. "No gaps. They identified the incursion, contained it, and reported it inside the protocol window."

"I know." Declan's voice was quiet, unhurried. "I wanted your assessment anyway."

I looked at him. He was still watching the tree line, profile sharp against the sky, expression unreadable in the way it always was—except when he looked directly at me, and then something shifted that I didn't have a name for yet.

"Why?" I asked.

He turned his head slightly. Met my eyes. "Because your assessment is worth having."

It was such a simple answer. So matter-of-fact. At Ironridge, I'd built intelligence networks Chance never acknowledged and ran protocols he took credit for, and the one time I'd asked why he didn't include me in strategic council, he'd told me I was too focused on details to see the larger picture. Declan had just confirmed that my details were the picture.

I looked back at the forest. My throat felt tight. I didn't say anything.

The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable. Just… present. My wolf circled once inside my ribs and settled again, and I realized with a strange jolt that I wasn't calculating my next move. I wasn't mapping the exits or running contingencies. I was just standing here, and it didn't feel like a risk.

Somewhere past the hour mark, I spoke without planning to.

"Why haven't you asked about the scar?"

Declan went very still. Not tense. Just… focused, in the way he focused when something mattered. He didn't look at me. He kept his gaze on the horizon, and when he answered, his voice was steady and deliberate.

"Because you'll tell me when it matters," he said quietly. "And I can wait."

I pressed my lips together. The dead mark on my neck pulsed once, cold and hollow, but I didn't reach for it. I kept my hands on the parapet and let the wind pull at my hair and breathed through whatever was tightening in my chest.

Declan didn't push. Didn't ask a follow-up question. Didn't try to fill the silence with reassurance or strategy. He just stood there, patient and certain, like he'd already decided this was a thing he could afford to give me.

We stayed on the rampart another hour. I didn't leave when I normally would. My wolf was quiet. The scar stayed cold. But for the first time since the bonfire, I stood beside another wolf without armor, and the world didn't collapse.

When I finally turned to go, Declan walked with me as far as the war room. He didn't say anything else. Neither did I. But something had shifted between us—something I wasn't ready to name but couldn't ignore anymore.

I was halfway to my quarters when Silas found me.

"Chance is at the gate," he said, voice flat and professional. "Declan's handling it."

I stopped. My wolf surged upright inside me, sudden and furious. "Alone?"

"Yes."

I turned and walked toward the gate. Silas didn't try to stop me. He fell into step beside me, silent and steady, and we reached the perimeter just as Declan's voice carried across the clearing.

I stayed back, concealed by the gatehouse shadow. Silas positioned himself beside me without comment. From here, I could see everything.

Chance stood ten feet from the gate, shoulders squared, Alpha authority radiating from every line of his posture. He looked exactly the way he'd looked at the bonfire—certain, immovable, entitled to whatever he demanded. Declan stood opposite him, relaxed and unhurried, hands loose at his sides.

"I'm here for my Luna," Chance said. His voice carried the edge of Alpha tone, designed to compel. "She belongs to Ironridge."

Declan didn't move. Didn't react. Just looked at him with the same steady attention he'd given the forest from the rampart.

"No," Declan said quietly. "She doesn't."

Chance's jaw tightened. "I'm invoking pack authority—"

Declan released his aura.

I felt it from thirty feet away—a pressure so absolute it drove the air from my lungs. Not aggression. Not violence. Just power, vast and undeniable, settling over the clearing like a physical weight. Chance's wolf crumpled inside him. I saw it happen—saw his knees buckle, saw him hit the gravel hard, saw every ounce of Alpha authority drain from his posture as his wolf went silent and small.

Declan didn't move toward him. Didn't raise his voice. The aura alone held Chance pinned to the ground.

"The Lycan Council has been notified of the Ashveil infiltration at Ironridge," Declan said, in the same unhurried tone he used in the war room. "You will receive a formal summons. If you approach this gate again without invitation, the next meeting will be inside a Council cell."

He withdrew the aura. Chance sagged forward, gasping, his wolf still cowed and silent. Two Silvercrest guards stepped forward and escorted him to his car without touching him. He didn't resist. Didn't speak. Just climbed into the driver's seat and left, his hands shaking on the wheel.

I watched him disappear past the ridge. My wolf was utterly, perfectly still.

Declan turned and saw me standing in the shadow of the gatehouse. Our eyes met. He didn't apologize. Didn't explain. Just held my gaze for a long moment, and I understood without words that he'd known I was there the entire time.

I walked back to my quarters. Locked the door. Sat on the edge of the narrow bed and stared at the wall.

The scar on my neck was still cold. Still dead. But for the first time since the bonfire, I didn't feel like I was drowning.