I made it three miles past the border stones before my body quit listening to me.

The grass had gone from Ironvale green to rogue-land brown, patchy and cold under my palms when my knees finally buckled. I didn't fall so much as fold, one joint at a time, like something built wrong from the start. Judith's satchel landed beside me in the dirt, and I remember thinking, stupidly, that I needed to keep it clean, before the thought slid away into gray.

My wolf didn't rise to meet the pain. She hadn't risen for anything in weeks. I felt her the way you feel a held breath — there, technically, but airless, waiting for a release that wasn't coming.

I don't know how long I lay there. Long enough for the cold to stop feeling cold and start feeling like something else entirely, something patient and final. Then boots, close, careful not to crush the grass near my face.

"Coraline Bennett?"

I opened my eyes to a young man in gray-and-silver livery, a wax-sealed scroll in his hand. He crouched, not touching me, his face carefully blank in the way of someone trained not to react to what he found.

"I have a summons," he said. "From the Lycan Court. Prince Levi Ashford, personally." He held it out. The seal was silver, pressed with a wolf's head in profile. "I can carry you the rest of the way, if you'll allow it."

"No."

The word came out steadier than I expected, given the state of the rest of me. He blinked, opened his mouth to argue, and I got my hand under me and pushed myself up before he could finish the thought. My legs shook. I stood anyway.

"I'll walk," I said, and took the scroll, and tucked Judith's satchel back under my arm like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

He didn't argue again. He walked a respectful pace behind me the rest of the way, and I walked on my own feet through rogue land and into the reach of the Lycan Court, because I had crawled for Kannon enough times in one lifetime. I wasn't going to be carried into anything ever again.

---

The Lycan Court's outer gates were taller than anything Ironvale had, pale stone under floodlights, and the woman who met me there introduced herself as Sable Ashford, Future Beta, with the brisk efficiency of someone who processed grief for a living and had stopped flinching at it years ago.

"Formal grievance, healer's evidence, a death to report." She said it without cruelty, just accuracy, checking items off a list only she could see. "We'll log everything tonight. The Council will hear you in the morning." She led me down a corridor lined with tapestries I didn't have the energy to look at, and stopped at a door. "Rest. You'll need it."

I was three steps into the room when I heard him.

"Coraline."

Levi stood in the corridor behind me, taller than I remembered from the academy mats where we used to spar until our knuckles bled, older in the face but with the same watchful stillness. He didn't step closer. He didn't ask about the wound at my throat, though his eyes touched it once, briefly, and moved away like he'd decided it wasn't his to comment on yet.

"The Council convenes at first light," he said. "Bring everything you have."

"I intend to."

He nodded, and turned to go, and it was only then — in the space he left behind him — that I caught the scent. Woodsmoke. Something floral underneath it, night-blooming, faint as a held breath. It didn't belong to grief or to fear. It didn't belong to anything I recognized. But something behind my ribs, some cold, silent thing that had gone quiet the night of the rejection, shifted — just slightly — toward it, the way a plant turns toward a window it doesn't remember choosing.

I told myself it was exhaustion. I didn't have room in me for anything else.

---

The Council chamber was colder than I expected, marble and silver instead of Ironvale's warm wood, and I laid Judith's notebooks on the table one by one — the strain, the timeline, the antidote's chemistry, her own hand shaking more with each entry until it barely resembled writing at all.

"The Alpha of Ironvale was summoned," the lead arbiter said. "He has sent his Beta in his place."

Roland Voss stood at the far end of the chamber, a folded paper in his hand, not quite meeting my eyes. The arbiter took the statement and read it aloud, flat and clinical: *a legitimate political decision, made in the pack's best interest — the healer's death an unfortunate coincidence, unconnected to any breach of promise.*

The chamber went silent in a way that had weight to it, the kind of silence that comes right before something breaks.

Then the King rose from his throne.

He crossed the floor faster than a man his age should move, and stopped in front of me close enough that I felt his breath catch. His eyes dropped to the blood dried along my collarbone, and his composure — all of it, the crown, the ceremony, the decades of ruling a room without flinching — came apart at once.

"Who did this to you," he said, and his voice wasn't a king's voice anymore. It shook. "Where did this blood come from."

"My mate," I said. "My former mate."

He reached out — not touching, just close, like he needed to confirm something with his own senses that his eyes had already told him.

"This scent," he whispered. "I know this scent." His hands were trembling now, both of them. "You were stolen. Twenty-six years ago. From my nursery." He said it like each word cost him something physical to produce. "You are my daughter."

Somewhere behind my ribs, in the cold, silent place my wolf had gone to die weeks ago, something stirred — one faint tremor, small and impossible, like a coal no one remembered banking catching light in the dark.