By eight in the morning, the dust from Sullivan’s shattered wall had settled, but the evidence was already logged.

I carried the complaint to Prince Caelan’s office myself. Four sworn statements from my Bloodmoon escort, the bent iron ram Sullivan’s enforcers had used on my door, and two wolfsbane-tipped darts bagged in clear plastic.

A high-grade breach of Summit neutrality.

Caelan sat behind his dark mahogany desk. He didn't skim. He turned every single page, his sharp eyes taking in the logs, the photos of my splintered doorframe, and the medical scans of my guards. He didn't ask if I was shaken. He didn't offer empty words of sympathy.

He simply unscrewed the cap of his fountain pen, stamped the royal crest onto the header, and signed the order.

Within the hour, Sullivan was called to the Prince's carpet.

I stood in the adjacent ante-room, the heavy frosted glass muting their voices. Sullivan’s posture was stiff, his jaw locked tight. Under his buttoned dress shirt, the thick bandages covering the four claw marks across his chest strained every time he drew a breath.

Across from him, Caelan didn't lean forward. He didn't raise his voice or project his Lycan aura. He just sat there with the cold, unmovable stillness of someone who held the entire mountain in his palm. He slid the official censure across the polished wood.

The terms were absolute: Sullivan was barred from any contact with me or the Bloodmoon delegation outside of formal Council tribunals. One breach, one word in an unassigned hallway, and he would be stripped of his credentials and expelled from the Summit grounds in chains.

Sullivan stared at Caelan. For five seconds, the Alpha tried to find some crack in the Prince’s gaze, some scrap of leverage. He found nothing. Caelan looked back at him like a man watching an insect crawl toward a flame, merely waiting for it to arrive.

Sullivan picked up the pen. His knuckles went white, his hand trembling with suppressed rage as he scrawled his name on the acknowledgment.

He shoved the chair back and stormed out into the corridor.

His two remaining enforcers fell in behind him, but as they passed the frosted glass, they traded a quick, sideways look. It was subtle. Nervous. The kind of look men give when they realize the captain is steering straight into rocks.

Sullivan was marching too fast to see it.

***

The next morning, I was out before the sun cleared the pines.

Old habits from five years in the wild ran deep. Running human kept my head straight when my wolf was locked in silence. I hit the dirt trail along the Summit’s eastern boundary, the frost crunching under the soles of my sneakers, my breath misting in the freezing gray light.

He was already there.

A massive, dark-furred Lycan wolf sat near the treeline, half-hidden by the blue shadows of the pines. Caelan. He didn't pace. He didn't bare his teeth. He just watched me approach with unhurried patience, waiting without making it look like a trap.

I slowed my pace. I looked at the dark wolf, then down at my own boots.

*“Let me out,”* Veyra stirred, her voice smooth and hungry in my mind.

I stopped. I took one slow breath and let the wall fall.

Bones realigned in an instant. Silver-white fur ripped through the chill air. Veyra burst forward, her massive paws striking the frozen dirt, her silver coat catching the pale dawn. Seven years of suppression were gone, and she had no interest in wasting time.

We ran.

We didn't race each other. We didn't fight for the lead. Caelan matched my stride yard for yard, two giant predators carving a clean line through the damp pines. The wind roared past my ears, sharp and clean.

Inside my head, Veyra offered a single, flat observation:

*“Cedar and rain. Tolerable.”*

I didn't answer her. But I didn't veer away, either.

When we circled back to the boundary marker, the sky had turned a crisp, pale gold. We both shifted back behind the screen of tall cedars.

Caelan pulled his dark jacket over his broad shoulders. He wiped a streak of condensation from his cheek, looked down at me, and spoke in his normal, quiet tone.

"Your wolf is extraordinary, Claire."

"I know," I said.

A faint, genuine smile broke across his mouth. It wasn't smug. It wasn't rehearsed. He gave a slight nod, turned on his heel, and walked up the gravel path toward the main lodge.

Back in my quarters, I stepped in front of the mirror. The scent of cedar and winter rain clung to the collar of my running shirt.

I didn't scrub it off. For the first time in seven years, I didn't mark it down as a threat.

***

At noon, Cassian stepped into the narrow stone hallway outside the records room.

He leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on the empty floorboards. When I reached him, he didn't say hello. He reached into his coat and pressed a folded pink carbon slip into my palm.

It was torn from the Ironclad Healer’s private dispensary ledger.

"Lexi spent twenty minutes in the infirmary after breakfast," Cassian murmured, his voice dropping below the hum of the overhead vents. "She cornered the Healer. Demanded a concentrated wolfsbane dose. High grade. Enough to paralyze an Alpha-tier wolf in under thirty seconds."

I flattened the paper. The Healer had covered his own back. Lexi’s signature was scrawled right across the bottom line, dated this morning.

"She claimed it was pack security," Cassian continued, his scarred face hardening into stone. "She’s making her play at the formal pack banquet in three days. A ceremonial goblet. And she just called me into the Ironclad parlor ten minutes ago."

I met his gaze. "She wants you to carry it."

Cassian dipped two fingers into his breast pocket and drew out a small, wax-sealed glass vial filled with dark amber liquid.

He held it between our chests, the glass catching the cold sconce light.

"She told me to pour it into your wine the second you sit down," he said.