I did not drive north like someone running from something. I drove north like someone with an appointment.

The coordinates from my encrypted drive took me to a gate flanked by black iron and taller pines than anything Ironridge grew. Two guards stood there, armed the way pack guards are always armed—casually, until they aren't. I parked, stepped out, and walked toward them without hurrying.

"Name," the taller one said.

"Sloan Cooper. I'm requesting a formal audience with Prince Colt."

His eyes flicked over my single bag, my clean collar, the absence of any pack crest on my jacket. "Affiliation?"

"Former Luna of Ironridge," I said. "Current strategist. Unaffiliated."

That got a look between them—quick, unreadable. One of them murmured into a radio. I waited, hands folded, spine straight, the way I'd stood through a hundred council meetings that weren't mine to run. Fifteen minutes later, a runner escorted me through the gate.

They did not put me in a waiting room. They put me in the formal council chamber—long table, high windows, a dozen empty chairs arranged by rank. A test, and not a subtle one. I understood it the moment I walked in, and I made myself understand it calmly.

Colt was already seated when I entered. He didn't rise. He didn't offer me a chair either, which meant I waited by the door until he gestured, once, toward the seat across from him.

I sat. I did not thank him for the permission.

"You've come a long way to request an audience with someone you've never met," he said. His voice was even, unhurried, the kind that made you want to fill silences just to see what he'd do with them. I didn't fill it.

I set the encrypted drive on the table between us instead.

"Ironridge's complete territorial defense plans are on that drive," I said. "Every patrol route, every alliance condition, every supply chain vulnerability, documented over ten years. I'm offering it to you in exchange for Blackveil's protection and a permanent seat at your war council."

Four sentences. I'd practiced them in the car so they wouldn't shake.

Colt studied me. Not the way Braxton used to study me—looking for compliance, for the shape of obedience under my skin. Colt looked at me like I was a puzzle whose pieces hadn't finished arriving.

"That's a significant offer," he said, "from a woman with no pack backing it."

"I don't need a pack to back information that's accurate."

Something flickered at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile. He leaned forward slightly, and I watched his nostrils flare, faint and controlled, like a man cataloging a scent he couldn't place. His expression shifted. Just barely. Something careful moved behind his eyes.

"Agreed," he said, before I expected it. "Terms accepted."

He didn't look away from my face for the rest of the meeting.

---

The next morning, he introduced me to his war council in the same chamber, six ranked wolves seated where empty chairs had been the day before. He said my name first, before my history, before anything about Ironridge.

"Sloan Cooper. She built Ironridge's entire strategic infrastructure for a decade. Her materials are the foundation of our new counter-posture." He didn't say *former Luna*. He didn't say *Omega*. He said *strategist*, and let that sit in the room until it became fact.

I'd been assigned a windowless room in the interior wing. By the time the council meeting ended, my bag had been moved—no explanation, no note—to a room on the eastern side with glass walls on three sides, moonlight already pooling across the floor even at midday shadow.

I stood at the threshold for a long moment before I unpacked anything.

Then I crossed the room, pressed my palm flat against the cool glass, and looked out at grounds I didn't recognize yet. Something in my chest moved. Small. Distant. A flicker so faint I almost mistook it for imagination.

My wolf. Stirring. For the first time since the cellar.

I didn't chase it. I just breathed, slow and even, and let the glass hold the shape of the moon against my skin.

---

The message came through Colt's intelligence network four days later, delivered flat and without ceremony in a briefing I sat through with the rest of the council.

"Ironridge has located her," the report said. "Alpha Braxton is aware of her presence at Blackveil."

Colt's eyes moved to me once, checking. I gave nothing back.

Two weeks after that, a second report. Braxton's legal Beta, Reid, had filed a claim before the Lycan Council—an archaic statute, unmarked Luna as unclaimed pack property, demanding formal adjudication and return.

The room went quiet around me. I felt the old mark on my neck pulse once, cold, distant, like a phone ringing in a house I no longer lived in.

"The Council is obligated to hear it," Colt said. His voice hadn't changed, but his eyes hadn't left mine either. "A tribunal date will be set."

I folded my hands on the table.

"Good," I said. "Let them set it."