Jason's knuckles were split again.
I noticed at breakfast—three weeks into Silvercrest, the morning routine already settling into something I didn't have a name for. He sat across from me at the small table in our stone house, his hand wrapped around a mug, and the bandages on his right hand were fresh but already seeping.
"You're training too hard," I said.
He shrugged. "Dara says I'm fine."
"Dara stopped telling you to rest two weeks ago. That's not the same as fine."
He looked at me over the rim of his mug. His eyes were tired but steady. "I'm not sitting still while you work yourself into the ground mapping rogue routes. Someone has to be able to protect you if they come."
I didn't argue. I pressed my thumb against the cold mark on my neck—habit now, constant—and finished my tea.
Outside, the dawn was grey and quiet. Jason left for the training grounds before I could say anything else.
---
I was three hours into a border frequency report when Iris appeared in the doorway of the intelligence office.
"Alexander wants you in the main hall," she said. Her voice was even, but her eyes moved over my face in a way that made my wolf—still so faint, still barely there—stir uneasily.
"Now?"
"Now."
I set down my pen. I followed her.
The main hall was not crowded, but it was occupied. Alexander stood near the center table with Caleb, his Beta, and two border warriors I recognized from patrol rotations. On the table between them lay a man.
Not dead. Restrained. Silver cuffs on his wrists and ankles, his shirt torn, his breathing shallow. His scent was wrong—rogue, layered with something chemical. Wolfsbane.
Alexander looked up as I entered. His expression did not change.
"Miss Hamilton," he said. "This man was intercepted on the southern road four hours ago. He was carrying silver-tipped claws and a route map. The map included your morning intelligence run."
My wolf went very still.
I stepped closer. The rogue's eyes tracked me, unfocused but aware. His lips were cracked. Someone had already questioned him.
"He talked," Caleb said. He did not look at me. He was watching Alexander. "Full commission. Name, payment, route. All of it."
Alexander's jaw tightened. "Anastasia Scott. Luna of Ironveil. She provided the silver, the route, and the coin."
I heard the words. I understood them. But my body did not react the way I expected it to. No shock. No anger. Just a cold, settling certainty, like a door I had been holding closed finally locking from the other side.
"She tried to kill me," I said. My voice came out flat.
"Yes."
I looked at the rogue. His breathing was uneven. The wolfsbane was still working through his system, suppressing his wolf, leaving him human-slow and vulnerable.
"What happens to him?" I asked.
Alexander's eyes met mine. "Lycan Council custody. Attempted murder of a former Luna under diplomatic protection. He'll be sentenced within the month."
I nodded. I should have felt something. Relief, maybe. Vindication. But all I felt was the cold mark on my neck and the faint, distant ache of my wolf trying to wake up and failing.
Caleb stepped forward. He held a sealed envelope—thick parchment, the Silvercrest crest pressed into red wax.
"I'm delivering this to Ironveil," he said. "Personally. To Alpha Dominick. The confession is documented. Witnessed. Signed by the rogue under wolfsbane suppression. He can't bury it."
I looked at the envelope. I thought about Dominick opening it. Reading it. Seeing Anastasia's name in ink.
I thought about him not believing it.
Or worse—believing it, and not caring.
"Go," I said.
Caleb left.
---
I did not go back to the intelligence office. I walked to the treeline instead, past the training grounds where Jason was sparring with two warriors at once—his speed unnatural, his wolf still dormant but his body moving like it wasn't. Dara stood at the edge of the ring, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable.
I kept walking.
The trees were quiet. The air smelled like pine and cold earth. I sat down on a fallen log and pressed both hands against my face.
My wolf stirred. Not a voice. Not a presence. Just a faint, aching pressure in my chest, like something trying to surface through ice.
I waited.
She didn't come.
Behind me, I heard footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. I didn't turn.
Alexander sat down on the other end of the log. He did not speak. He did not ask me how I was feeling or if I needed anything. He simply sat, his hands folded loosely between his knees, his gaze on the trees.
We stayed like that for a long time.
Finally, he said, "Your brother is faster than he should be."
I blinked. "What?"
"Jason. Dara flagged it. His strength, his speed—they don't match a dormant wolf. She's adjusting his training, but she thinks there's something else."
I turned to look at him. His profile was calm, thoughtful, the way it always was.
"Something else like what?"
"She doesn't know yet." He paused. "But she's keeping notes."
I looked back at the trees. My wolf stirred again, faint and restless.
"He's all I have left," I said quietly.
Alexander's voice was steady. "Then we'll make sure he's safe."
I believed him.
I didn't know why, but I did.
---
That night, I sat at my desk and tried to work. The reports blurred. My hand kept going to my neck.
Somewhere east, in Ironveil, Caleb was handing Dominick an envelope.
Somewhere in that pack house, Anastasia was standing where I used to stand.
And somewhere in the hollow space where my wolf used to be, something was starting to crack.
