The line is not drawn in anger.
It is drawn in memory.
⸻
Morning comes pale and quiet, as if the sky itself is unsure it deserves color after what was decided.
Zane has not slept.
The heir lies against his chest, finally calm, lashes dark against flushed skin. Too small to understand extortion. Too young to be the currency of anyone’s morality.
Zane presses his forehead to the child’s hair.
“This ends,” he whispers.
“Here.”
⸻
Jason stands at the lattice, hands steady now in a way that frightens him.
The fracture from yesterday has sealed—but not erased. A scar remains, faint and unmistakable.
“The system remembers,” he says quietly.
“So do I.”
Zane nods.
“So will the world.”
⸻
The wolves gather without being called.
No heat.
No fury.
Just grim resolve.
They feel it too
