Ashcroft doesn’t scream when they bind him.
He doesn’t rant.
He doesn’t beg.
He just watches me.
And that’s worse.
Morgan layered triple resonance restraints around him—silver threads interwoven with ward geometry so tight even divine markers can’t flare through them.
He kneels in the courtyard under full guard.
The pack doesn’t jeer.
They don’t celebrate.
They stare.
Because every wolf present knows what nearly happened.
Nearly severed.
Nearly lost.
Nearly extinct.
Asher stays inside.
I won’t let him see this part.
By midnight, Council transmission lines are flooded.
Helena appears on the central projection screen, her composure sharper than ever.
“We have visual confirmation,” she says. “Half the Council witnessed the attempt. Ashcroft has lost all remaining political c
