His Broken Mate

Chapter Twelve: Between Teeth and Tongues

The council chamber wasn’t meant for war.

It was built for echoes—stone walls, high ceilings, a dais raised above the floor where wolves spoke in calm tones and veiled threats. But today, the quiet had teeth.

“She disobeyed the route we assigned,” Elder Cael snapped. “Took a patrol beyond the western ridge. No escort. No approval.”

“She found a body,” Elder Maren said flatly. “And a mark.”

The silence that followed was colder than before.

One of the older seers stirred in the corner, her pale fingers tightening around a carved wolfstone.

“What kind of mark?” someone asked.

“The kind that shouldn’t exist,” Maren replied. “Burned in. Ritual. Old. Athena believes it’s connected to the rot spreading through the borderlands.”

“Athena believes,” Cael repeated with scorn. “She dreams shadows and calls them prophecy.”

“She’s not wrong,” said Armand—the only one in the room not born to this territory, the only one who had been quiet until now. “She’s the one who predicted the attack. She’s the one who bled for this pack. And she’s the one out there digging up what the rest of you are too afraid to look at.”

“You speak like you want her to lead alone.”

“I speak like I’ve seen war before. And I know what it costs to ignore your sharpest blade because it doesn’t rest in the sheath you carved.”

A low murmur rippled through the room.

“She’s reckless,” Cael muttered. “Emotional. Dangerous.”

Maren looked up. Her eyes, clouded by age but sharp with something deeper, fixed on Cael like a knife.

“She’s nineteen. She’s seen more death than you. And she still came back.”

A pause.

“She’s not dangerous,” Maren added. “She’s awake.”

Outside, a horn sounded—low and brief. A patrol had returned.

Armand turned to the door. “Let her speak for herself.”

“She’ll speak,” Cael said darkly. “But so will we. Before she decides, she doesn’t need us anymore.”