CARVED IN MOONFIRE

The messenger stumbles over his own feet as he bursts through the heavy oak doors. That is my first warning. In seventeen years of navigating the razor-sharp politics of the Blackwater Pack, I’ve learned that silence is a weapon and protocol is our only shield. Council meetings are sacred. We don't get interrupted. Even when the borders are fraying, even when the winter kills our livestock, we finish our sentences. We maintain the mask of the Alpha. So, when the side door slams open mid-sentence during Alpha Soren’s petition, the sound is like a gunshot. Every head at the long mahogany table snaps toward the intruder. A pale-faced runner, barely out of his teens, stumbles across the floor. He isn't just out of breath; he looks like he’s seen a ghost. My heart, usually a steady, disciplined drum, gives a sudden, violent kick against my ribs. He stops in front of me, his knees nearly buckling. "For Alpha Blackthorn." His voice cracks, high and thin with a terror that chills the room. "It’s urgent. The regional seal." I reach out and take the packet. My fingers are steady—a mask I’ve worn so long it’s practically fused to my bone—but my pulse is screaming in my ears. The weight of the parchment is heavy, the wax seal a deep, arterial red. This isn’t a request for a trade route. This isn’t a grievance about a stray wolf. This is a directive from the High Council. "Continue without me," I say, my voice sounding like grinding stones. I don't frame it as a request. I don't look at the seventeen Alphas watching me with eyes like hungry vultures. I step into the dim, cold hallway, the shadows of the mansion swallowing me whole. I break the seal. It takes forty seconds to read. Forty seconds for my entire world to tilt and shatter. Gregor Valen—the Alpha of the North and a man who has spent a decade trying to find a c***k in my foundation—has filed an official territorial claim. Not a dispute. A claim. He’s citing "submission clauses" buried in a regional charter forty years old. Clauses that, according to the filing, legally authorize a dominant authority to absorb a secondary pack in cases of governance irregularity. Governance irregularity. The words are a slap. A lethal insult. I fold the document, pressing the sharp, jagged edge of the paper into my sternum until the pain grounds me. I need to breathe, but the air in the hallway feels like it’s been replaced with lead. "You've read it." I don't startle. I’d know that voice in a crowded stadium. It’s deep, calm, and carries a weight that usually makes me feel like I’m home. Now, it just makes my skin crawl. Reid is leaning against the stone wall six feet away, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His dark hair is mussed, a single thread of silver catching the flickering light of the wall sconce. For eight years, he’s been my Second. For six, he’s been the man who knows the shape of my soul. For four, he’s been the father of my daughter, Wren. He is my rock. My partner. The person I trust with the secrets I don't even tell myself. So why does he look so damn unsurprised? "The submission clauses," I say, my voice a hollowed-out version of itself. "Have you seen these before, Reid?" Reid doesn’t answer immediately. He pauses. That’s his tell. Reid Blackwood never hesitates unless he’s calculating the cost of the truth. He’s looking at me with those hazel eyes, running calculations behind them that I can no longer read. "They might be legal," he says finally. "That’s the problem." I feel a cold sweat break out across the back of my neck. "Legal? How? We’ve run this pack with perfect transparency for nine years." "Gregor didn't find these on his own, Nora." Reid takes a step toward me, his hand reaching out as if to touch my shoulder, but I flinch away. His hand hangs in the air for a second before he drops it. The rejection is a physical blow between us. "Reid," I whisper, the heat of betrayal starting to burn in the back of my throat. "What are you not telling me?" "I had a surveillance report on Gregor’s movements three weeks ago," he says, his voice flat, devoid of the apology I’m begging to hear. "I thought it was posturing. I was trying to handle it before it reached your desk. I was hoping I was wrong." "Three weeks?" I choke out the words. "You’ve known for three weeks that our home was under threat, and you let me sleep next to you every night without a word?" "I was protecting you." "You were betraying me!" My voice rises, echoing off the stone walls. "There is no protection without truth, Reid. Not in this house. Not in this pack." He doesn't argue. He doesn't defend himself. He just stands there, steady and infuriatingly calm, while my world burns. "Call Callum," I command, the Alpha in me rising to drown out the woman who wants to scream. "Tell him to meet us at the house. Now." I don't wait for his response. I turn and walk back into the council room. Seventeen Alphas are whispering, their heads tilted toward each other like snakes. I slam the document onto the center of the table. "Change of agenda," I snarl, my eyes locking onto every man in the room. "Gregor Valen thinks he can absorb Blackwater. He thinks he can walk into my home and take what is mine." I lean forward, my knuckles white against the wood. "He is wrong. And if any of you are thinking of siding with him, know this: I will burn every forest in this territory before I let a Valen flag fly over my gates." The room goes deathly silent. But as I look at Reid, who has followed me back in, I see it—a flicker of something in his gaze. Not fear. Not pride. Recognition. As I turn to leave, a second runner enters, breathless. He doesn't go to me. He goes to Reid. He whispers something in Reid's ear, and my partner—my lover—turns as white as the parchment in my hand. He looks at me, and for the first time in six years, there is a wall in his eyes I can't climb over.