Exiled Wolf, Fated Luna

Chapter 16 – Called to Account

The conference room feels smaller than it did during Bran’s orientation tour.

Maybe it’s because today it’s full.

Darian sits at the head of the long table, shoulders squared, bandaged arm resting on the polished wood. Vael takes the seat on his right, Bran on his left. Tharos stands against the far wall with Corren, a silent wall of muscle.

Erynn steers me to a chair halfway down, then slides into the one beside mine like a buffer. The wood under my hands is cool; the air smells like coffee, paper, and the faint metallic tang of Darian’s healing blood.

The big screen on the wall flickers to life.

Elen Frostwail’s face appears, remote but painfully sharp, framed by stone and books in whatever Council bunker she calls home. Today her hair is tied back in a severe knot, jaw set tighter than usual. Beside her sit two wolves I don’t know—older, both wearing the neutral expression of people used to being listened to.

“Grimvale,” Elen says. “Thank you for answering on short notice.”

“You said Helix and rogues in the same sentence,” Darian answers. “You get our undivided attention for that.”

Her gaze flicks to his bandage. “I see your last encounter wasn’t bloodless.”

“We’re breathing,” Vael says. “He’s grumpy. Situation normal.”

One corner of Elen’s mouth almost moves. Then she sobers. “We received a report from one of our human contacts this morning. Helix is… shedding skin. Shutting down some sites, moving others.”

“Because we hit one of their main facilities,” Bran says. “We expected that.”

“Not like this,” Elen replies. “They’re not just retreating. They’re pivoting. Consolidating resources around specific targets.”

Her eyes cut, deliberately, to me.

My stomach drops.

“Vexa Wolfsbane,” she says. “You’ve become an uncomfortably bright point on their map.”

The room seems to tighten around my chair.

Darian’s jaw flexes. “Specifics.”

Elen pulls a folder from somewhere off‑screen, flips it open. “Intercepted communications mention ‘the Hollowpeak anomaly’ and ‘the Grimvale empath.’ They’ve correlated enough sightings and results from your raids to realize those are the same person.”

Heat drains from my face.

Erynn’s hand finds my knee under the table, grounding.

“They’re moving assets,” one of the unknown Council wolves adds, voice gravelly. “We believe they’re shifting away from mass captures toward high‑value individuals.”

“Less cages,” Vael mutters. “More leashes.”

“Exactly,” Elen says. “If they can’t easily stock warehouses with random wolves, they’ll try to acquire a few they consider strategically useful. Healers. Seers.” Her gaze pins me. “Empaths.”

I swallow. “They already sent one after me.”

“And failed,” Elen says. “Which will make you both more tempting and more personal for them.”

Darian’s power spikes, a silent snarl that brushes my skin even from down the table. “They can be tempted to jump off a cliff,” he says. “They’re not getting her.”

“This isn’t a threat call,” Elen says. “It’s a coordination call. We need to adjust how we handle Helix now that they’re adapting to you.”

“To us,” I correct before I can stop myself.

Her brows rise a fraction. “To you and Grimvale, then.”

Bran leans forward, steepling his fingers. “What’s the ask?”

“We want Vexa on the Council’s taskforce for Helix,” Elen says briskly. “Officially.” A beat. “And we need Grimvale’s operations against them to stop being… improvised vigilante strikes and become part of a coordinated front.”

Darian’s laugh is a short, humorless sound. “Translation: you want to use what she can do, and you want a leash on how we fight.”

“We want to keep everyone alive,” Elen says, irritation ghosting under her control. “Your model is effective but unsustainable. You burn out your Lunu—” she glances at me, the title making my ribs ache “—or you get her taken, and not only does Grimvale fall apart, Helix gains exactly what they want. We can’t afford that.”

The word “taken” lands like a fist to the gut.

“And you think making her a Council asset helps?” Vael asks, voice sharp. “Paint a bigger target on her forehead, why don’t you.”

“We paint it where we can see it,” Elen says. “And we wrap as many shields around it as possible. Official status means more eyes, more claws ready if Helix moves. It also means we can tell other packs not to turn her away when she shows up at their doors asking questions.”

Silence settles, thick.

All their eyes move to me.

The girl from Hollowpeak wants to sink under the table. To say this isn’t my fight, I didn’t ask for any of this, let the people with teeth handle it.

But Helix already knows my scent.

Rogues already came to my bridge.

“We’re not deciding this without her,” Darian says into the quiet, eyes never leaving my face. “Vexa?”

The room waits.

Fear surges up my throat. I can taste chemicals and metal, the ghost of cages I never saw but feel like I did.

I think of Milo’s wrists under my hands.

Of Teren asking me how to walk out the door without choking.

Of Bran’s file, the line I wrote myself.

Does not let go.

My voice still shakes when it comes, but it comes.

“If I say no,” I ask, “do they stop coming?”

“No,” Elen says softly. “They just keep coming in the dark.”

My fingers curl on the tabletop.

“Then I’d rather see them,” I say. “And have them see me coming back.”

Darian’s hand closes into a fist on the wood, knuckles whitening. The bond flares—fear, fury, fierce pride all knotted together.

“We do this on our terms,” he says to Elen. “You want her on your taskforce, Grimvale is in the room every time. She doesn’t set foot in a Council compound alone. And if I decide you’re pushing her past her limits, I pull her. No arguments.”

“Agreed,” Elen says, almost before he finishes.

That surprises him. It surprises me.

“We’re not in the business of breaking the few wolves who can see what’s coming,” she adds. “We need you, Vexa. But not more than you need yourself.”

Bran nods slowly. Vael looks like she’d rather bite someone, but she doesn’t say no.

My heart is hammering so hard I’m amazed the table doesn’t shake.

“Fine,” I say. “Taskforce. Terms.” I look straight at Elen, because if we’re doing this, I’m not hiding behind anyone’s shoulder. “But you write me in your way, and I write myself in mine. No more files that talk about me like I’m not in the room.”

For a second, something that might be respect flickers in her eyes.

“Understood,” she says. “Welcome to the hunt, Vexa Wolfsbane.”

The screen goes dark.

In the silence that follows, the pack house seems to breathe around us—a low, steady exhale.

“Congratulations,” Vael says dryly. “You’re now official trouble.”

I blow out a shaky breath that might, if you squint, be a laugh.

“Guess we find out,” I say, “how far ‘does not let go’ can stretch before it snaps.”