Chapter 21 – Building the Cage for Power
1540 Words
By evening, my head feels like it’s been used as a drum.
The talk with Varin bleeds into another with the King, which bleeds into an argument with three of his advisors about “scope” and “precedent” until the words all blur.
Scope. Precedent. Limits. Accountability.
All the things no one ever gave me when they slapped “weak” on my forehead and walked away.
Now I’m supposed to build them for myself.
Perfect.
We end up in the old map room—dusty shelves, rolled scrolls, one long table scarred by decades of elbows and spilled ink. The King perches at the far end, sleeves rolled, hair mussed from running his hand through it too many times. His beta, Dax, and his gamma, a sharp-eyed strategist named Corren, flank him.
I stand at the other end, charcoal in hand, staring at a fresh sheet of parchment like it personally offended me.
“Charter of the Moon’s Commission,” I write at the top.
The letters look too big. Too final.
“You can change the name,” Dax offers. “Make it something more terrifying. ‘Nyrel’s League of Mildly Threatening Bureaucrats,’ maybe.”
“That’s too many words,” I say. “Even for me.”
The King’s mouth twitches. “Focus,” he says, but his eyes are warm.
“Fine,” I mutter. “We start with what we don’t get to do.”
Three pairs of brows rise.
“Unusual strategy,” Corren says. “Most people start by grabbing as much power as they can reach.”
“That’s how you get temples full of chains,” I say. “And Councils who think they’re gods.”
His mouth tightens, but he nods.
I write, speaking as I go.
“‘The Moon’s Commission shall not:’
– ‘Conduct experiments, detentions, or magical restraints on any wolf without informed consent and oversight from at least two non‑Commission Lunas or Alphas.’
– ‘Hold wolves without charge or clear timeframe.’
– ‘Act in secret on matters that affect more than one pack.’”
The words scratch out stiff and awkward, but they’re there. Lines my future self won’t be able to cross without leaving a mark.
“Transparency,” Corren says slowly. “You’re making it harder to do anything quietly.”
“That’s the point,” I say. “No more ‘for your own good’ in dark rooms.”
The King nods, expression intent. “And what can you do?”
I take a breath.
“Investigate reports of abuse of the new laws,” I say, writing as I speak. “Advise on cases involving unusual magic or wolfsbane effects. Advocate for pups, Lunas, and ‘anomalous’ wolves when their own packs fail them.”
“Define ‘fail,’” Dax says immediately.
I grimace. “We’ll need criteria. Patterns. Reports from multiple sources. This can’t just be ‘Nyrel saw something she didn’t like.’”
“Shame,” Dax says. “I was looking forward to that.”
The King ignores him. “You’re building yourself into the law as much as you’re building the law into yourself,” he says quietly.
“Terrifying, isn’t it?” I say.
“Necessary,” he counters.
We work.
For what feels like hours, the room fills with the scratch of charcoal and the rustle of parchment. Every clause I propose gets prodded, turned, sometimes gutted. Every loophole Corren spots, we either seal or consciously leave, marking it for later review.
At some point, Varka shows up with a tray of bread, cheese, and something that might have started life as stew. She drops it on the table with a grunt.
“Eat,” she orders. “If you die of hunger in here, I’m telling everyone it was because you got drunk on your own legislation.”
“Yes, Beta,” Dax says meekly, snatching a heel of bread.
Eventually, I’m left staring at a page full of my own cramped handwriting.
Limits. Powers. Reporting obligations. A requirement that at least half the Commission be wolves without noble blood or formal rank.
“Last part,” the King says. “Who leads it?”
Silence.
Everyone looks at me.
Ridiculous question. The name is literally on the top.
My first instinct is to say not me. To nominate some faceless, responsible adult with fewer sharp edges and more patience.
But I see Tavi’s hopeful eyes, Brann kneeling, Lysa clutching my sleeve.
I see my own hands, years ago, pressed white-knuckled to stone while a Council junior called me “broken” and no one in the room said stop.
“I do,” I say. “For now. Until there’s someone better. And there will be, if we do this right.”
The King’s gaze holds mine, steady.
“I’ll sign that,” he says.
Varin’s voice comes from the doorway.
“So will I.”
We all turn.
He’s leaning against the frame, arms folded, watching with that perpetual air of someone who’s two steps ahead and three steps unimpressed.
“How long have you been standing there?” I demand.
“Long enough to hear you voluntarily put a leash on your own office,” he says. “Not something I expected from a girl who just told me to go to hell in front of a pack.”
“Still happy to repeat it,” I mutter.
One corner of his mouth twitches. “No need. For the record—” he nods at the parchment “—this will make the Council elders foam at the mouth. Some because they hate limits. Some because they hate seeing an upstart Luna draft better safeguards than they ever managed.”
“Is that your poetic way of saying you’ll back it?” the King asks.
Varin inclines his head. “Provisional. With a few notes.”
“Of course,” I say. “You people always have notes.”
“‘You people’?” he echoes, faintly amused.
“The ones who watched while I got branded broken and called it procedure,” I say. “Don’t worry, I’m still going to use you. That’s what you’re good at.”
His eyes flash with something that might, in a kinder man, be respect.
“Fair enough,” he says. “One comment, then: you’ve written a fine cage here, Luna. For yourself, for those who come after you, for anyone tempted to twist your Commission into something ugly. But you’re assuming the worst monsters will always wear crowns or Council badges.”
My skin prickles.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Power attracts its own kind,” he says. “There will be wolves who worship you. Who think anything done ‘for the Perfect Luna’ must be good. Make sure your charter has teeth for them, too.”
The words land like ice water.
The King’s jaw tightens. “We have no intention of turning her into a goddess,” he says.
“Intentions change,” Varin replies. “Paper doesn’t.”
He has a point. Again. Annoying man.
I grit my teeth and add another line.
“‘The Commission shall not claim divine mandate or act in the name of the Moon to circumvent law or consent. Any such claim shall be grounds for removal and trial.’”
“Happy?” I ask.
“Never,” Varin says. “But this helps.”
He steps forward, laying two fingers lightly on the parchment.
“This isn’t perfect,” he says. “Nothing is. But if it had existed twenty years ago, there are wolves who might not have ended up in chains under my feet.”
There’s something raw in his voice I’ve never heard before.
Maybe I’m imagining it.
“Then we write their names into the spaces between the lines,” I say softly. “And make sure no one forgets why the ink’s there.”
The King’s hand finds the edge of the parchment, steady.
“Then it’s settled,” he says. “We send this draft to the Council. We start enforcement here. In Ashridge. Under the very noses of the wolves who once decided Nyrel was a convenient lesson.”
My stomach flips.
Ashridge. My pack. My first battlefield.
“I’ll talk to the warriors,” Varka says grimly. “And the pups.”
“I’ll speak to the Lunas,” Maera’s voice comes from the doorway behind Varin—when did she arrive? “Some of us are… more ready for this than others.”
The room feels suddenly too small for all the ghosts crowding into it.
My wolf presses against my ribs, eyes on the parchment.
We were the problem, once, she murmurs.
Now we get to be part of the solution.
I blow out a slow breath.
“Fine,” I say. “First law drafted. First cage built. Now we see who rattles the bars loudest when we start using it.”
The King smiles, slow and fierce.
“Just remember,” he says, “when they do… you’re not the one locked inside anymore.”
- Writer
