Chapter 144

Richard

By the time the pyre had cooled and Darius’s name was already being recast in rumor, I stood at the center of the great hall, flanked by council members who looked too tense to be soothed by ceremony. Cameras framed the back of the chamber, their lenses gleaming under the chandeliers like eyes waiting to record every misstep. Journalists, civilian liaisons, senior Pack officers, all waiting for confirmation that the worst had passed, that we were steady again.

I adjusted the cuffs of my jacket and stepped up to the podium, the wood worn smooth from decades of post-crisis addresses. Every time I stood here it felt heavier. The ghosts of previous speeches pressed into my shoulders.

“Yesterday,” I began, “justice was carried out under Old Law. A traitor was identified, detained, and burned as tradition requires. Not for vengeance. For closure. For containment. For safety. He had access to systems no enemy ever should have, and now he doesn’t.”

There was a rustle of movement. A few council members exchanged glances. One aide scribbled something onto a folded notepad. No one interrupted. No one challenged.

“However,” I continued, “his death does not mean the danger has passed. Nor does it erase the betrayal we allowed to fester inside our ranks. We are not simply restoring calm. We are rebuilding vigilance.”

I listed the directives plainly, clearly, without leaving room for interpretation. An independent audit of every ventilation system in the House and every satellite ward, reinforced security protocols across all bell tower structures, a thorough line-by-line review of who accessed emergency codebooks, relay triggers, and key fobs over the past six months, civilian access to reviewed surveillance summaries, and, most controversially, a medical screening initiative for anyone who suspected they might have been exposed to chemical agents,

“We will make this right,” I said. “Not in silence, not behind doors. This Pack is not a fortress unless we are willing to expose its cracks.”

I stepped down. The cameras didn’t stop. They never stopped. I could feel the attention clinging to my back like static. The murmurs from the gathered crowd deepened into something more restless. When I exited the chamber through the east hallway, the sound sharpened into rhythm: chants, footsteps, the thrum of voices pressing against the gates. The protests had returned, louder this time, more organized, and more suspicious.

Since returning to the Pack House after our unexplained disappearance during the rut, my support among the outer circles had begun to falter. Whispers had spread. That I had vanished in a time of crisis. That I had let others die while hiding behind locked doors. No one said it aloud in council chambers, but out there, on the streets, in the schools, in the barracks, doubt had taken root. The Hollow attacks had shaken us. My absence, however justified, had cracked the illusion of control.

Now the people wanted more than statements. They wanted proof we were still worthy of leading them.

I found her outside, in the rosemary garden near the warded gate. She had her shoes off again, and her hair was tied up in a way that exposed the pale edge of her neck. There was a clipboard on her knees and a thick pen in her hand. Her entire posture screamed control, intent, as if she could write herself into steadiness.

“There’s going to be a hearing,” I said.

She didn’t even look at me. “Of course there is.”

“They want us to speak together. For optics. For a united front.”

She finally glanced over, just long enough to let the accusation sink in. “To prove I haven’t lost it. To make sure everyone watching believes I had the chance to kill him and chose not to. That I wasn't too broken or too far gone or too dangerous to finish the job myself.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

She handed me the clipboard. Her notes were brutal, effective, full of operational flowcharts, redundancy models, and population control tracking across the outer wards, I didn’t even have to ask what they were for.

“You’ve been preparing for this already.”

“I’ve been preparing since the day they looked at me like a threat and not a person.”

I stared at her. Her scent lingered in the air, restless and low, and my own instincts sharpened in response. I could see the pulse at her throat ticking faster when I got too close. She was trying to keep it in check, but the effort itself had a heat to it.

I wanted to touch her. I didn’t.

I wanted to ask if she remembered last night, when she’d crawled into my lap after midnight like she was starving for contact, then cried when I pulled away. It hadn’t even been about sex. She had just needed something she didn’t know how to name.

That scared me more than if it had been physical. And the way she was pretending now, so composed, so clinical, I wondered if she didn’t remember at all. Or if she was working so hard to pretend nothing happened that she had convinced herself it didn’t.

But I didn’t ask. And she didn’t mention it either.

Amelia

By the time I made it down the stairwell, the protest had swelled to almost sixty. Families, retired soldiers, students from the training academies, all standing together. There were signs, some angry, some pleading. Bells had been drawn in red paint. One of the posters just read “PROVE IT” in block capitals, another had a list of the nursery children’s names, the ones who had been exposed. No one had died, but it hadn’t been nothing.

I didn’t go out there to win them over. I went because if I didn’t, someone else would.

The woman with the braids stepped out from the front row. “You said the bells were secure,” she called. “Then they rang again.”

I stopped at the base of the stairs and made my voice carry. “We believed they were. They were checked, locked, warded, but someone had deeper access. We’re tracing every breach now. It wasn’t negligence. It was infiltration.”

Another man stepped forward. “Why haven’t you arrested more people? Why are we still hearing rumors about sabotage?”

“We’ve arrested two,” I said. “And we’re following the trail of the third. But we can’t promise comfort over accuracy.”

A murmur passed through the crowd. Someone raised a tablet and started recording. I kept my hands in view.

“I’m not here to smooth things over. I’m here because you deserve the truth. And because this Pack cannot survive another lie.”

Someone asked something about Richard. Another shouted about the Old Law.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t raise my voice. “There will be audits. Transparent ones. There will be hearings. And if I break that promise, you won’t have to push me out. I will leave on my own.”

The silence that followed wasn’t approval. It was recognition. And that mattered more.

Later, when I slipped back inside and walked the halls alone, I could still feel the press of their eyes and the weight of their trust settling over my shoulders like armor that didn’t quite fit. For now, it would hold. But I didn’t know for how long.