Lyra’s POV
Lyra stayed where Lothian had guided her, standing close to him, by the side of the long council table, her hands clasped together in front of her as if that small action could keep her grounded.
The room felt larger now that she was fully aware of where she stood.
This was not the kitchen.
This was not the infirmary.
This was the council chamber, where pack matters were discussed, where decisions that shaped lives were made.
And suddenly, she was part of said council.
She felt small here, even with her unearned title, even with the faint approval she had received from Ronan moments ago.
The council members settled into their seats, the low murmur of voices filling the room like a restless tide.
Some glanced at her openly, curiosity clear in their eyes, while others pretended she was not there at all.
She preferred the second group.
Being unseen was safer.
Ronan moved back to the head of the table, his presence commanding without effort.
When he spoke, the room quieted almost instantly.
“We have an urgent situation,” he said, his voice calm but firm.
“The west border has been attacked.”
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water.
A ripple of tension spread through the room at once.
Chairs shifted.
Someone breathed in sharply.
Another council member straightened as if the air itself had grown heavier.
Lyra felt it press against her chest, tight and uncomfortable, like a warning she could not ignore.
Her mind moved before she could stop it.
She knew the packs in the west of Blackthorn.
Guardian Eamon had made sure of that.
He had drilled their names into her head until she could recite them even half asleep.
He had said knowledge was protection, especially for an omega who might be traded, sent away, or used as leverage.
She knew who supplied what.
Which packs controlled salt routes.
Which traded herbs.
Which had easy access to spice paths through the hills.
Crescent Pack lay west of Blackthorn.
The thought hit her hard.
If the west had attacked Blackthorn, did that mean her former pack was involved too.
Her fingers tightened together, her palms damp.
“Attacked?” one of the elders asked, disbelief thick in his voice.
“How?
After months of silence?
We have not had trouble from the west in months.”
Another elder nodded.
“The patrol reports have been clean.
Too clean, perhaps, but still clean.
You said so in the last council meeting,” he noted.
“Yes,” Ash answered before Ronan could speak again, stepping forward slightly.
“Two patrol units lost contact.
The strike was coordinated, based on the information we just received from the head patrol guard.”
The room filled with low voices at once.
“Coordinated how,” one voice muttered.
“Lost contact completely,” another added.
“That does not happen by accident,” someone else said.
Lyra kept her head lowered, listening carefully, her heart beating faster with every word.
She had no place speaking here.
Not yet.
Her role, as Guardian Eamon would always remind her, was to observe, to learn, to understand how these people thought and how they reacted under pressure.
“The west has always been unstable,” another council member said, rubbing his jaw.
“But this timing feels wrong.
Why would they launch an attack on Blackthorn after several months of doing nothing?”
“Exactly,” someone else added.
“If they wanted war, they would have pushed earlier.”
Ronan stepped forward then, his presence quieting the room without effort.
“That is because it is wrong,” he said calmly.
“Silence does not mean peace.
It means planning.”
The murmurs slowly died down.
Lyra swallowed, her thoughts spinning.
If Crescent had been planning an attack, she would have known.
The kitchen in her former pack knew everything that happened in the pack before anyone.
They had shared routes for gossip.
Her chest tightened painfully, and she forced herself to breathe, as the weight of that possibility settled over her.
Could she have missed something?
Maybe after she was sent away?
One of the elders cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence that had settled.
“Do we know which pack carried out the attack in the west?” he asked, his voice cautious.
“Or are we still guessing?”
All eyes turned toward Ronan.
“We do not know yet,” he said honestly.
Ash straightened, folding his hands in front of him.
“The attack was clean.
Too clean.
The patrol units were hit fast, and whoever did it covered their tracks well,” he said.
A few council members frowned.
“The head patrol guard has already taken a team to the west border,” Ash continued.
“They are looking into the site.
We should have clearer answers once they return.”
Ronan nodded once, acknowledging the report.
“But,” he added, his voice firm, “that does not mean we are blind.”
He stepped away from the head of the table, slowly pacing as he spoke, his presence drawing every eye in the room.
“There are four packs that share a direct border with us in the west,” he said.
“Any one of them could have been involved, either directly or by helping another.”
He lifted a finger.
“Stoneclaw Pack,” he said first.
“They have challenged our borders before.”
Another finger.
“Ironfang Pack,” he continued.
“They resent our control of the mountain passes.”
A low murmur followed.
“And Darkhollow Pack,” he said next.
“They have been quiet, but their silence has never meant peace.”
He paused then, his steps slowing.
Lyra felt it before she understood it.
A strange tightening in her chest.
A sense of being watched.
Ronan turned slightly, his gaze landing on her.
“And Crescent Pack,” he said.
The room shifted.
Lyra’s breath caught sharply, though she kept her face still.
Her fingers curled into her palms, nails pressing lightly into her skin.
Her pack.
She had known it was possible.
She had even expected it.
Still, hearing the name spoken aloud in this room, by him, made her stomach twist painfully.
A council member frowned.
“Crescent?” he asked.
“I thought they had little strength left.”
“They do,” Ronan replied.
“Which makes desperation likely.”
Lyra swallowed.
Her fingers tightened around each other.
His words echoed her own thoughts.
Someone had planned this.
Carefully.
Slowly.
Just like the poison.
Her heart skipped when she realized how closely these events mirrored each other.
Weakening the Alpha.
Distracting the pack.
Drawing attention away from the real danger.
Ash sighed.
“The south is also restless,” he said.
“Trade routes are being challenged.
If we divide our forces now, we risk losing control in both places,” he warned.
Lyra’s fingers curled slowly in her lap.
There it is.
Her mind began to move on its own, fitting pieces together the way Guardian Eamon had trained her to do.
She could see the pattern clearly now, so clear it almost made her breath hitch.
The west attacked.
The south stirred.
Noise.
Pressure.
Panic.
Just like the board.
Guardian Eamon’s voice echoed in her memory, calm and patient, as they sat across from each other with the Catch the Queen board between them.
The wooden pieces had been worn smooth from years of use.
“You do not attack the queen directly,” he had told her, tapping the edge of the board.
“You make her move.
You threaten the flanks.
You push the guards out of place.”
She remembered frowning, confused.
“But the queen is the goal,” she had said.
Eamon had smiled faintly.
“Yes.
And that is why you never let her know when she is truly in danger,” he had told her.