Lyra’s POV
Eamon had moved two pieces at once.
One toward the west side of the board.
Another toward the south.
“Here,” he said.
“You attack the west tower.
Loud.
Obvious.
Let them panic.
Then you press the south line.
Not enough to break it.
Just enough to make them react.”
Lyra had leaned closer.
“So they split their guards,” she said.
“Exactly,” Eamon replied.
“And when the board is distracted, when the queen feels surrounded but does not know where the real threat is coming from…”
He had tapped the center piece.
“You strike the heart,” he had said.
Her heart skipped as the memory faded.
She realized how closely these events mirrored each other.
It was not random.
It was planned.
Too clean.
Too familiar.
Weakening the Alpha.
Stretching the pack.
Forcing mistakes.
The realization settled in her chest with cold clarity.
This was not the west acting alone.
It was not the south either.
This was the work of a single force, moving pieces across the board with careful intent.
One hand.
One mind.
One plan.
The attacks were never meant to win ground.
They were meant to pull Blackthorn apart, to make the Alpha chase noise while the real danger stayed hidden.
How the west and south were involved still remained a mystery.
Whether they were willing allies, pressured pawns, or simply unaware tools, Lyra could not yet tell.
But one thing was clear to her now.
This was not chaos.
This was strategy.
The voices around the table grew louder.
“This is reckless,” one of the elders said, slamming his palm lightly on the table.
“We cannot ignore the west.
An attack on our border demands a response.”
“And we cannot abandon the south,” another snapped back at once.
“Our traders are already being tested.
If we pull them back, we will look weak.”
The room filled with sharp voices, arguments crossing over one another.
Lyra stayed silent, her hands folded tightly in front of her, her eyes fixed on the table.
She could feel the tension thickening, like a rope being pulled too tight.
Lothian glanced at her, then let out a slow breath.
He leaned closer, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
“What do you think?” he whispered.
Lyra hesitated.
Her first instinct was to stay quiet, to keep her thoughts to herself.
Speaking had always come with consequences, like Ronan had told her at dinner.
But the pattern in her mind would not let her rest, and besides, it was just Lothian she was talking to, not the council.
She leaned toward him just enough.
“If this is coordinated,” she whispered back, her voice barely more than air, “then we are already late.”
Lothian frowned slightly.
“Late for what?” he murmured.
“For the real threat,” she said.
Her fingers curled into her palm.
“The west and the south feel loud, almost… obvious.
Like they want Blackthorn to look there.”
His eyes sharpened.
“You think it’s a distraction,” he said, rather than asked.
She nodded once.
“Yes.
If Blackthorn split their forces, they weaken themselves.
That benefits someone else.
Someone we are not watching,” Lyra told him in a low voice.
“And the west and south?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head.
“They might not even be the main problem,” Lyra said.
“They could be pawn pieces, not the hand moving them.
There is another force at play, it’s clear.”
Lothian straightened slowly, her words sinking in.
His gaze moved back to the arguing council members, his jaw tightening.
“I see,” he murmured.
Lyra swallowed.
“If the west and south were working together under someone, then neither was the real target,” she whispered to him.
Lothian frowned, his gaze staying on her longer than was comfortable.
It was not a hard look, but it was sharp, thoughtful, like he was peeling back layers he had not noticed before.
Lyra felt it all the same.
The way his eyes lingered made her spine stiffen.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he hummed softly, as if something had finally clicked into place, and nodded to himself.
“You are far too sharp,” he said quietly, still not looking away, “for a simple Omega girl who was raised in the kitchen.”
Her heart skipped once.
She kept her face calm, but inside, her thoughts raced.
Had she said too much?
Shown too much?
“You know about poison,” he went on, his voice low, careful.
“You know about strategy.
About patterns.
Those are not things learned from stirring pots and counting grain.”
Lyra swallowed.
Her fingers tightened together beneath the table.
For a brief second, Blackthorn faded, and another place filled her mind.
A training yard.
A stern voice.
Pieces on a board.
“I had the best teacher,” she said at last, keeping her tone even.
Lothian arched a brow.
“Did you now?” he asked.
She nodded once.
She did not offer more.
She would not.
He studied her again, then let out a short breath, half a laugh, half disbelief.
“Well,” he said quietly, shaking his head, “I will be damned.”
His eyes softened, not with pity, but with respect.
“Whoever this teacher of yours was,” he continued, “he did a great job.”
Lyra looked down at the table.
Guardian Eamon’s face flickered in her mind, his calm eyes, his steady hands.
Yes, she thought silently.
He did… and she missed him.
She wondered who he was bothering now.
If he was alright.
Her thoughts drifted to Crescent Pack.
Her former pack sat right in the west.
If they were involved, even unknowingly, then they were being used as a blade pointed at Blackthorn.
Or worse, as bait.
Ronan leaned forward slightly, his hands resting flat on the table.
His face was calm, but his eyes were sharp, alert.
“Arguing will not give us answers,” he said.
“We need clarity.”
“And how do you suggest we get it?” an elder asked.
“Send scouts to both borders?”
“That spreads us thin,” Ash said at once.
“Something we cannot afford.”
Lyra’s pulse quickened.
Yes.
That is it.
As strong as Blackthorn pack was, they could not afford to fight on two fronts.
No pack could afford it.
She wanted to speak.
The words pressed against her throat, burning to be said.
But she stayed silent.
Her place was still the shadows.
Speaking now could cost her everything.
She forced herself to breathe slowly, to listen.
“What if the attacks are meant to test our response?” a council member asked.
“To see how fast we move.
Where we move.”
“Then we must not react blindly,” Ronan replied.
“We respond with control.”
Lyra studied him from beneath her lashes.
Does he see it too?
Or does he not?
she wondered.
Her mind replayed Eamon’s lessons again.
“When two sides push at once,” he had said, “ask yourself why they want your eyes there.
No one attacks without a reason.
Find the reason, and you find the real enemy.”
“What do you suggest?” one of the elders asked, turning toward Ronan.
His voice carried the weight of frustration.
“We cannot fight on two fronts without a plan.
Not without losing people.”
Ronan did not answer right away.
He rested his hands on the table and let the silence stretch, his sharp gaze moving slowly from face to face, measuring them, reading the room.
Lyra kept her eyes lowered, her shoulders tight, hoping with everything she had that he would look past her.
Then his eyes shifted.
She felt it before she saw it.
That sudden sense of being noticed.
Ronan’s gaze flicked toward her.
It stayed there for a heartbeat too long.
Then it moved to Lothian beside her.
“Lothian,” Ronan said evenly.
“You have been quiet.”
Lyra’s heart slammed hard against her ribs.
Too close, she thought in panic.
We are standing too close.
Every head at the table turned in their direction.
Lyra felt exposed, like a light had been turned on above her head.
She stiffened, her throat drying instantly.
She had hoped they would forget she was there.
Hoped she could stand in the corner like furniture until the meeting ended.
In Crescent, speaking without permission was not just rude.
It was dangerous.
“I am sorry, Alpha,” Lothian said quickly, dipping his head in respect.
His tone was calm, steady, as if nothing was wrong.
“I was just thinking about what the head cook had told me.”
Lyra’s breath caught.
Her head snapped up before she could stop herself.
What?