Lyra’s POV
She stared at Lothian, shock flashing across her face.
Her eyes widened, and her hands clenched at her sides.
She had not agreed to this.
She had not said he could bring her into this.
Several council members turned fully toward her now.
Whispers rippled through the room.
She could feel their attention like heat on her skin, heavy and pressing, making it hard to breathe.
Ronan studied her, his face unreadable, before he spoke again.
“The head cook?” he asked, clear surprise in his voice.
Lyra took a small step back, instinctively trying to put Lothian between herself and the table, but there was nowhere to go.
She would have hidden behind him if there had been even a hand’s width of space.
Instead, she stood frozen, feeling like the walls were closing in.
“Yes,” Lothian replied simply.
Ronan’s gaze settled fully on her now.
It was not cruel, but it was sharp, like he was weighing her worth in a single look.
“You have insight others may not,” he said.
“You are from the west.
Speak if you have something to offer.”
Her chest tightened.
She noticed how he had not mentioned Crescent by name.
Not her former pack.
That small mercy did nothing to calm her nerves.
She did have something to offer.
Too much, perhaps.
Knowledge learned the hard way.
Knowledge that had once gotten her boxed and dragged across borders.
Say it out loud and it could happen again.
“Know when to speak and when to keep quiet, Omega.
Your survival depends on it.”
Guardian Eamon’s voice echoed clearly in her mind, like he was standing right beside her.
Lyra turned slightly toward Lothian, lowering her voice so only he could hear.
“I do not think I should,” she whispered, her words shaking despite her effort to stay calm.
“They will not listen to me.”
Lothian glanced at her, then back at Ronan, his face thoughtful, calculating.
Then he leaned closer.
“You should say it,” he murmured.
“This is not Crescent.”
Her eyes widened in alarm.
“Please,” she whispered urgently.
“I do not think it is my place to speak.”
Before she could say anything else, before she could stop him, Lothian straightened and cleared his throat.
“The head cook Lyra has something to say,” he announced calmly.
Lyra’s breath caught in her chest.
Her first instinct was panic, sharp and overwhelming, but she forced herself to breathe through it.
Running was not an option.
Silence would only make things worse now.
Slowly, she lifted her head.
Her hands trembled slightly at her sides, and she curled her fingers into her palms to stop it.
Every instinct screamed at her to stay quiet, to lower her gaze and step back, but it was too late now.
All eyes were on her.
“I…” Her voice wavered, and she stopped, drawing in a careful breath.
“I am not trained in war, or pack politics, or border matters,” she said honestly.
“That is not my place.”
She hesitated, then forced herself to continue.
“But I know patterns.
I know poison.
I know timing,” she added.
The room stayed quiet.
Ronan did not interrupt her.
His gaze remained fixed on her, sharp and unreadable, but there was something else there too.
Attention.
He was listening like no Alpha would listen to an Omega.
“The Ashvine poison was meant to weaken the Alpha over time,” she continued, her voice steadier now.
“Not to kill him quickly.
If it had been meant to kill, it would have already done so.
Instead, it was slow.
Careful.
Meant to make him tired.
Distracted.
Weak.”
A few of the elders exchanged looks.
“The same thing is happening to the pack,” she said, her words coming easier now.
“The attack from the west.
The unrest in the south.
They are doing to Blackthorn what the poison was meant to do to Alpha Ronan.”
A murmur passed through the council, low and uneasy.
“They stayed quiet in the west so you would relax,” Lyra went on.
“So you would believe nothing was wrong.
Silence is not peace.
It is preparation.”
Her gaze lifted briefly to Ronan, then lowered again.
“And while attention shifts south to manage the trade routes and rising tension there, they strike where the defenses are thinnest.”
“That is speculation,” one council member said sharply, leaning forward.
“You are drawing lines where there may be none.”
Lyra nodded at once, accepting the challenge.
“Yes,” she said softly.
“It is speculation.
But it is informed speculation.”
She swallowed, her throat tight, then continued, her voice firmer than she expected it to be.
“If I wanted to break a strong pack like Blackthorn, with a strong Alpha, I would not attack him head on.
I would weaken him first.
I would make him doubt his body, his instincts, his judgment.
Then I would stretch his pack thin, force them to split their strength.
That is when mistakes happen.”
The room fell silent again.
Ronan straightened slightly, his expression shifting, just enough for her to notice.
His jaw tightened, and his eyes sharpened, as if something had clicked into place.
“You are saying this is one hand,” he said slowly.
“Not two.”
“Yes, Alpha,” Lyra answered, her heart pounding.
“One force.
One plan.
The west and south are tools, just like the poisoning.
They are not the source.”
For a long moment, Ronan said nothing.
He studied her the way a hunter studies unfamiliar ground, cautious, focused, seeing paths others had missed.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low but steady.
“If you are right,” he said, “then we have been reacting instead of thinking.”
A few council members shifted uncomfortably.
Ronan’s gaze never left Lyra.
“And if you are wrong,” he added, “we still lose nothing by being careful.”
Then, to the quiet shock of the room, he gave a short nod.
“Continue,” he said.
Lyra’s breath caught at his words.
Continue.
She had not expected that.
Not permission.
Not encouragement.
Her heart raced, but she forced herself to nod, even as her palms grew damp.
“If this is one coordinated move,” she said slowly, choosing each word with care, “then the goal is not the west.
And it is not the south.” She paused, then lifted her eyes again.
“Those are distractions.”
“Distractions for what?” one elder asked.
“For the real strike,” Lyra replied.
“Something important.
Something you cannot afford to lose.”
The room shifted again.
Chairs creaked.
A few council members leaned forward now, interest cutting through their earlier doubt.
Ronan folded his arms across his chest.
“You think there is another target,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
“I do not know what it is.
Not yet.
But weakening you with poison, pulling patrols west, stretching forces south, all of that creates space.” She swallowed.
“Space for someone to move unseen.”
Lothian glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
She could feel his attention, and it helped more than she wanted to admit.
“And who would dare plan something like that?” another elder asked.
“An alliance of packs?”
“Or something outside the packs,” Lyra said quietly.
That did it.
The room erupted in murmurs, louder than before.
Shock, disbelief, anger.
Someone cursed under their breath.
Ronan raised a hand, and the noise died at once.
“You speak carefully,” he said, his voice calm but edged with steel.
“Why do you think this force is not one of the border packs?”
Lyra hesitated.
This was the most dangerous part.
She could feel it deep in her bones.
“Because border packs gain nothing from breaking Blackthorn completely,” she said.
“They survive because of balance.
Trade.
Fear.
Respect.”
She met his gaze.
“But someone else would gain from chaos.”
Ronan’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Not in anger.
In thought.
“Someone who does not rely on borders,” he said slowly.
“Yes,” Lyra whispered.
Ash exhaled slowly.
“If this is true,” he said, “then guarding borders alone will not be enough.”
“No,” Lyra agreed.
“You must guard what they truly want.
Finding what it is would save a lot of time.”
Ronan took a step forward, his presence filling the room without effort.
When he spoke again, his voice carried authority, but also something else.
Respect.
“What would you suggest we do?” he asked her, his voice steady, carrying authority but not impatience.
Her heart hammered, but she forced herself to meet his gaze.
She had never spoken in a council before.
Never like this.
She could feel every pair of eyes on her, weighing her words, judging them.