Lyra’s POV
Lysa… Lyra pressed her lips together, forcing herself to slow down.
She did not want to jump to conclusions, not now, not without knowing more.
Suspicion without proof was dangerous, and she had already seen how easily innocent people could be crushed under careless accusations.
Still, she could not ignore the unease curling in her chest.
If the poison came through the supplies, she thought, then the trail begins there.
And to know who else had known about Ronan’s poisoning, she needed to know exactly where those supplies came from, who signed for them, who handled them, and who had been present each time.
She lifted her head again, resolve settling quietly into place.
“I will need the full records of past supplies,” she said.
“Delivery logs.
Routes.
Names.
Everything.
If possible it should be dated from six months back.”
Marley blinked, surprised, then nodded.
“I will get them for you,” he said.
She exhaled slowly, then nodded once, more to herself than to him.
“Give me a moment,” she said, already turning back into the room, her thoughts racing as she reached for her cloak.
She closed the door, turned, and grabbed her cloak from the chair near the bed.
She wrapped it tightly around herself, tying it at her throat, then slipped her feet into her worn shoes.
One last glance around the room, then she opened the door again.
“I am ready,” she said.
Marley stepped aside and led the way.
The guards fell into position without a word, one ahead, one behind.
They moved through the quiet halls, their footsteps echoing softly against stone.
The castle felt different at this hour.
Less alive.
Less watchful.
Torches burned low along the walls, casting long shadows that stretched and twisted as they passed.
She hugged her cloak closer, not from cold alone, but from the strange feeling settling in her chest.
Too much had happened too quickly.
The council.
The poison.
The plans.
The way people had looked at her, really looked at her, like she was more than an Omega who cooked their meals.
She did not know how to carry that yet.
They passed through an archway and into the outer part of the building.
The smell hit her first.
Wood.
Earth.
Metal.
Dried herbs.
Fresh grain.
Then she saw it.
Her steps slowed, then stopped completely.
“What the hell…” slipped out of her mouth before she could stop it, the words thin with disbelief.
Before her, the wide stone courtyard was buried under supplies.
Not scattered.
Not messy.
Ordered.
Crates stacked in precise rows, marked and sealed.
Barrels rose to her waist, some higher, their lids stamped with pack sigils.
Bundles wrapped in thick cloth were piled like small hills, and empty wagons stood to the side, their horses already taken away.
Lyra took a slow step forward, then another, her breath catching.
Her mind struggled to count, to measure.
This was not a delivery.
This was preparation for war or disaster.
Enough food, salt, grain, dried meat, herbs, and preserves to feed far more wolves than she had imagined lived within Blackthorn’s borders.
Marley glanced over his shoulder at her, a faint, knowing smile tugging at his mouth.
“Tell me why I expected that reaction from you,” he muttered.
She turned to him slowly, eyes wide, still trying to process what she was seeing.
“I thought you meant a cart,” she said, then shook her head once.
“Or two.
Not… all of this.
How many wolves are in Blackthorn exactly?”
He chuckled softly.
“More than most people realize,” he said.
“Blackthorn is large.
And spread out.
We stock up often, especially now.
We usually keep enough supplies to last at least two months.
Sometimes more.”
“Two months?” Her voice rose despite herself.
In Crescent, they barely planned for two weeks ahead, and half the time the stores were touched by whoever felt like it.
“Yes,” he said calmly.
Then his voice lowered.
“And we keep extra in case a neighboring pack needs help.
Famine.
Bad winters.
Attacks.
The Alpha does not like being unprepared.”
That stopped her.
She looked back at the crates again, but this time she saw them differently.
Not excess.
Not waste.
Responsibility.
Care.
Her chest tightened, something unfamiliar stirring there.
In her former pack, no one thought that far ahead.
No one cared enough to.
Guardian Eamon had tried, quietly, fixing what he could behind the scenes, smoothing over shortages, redirecting blame, making sure the weakest were fed before anyone noticed the gaps.
But this was different.
This was not quiet fixing.
This was structure.
Planning.
A system built to last.
And the thought that Alpha Ronan cared enough to prepare not just for his own pack, but for others too, left her strangely unsettled.
She turned to Marley, unable to keep the question inside.
“The neighboring packs get supplies from here too?” she asked.
He nodded without hesitation.
“Yes.
Some of them are small.
Fifty wolves.
A hundred.
Two hundred at most.
When winters are bad or trade routes fail, getting supplies becomes difficult for them.
They come to Blackthorn,” he explained.
Her brows drew together.
In Crescent, asking for help was seen as weakness, and help was rarely given without a price.
“And the Alpha does not mind?” she asked.
Marley let out a quiet laugh, not mocking, just soft.
“Mind?
No.
He prefers it this way,” he said.
“Why?” she asked, genuinely confused.
“Because hungry packs make desperate choices,” he said simply.
“And desperate wolves start wars.
If Blackthorn can prevent that with food and salt, then he will.”
Her chest tightened at his words.
That was not the reasoning of a cruel Alpha.
That was the thinking of someone who understood consequences, who saw beyond borders and pride.
She looked back at the supplies again, seeing more than crates now.
She saw restraint.
Control.
Mercy, even.
“He does not announce it,” Marley continued.
“Most packs will never admit they came here for help.
And he does not ask them to.
The deal is simple.
Take what you need.
Pay when you can.
Or do not.
Just remember who did not turn you away.”
She swallowed.
“In Crescent,” she said quietly, “they would have used that as leverage.”
Marley shrugged.
“Blackthorn is not Crescent,” he said.
No, it was not.
And the more she learned, the clearer that became.
Ronan was feared, painted as ruthless, as cold.
Yet his pack was fed, prepared, and strong.
His borders were guarded, but his doors were not fully closed.
The stories did not match the truth, and that truth made her uneasy in a way she could not explain.
Her gaze hardened with resolve as she turned back to the nearest crate.
If someone had used this system to poison him, then they had abused something meant to protect many.
She would not allow that to happen again.
Her shock slowly settled into focus.
If poison had come through here once, she would find the trail.
Somewhere in these stacks was the truth she was looking for.
“Alright,” she said, exhaling slowly as she squared her shoulders.
“Let us begin.”
Marley straightened at once, already reaching for the satchel hanging at his side.
“The manifests should be in the first wagon,” he said.
“They are sealed and marked by route.”
“Show me,” she replied, her voice calm, even as her thoughts raced.
“I want to know where every single one of these came from.
Not just the route, but who signed for them.
Who handled them.
All of it.”
He blinked, surprised by the firmness in her tone, then nodded.
“Yes, head cook,” he said.
Before he could take more than two steps, hurried footsteps echoed across the stone.
“I am sorry I am late, Lyra,” Lysa said, rushing into the courtyard, breath slightly uneven.
“I was just informed that the supplies had arrived.”
She froze.