Ronan’s POV
Ronan stood near the strategy table, his hands resting on the carved wood, his eyes following the slow movement of the pieces as Ash shifted one forward with quiet focus.
After the long council meeting, Ronan had taken a brief rest, though rest was a generous word for lying awake and staring at stone ceilings while his mind replayed every detail.
The faces of his warriors.
Lyra’s calm voice in the council.
The way she had looked at him and spoken with confidence, unafraid, as if she already knew the ground was shifting beneath them all.
He had turned her words over and over in his head, unable to let them go, the way a person cannot stop pressing on a bruise.
He had barely taken off his cloak when the knock came again.
He had hoped for a moment of quiet, just a short breath after the long council sitting, but something in the knock told him this was not going to wait.
It was firm, urgent, the sound of news that carried weight.
Even if he wanted to ignore it, it was not possible.
Ash was already on his feet to open the door.
“That will be Heath,” he said.
Ronan nodded and waved a hand.
“Let him in.”
Heath entered with dust still clinging to his boots and the faint smell of smoke on his clothes.
He looked tired, his shoulders tense, his jaw tight in a way that told Ronan that he had seen blood.
The head patrol guard must have ridden hard through the night, pushing his horse beyond comfort, beyond rest, because there was no other way he could have returned with news so soon.
Only urgency drove a man like that, the kind that did not allow sleep or hesitation.
It told him the situation at the west was not only serious, but clear enough to demand immediate action.
There had been no confusion, no delay, no waiting for daylight to confirm what the eyes already knew.
That alone unsettled him.
If Heath had been able to investigate and return this fast, then the signs on the ground must have been obvious.
Something had happened out there that could not wait for morning, something that even a tired, battle worn guard felt he had to report right away.
Heath did not bother with pleasantries.
He went straight to the table and placed both hands on it as if grounding himself before he spoke.
“It was worse than we thought,” he told them.
Ronan felt his spine straighten at once.
“How bad,” he asked, his voice low and tight.
“A full unit,” he said slowly, “… and half of another unit were involved.”
Ash let out a low breath.
“That many,” he murmured.
Heath nodded.
“They engaged the wolves who attacked at the west border.
It was not a quick clash.
It was a fight,” he said.
Ronan’s fingers curled slightly.
He hated death and did everything he could to prevent it.
“Losses?” he asked, already bracing himself for the ugly news.
Heath’s eyes flickered between them just for a second.
“Thirteen warriors,” he muttered.
The room went still.
Ronan closed his eyes briefly, counting the breath it took to steady himself.
Thirteen names.
Thirteen families.
Thirteen fires that would burn lower tonight.
He would have to speak with each of those families himself, to look them in the eye and give them what little comfort he could.
“The rest,” Heath continued, “retreated to the border walls.
They held formation until reinforcements arrived.
If they had broken, we would be having a very different conversation.”
Ash nodded grimly.
“They did well,” he said quietly.
“They did,” Heath agreed.
“But whoever attacked them knew what they were doing.”
Ronan opened his eyes slowly, the heaviness of interrupted rest still clinging to him, but his voice was steady when he spoke.
“Any information,” he asked, sitting up straighter, his gaze fixed on Heath.
“Who they are.
Where they came from.”
Heath shook his head once.
“No sigils.
No pack crests.
Nothing that would identify them,” he said.
“They wore plain armor.
No colors.
No markings.
Even their blades were unadorned.”
Ash let out a low curse beside him.
“So they wanted to disappear into the ground once they were done,” he said.
“Yes,” Heath replied.
“And they almost did.”
Ronan’s jaw tightened.
Packs took pride in their symbols.
Even rogues carried something.
A sign.
A scar.
A color.
To strip all of that away meant intent.
Planning.
A decision made long before the first blade was drawn.
“No sigils,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else.
Heath nodded.
“They wanted us guessing.”
That alone was troubling.
It meant Lyra had been right.
This was not the west.
Not the south.
Not a named enemy that could be challenged openly or threatened into retreat.
This was a force that moved as one, quietly, without being seen, without claiming credit.
A hand unseen, tightening around Blackthorn, one careful move at a time.
Ronan leaned back, his fingers curling slowly into his palm as the shape of the danger became clearer in his mind.
The pieces she had laid out in the council chamber, piece by piece, were no longer just theory.
They were becoming fact in front of him.
“They fought like they were trained by a general from the old days,” Heath went on, his voice steady but carrying an edge that had not been there before.
“Clean movements.
Tight coordination.
No wasted strikes.
Every step had purpose.
It was not the fighting pattern of the western packs.
I know those patterns.
I have fought them, studied them.
This was different.”
Ronan felt it then, that slow tightening in his chest, the kind that came when instinct began to scream before the mind fully caught up.
He exchanged a look with Ash, and he could see the same unease reflected there, the same sharp understanding settling in both of them at once.
Every word Heath spoke fitted too neatly into the picture Lyra had drawn for them in the council chamber, and that alone made Ronan’s jaw tighten.
Ash let out a slow breath.
“It is exactly as she said,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
“Distraction on the surface.
Pressure from different sides.
And a real force moving quietly underneath it all.”
Heath’s gaze flicked between them, his frown deepening.
“She?” he asked.
“Who are we talking about.”
Ronan leaned back slightly, crossing his arms.
“Lyra,” he said simply.
Heath blinked.
“The new head cook?” he asked, his voice full of disbelief.
Ash huffed out a short, almost humorless laugh.
“Yes.
That Lyra.”
“The omega who was sent here as a tribute,” Ronan added, his voice flat, though his thoughts were anything but calm.
Heath stared at them now.
“You are telling me an omega from the kitchens figured this out before our patrols did?” he asked, clearly struggling to believe it.
Ash tilted his head, a faint smile touching his mouth despite the tension in the room.
“Hidden gem,” he said.
“Very well hidden.
Right there among pots and knives.”
Heath shook his head slowly, disbelief written all over his face.
“That is… unexpected,” he admitted.
Ronan let out a quiet breath through his nose.
“That is one way to put it,” he said.
Damn her, he thought, not with anger, but with something dangerously close to awe.
She had seen the shape of the threat when seasoned warriors were still arguing over borders and pride.
She had named a shadow before it showed its face, before anyone else in that room had even thought to look for one.
And now that shadow was moving.
Ash sighed loudly.
“How different,” he asked quietly.
“You said they attacked with a different pattern.
Different how.”
Heath drew in a breath.
“Western packs rely on brute strength.
They rush.
They overwhelm.
They break lines through sheer force.
These wolves did none of that.
They tested the line first.
Looked for weakness.
Pressured one side, then another.
When my guards countered, they adapted almost immediately,” he explained.
Ronan’s fingers curled slightly against the arm of the chair.
Adaptation in the middle of battle was rare.
It meant training that went far beyond instinct or tradition.
It meant discipline, patience, someone who had drilled these wolves for a long time, far from prying eyes.
Heath continued, his gaze steady.
“They fought in formation.
Pulled back when they needed to.
Covered their wounded.
This was not a raiding party sent to steal land or livestock.
It was a unit.
A trained one.
And part of another unit supported them from a distance, watching, waiting.”
“Learning,” Ronan muttered.
“Yes,” Heath said, meeting his eyes.
“Learning.”
The room fell quiet for a moment, the weight of that single word settling heavily between them.
Outside, somewhere in the hall, a guard’s footsteps echoed faintly and faded away, leaving only the three of them, and the growing certainty that whoever was behind all of this had only just begun.