Damian exhales beside me. “It’s holding.”
“For now,” Conan mutters.
He isn’t wrong.
We all feel it. This ritual is a brace, not a cure, like a splint on a broken limb of a werewolf who hasn’t regained his natural healing abilities. The demons are not gone. The portal Sophie saw still exists somewhere beyond our reach, bleedingcorruption into our world. We are buying time with this ritual, nothing more.
Still, when the last of the glow fades into the ground and the forest returns to its natural hush, something inside my chest eases. Silver Stone’s border is bound. My wolves will sleep easier tonight.
If only I could say the same for myself…
***
The council convenes before sunset in the eastern hall—a structure of timber and stone built by my grandfather’s generation. My father stands at the head of the table when we enter, Mortimer Rudolph as immovable as the mountain itself. Age has silvered his hair, but not softened his presence.
Joel Hans, Damian’s uncle, is already seated, fingers steepled in front of his face, eyes thoughtful in that quiet way that makes one wonder how much he’s seeing that the other elders are not. Elder Bernard leans heavily on his cane, the lines on his face cut deep with both time and worry. Amos takes his place near the maps, parchment spread wide across the table—sketches of ley lines, recorded sightings, and a rough rendering of the portal Sophie described in her vision.
“We’ve completed the eastern binding,” I report. “The ritual held to the ground without any resistance.”
“For now,” Conan adds again.
My father’s gaze flickers to him briefly before returning to me. “And the hunt?”
“Empty,” I answer. “They’re retreating beyond the mountain spine. Testing the perimeter, but not breaching it.”
Joel nods slowly. “They’re conserving strength.”
“Or gathering it,” Bernard says, voice rough.
Amos clears his throat. “The ritual will hold if the energy source remains stable. But if the portal widens…if whatever anchors it strengthens…the bindings may fracture.”
Silence falls heavily over the table.
“The portal is the root,” Damian says at last, cutting into the silence. “We can reinforce every border in the valley, but until we find where they’re coming from, we’re just fighting symptoms. We need to find the source.”
My father’s gaze sharpens. “And how do you propose we locate something that may not exist fully in our realm?”
“Sophie saw it,” Damian replies evenly, full of conviction. “Which means it touches this world somewhere.”
There it is again—the quiet acknowledgment that our survival may hinge on magic we barely understand.
Bernard shifts in his seat. “The packs are already stretched thin. We cannot afford another failed hunt.”
My father’s eyes slide to me then, assessing. Measuring.
“And how fares your household, Heinrich?” he asks, tone deceptively mild. The question is layered. It is always layered.
“Stable,” I answer. “Annika remains.”
Remains. I flinch at my own words, hating that they left my lips as though she’s not a woman with her own will, but a fixture in my territory.
Conan watches me too closely. Damian, however, speaks before the silence can grow uncomfortable.
“Heinrich completed the binding. Silver Stone is secured for the moment. That is what matters tonight.”
It is a dismissal, subtle but firm. My father inclines his head once, accepting it for now.
“We reconvene in three days,” he says finally. “Continue patrol rotations. No complacency.”
