His eyes flick to Rhiannon once more. She gives him the faintest nod of assent.
If they try anything, I’ve got you.
Her blade-sharp words reach us both.
Jayme moves up to the dais with the wariness of a wolf expecting a trap. His red hair, freshly washed and free of Blackroot dye, blazes like autumn fire.
Haron steps out from behind the table, something glinting in her palm.
“Sir Jayme,” she says. Tears gather in her eyes as she stops before him. “Before both our peoples, I must speak of what was done to you, and my part in it.”
Jayme’s expression flutters as he braces himself for harm and humiliation, even now.
“My brother violated your mind. He stole your will and turned you into a weapon against your own pack.” She steadies herself, lifting her chin. “And I helped him. I knew of his schemes. I crafted the talisman that found you. I did nothing to stop him.”
Her voice falters, yet she forces herself to continue.
“I told myself that you were different. That what you were born as made it acceptable.” Her face crumples, color draining from her bronzed skin. “I was wrong. You are not a beast to be controlled. You are a man, a warrior who has fought harder for his place in this world than I ever had to fight for mine. I don’t come before you to ask for forgiveness. I have no right to that. I come to offer a token of my remorse, if you’ll accept it.”
She extends her hand, revealing the pendant in her palm.
“This charm was enchanted by my father specifically for you. It will protect you from mind magic, now and forever.” Her dark eyes meet his, raw with remorse. “No one will ever take your will from you again.”
Jayme’s eyes narrow as he looks at the charm. His emotions war across his face in quick succession: suspicion, disbelief, and a fragile light beneath it all that looks almost like hope.
“I—” His words fracture. He swallows, tries again. “I accept.”
Haron places the pendant in his open hand.
Jayme stares at it resting on his flat palm. The crystal resembles the one Haron let me borrow, but this one is perfectly clear. The moment it touches his skin, crimson light pulses through its faceted surface, as if it knows exactly whose hand it’s in now.
I glance at Branson on the other side of the dais. His posture finally eases. His eyes glisten, but he blinks it away before anyone else notices.
Xander steps forward, placing a hand on Jayme’s shoulder. “Jayme, you were a victim, not a criminal. Any charges against you are formally pardoned.” His gaze shifts to Branson, standing at attention near the back. “You and your brother are welcome members of this pack. Now and always.”
The hall erupts again, louder this time. Conan whoops beside Rhiannon, then winces as the sudden motion tugs at his injured side.
Xander faces the crowd, arms spread wide, eyes blazing with relief. “Now, my brothers and sisters, we feast!”
The Great Hall transforms in seconds. Side doors swing open and servants pour in carrying platters stacked with glistening roasted venison, whole golden chickens, thick cuts of lamb still sizzling from the spit. Baskets of fresh bread follow, the crusty loaves trailing steam and the warm scent of buttery grain softening the heavier scents of meat and smoke. Long tables are filled with bowls of roasted root vegetables, pitchers of dark wine and honeyed mead, wheels of sharp cheese carved into wedges.
In the far corner, musicians launch into a driving rhythm. The drums start first: a heartbeat pulse that vibrates through thestone floor and up through the soles of my boots. Then, fiddles layer over the top with bright, spinning melodies that tangle together and pull apart like sparring partners. The music is nothing like anything I’ve heard back home. It’s wilder, rougher, built for people that move faster and live harder than humans.
Lycans and Shaman alike rise from their benches. Some drift toward the food. Others pair off and move toward the open space at the center of the hall, feet already stomping in time with the drums.
I weave through the crowd until I find Rhiannon at her post near the dais, scanning the room with those golden-brown eyes for every potential threat.
“Commander.” I stop in front of her, offering my hand. “Any chance you can take a break from guarding the peace long enough to dance with me?”
Rhiannon’s gaze slides to Conan, then across the dais to Akila. Akila’s expression softens, a quiet smile spreading as she nods once.
Conan’s grin stretches ear to ear. He squares his shoulders and faces forward, chin lifted with exaggerated importance. “We got this, Commander.”
Rhiannon exhales through her nose. Her eyes find mine again, and the firelight catches the gold in them.
“One dance.” She takes my hand.
Her fingers close around mine, and I pull her into the moving crowd. The fiddles climb into a minuet that’s fast and reckless, and I spin her once, catching the flash of surprise in her eyes before she matches my pace stride for stride.
