Settle.
The wolf ignored him. It had been ignoring him for the better part of a week, which was new. His wolf was disciplined. Controlled. An extension of the alpha armor he’d spent a decade building—obedient under pressure, lethal when released, silent when silence was required. This fidgeting, distracted animal circling beneath his sternum was a stranger.
He turned to the manuscripts on the drafting table and buried the unease in work.
The fall catalogsubmission was a villain origin story. Promising concept. Underdeveloped execution.
Zeir spread the pages and read with a red pen and an artist’s eye he’d spent years pretending didn’t exist. Page twelve: the antagonist’s ideology collapsed under scrutiny because the writer had confused brooding with depth. Brooding was a posture. Depth required architecture—a framework of motivation so rigorous that readers would nod along with a character’s worst decisions because the logic held under pressure. He marked it. Page thirty-one: the villain’s motivation shifted without earning the turn. Shortcuts were lies told to readers who trusted you. He marked that too.
Page forty-eight: a fight sequence that relied on spectacle over character. The villain won. The victory revealed nothing.
He wrote in the margin: Why does he fight? Not how. Why.
This was the work. Shaping other people’s villains into the creatures that had made Axan Dark’s reputation. Ruthless antagonists who operated on ideology so compelling that readers rooted for them while knowing they shouldn’t. He’d built a catalog on the principle that readers craved monsters who made sense—not reformed, not redeemed, but understood. His imprint existed because he understood what most publishers flinched from: readers didn’t want reformed monsters. They wanted monsters who made them understand.
He could build those villains. Shape them, refine them, sharpen their philosophy until it cut. What he no longer did—what he hadn’t done in years—was create one himself.
Not at work. Not where the pack could see.
The elders had a vocabulary for alphas who spent their time creating. Distracted. Unfocused. Soft. Brenn had used all three, his voice the flat certainty of a man who believed art and leadership were opposing forces. Zeir had been twenty-four, newly inherited, still carrying the burden of watching his father step down and the heavier cost of understanding why. He’d put down the pen. Picked up the editorship. Channeled every creative instinct into other people’s work.
His phone buzzed.
Kael:Running late. Bringing coffee. And a surprise. Don’t eat my muffin.
Zeir set the phone down without responding. He did not have a history of eating Kael’s muffins. The accusation was baseless, recurring, and—on one occasion two years ago involving a blueberry crumble top during a sixteen-hour workday—possibly warranted.
FIVE
ZEIR
Kael arrived at eight fifteen with two coffees, a paper bag, and a portfolio case the size of a drafting board.
He dropped the portfolio on the table with a thud that rattled Zeir’s red pen. Set one coffee beside it. Opened the paper bag, extracted a muffin, and bit into it while maintaining eye contact—a territorial display as old as the species.
“I’ve found the artist.”
Zeir eyed the portfolio. Did not reach for it.
“Lumi Stone. Creator of Nightbloom. Before you say anything—read it.”
“You said that about the last three.”
“The last three didn’t make you forget you were holding a coffee cup.” Kael nodded at Zeir’s hand. “You’re about to ruin that shirt.”
His mug was tilting. He corrected it without acknowledgment.
“Just open it. Five minutes. If it’s nothing, I’ll buy your coffee for a week.”
“You already buy my coffee.”
“Then I’ll stop complaining about it.”
Zeir opened the portfolio.
He intended a clinical scan. The same efficient assessment he gave every submission—technical skill, narrative instinct, whether the artist understood villainy or merely costumed it. Two minutes. Five at the outside.
Twenty minutes later, he hadn’t moved.
