Chapter 201 201.They’re leverage

Chapter 201 201.They’re leverage
Camille

The forest is too quiet for an exchange like this.
Part of me believed that we would be dealing with a trail of warriors from the settlement fighting for their pups already.
I stand at the halfway point between our territory and the disputed borderlands, boots planted in the frost-bitten earth, pine sap thick in the air. My warriors form a crescent behind me—silent, disciplined, waiting for my command.
Inside me, my lycan shifts restlessly.
This is wrong, he growls, low and constant beneath my ribs. Something does not feel right.
I ignore him.
Across the clearing, I scent them before I see them—Dain and Varek. Sweat. Blood. Fear that doesn’t belong to them.
They emerge from the tree line with their unit, shadows moving between shadows.
And behind them—
Children.
My jaw tightens.
Four juveniles. Three little ones who can’t be more than six winters old.
Their hands are bound.
The older juveniles position themselves in front of the younger ones immediately, forming a wall with thin shoulders and too-young jaws set in defiance. Not one of them cries out. Not one pleads.
They just watch.
My lycan snarls.
They are pups.
“They’re leverage,” I mutter under my breath.
They are children.
Dain steps forward, wiping blood from a cut along his cheek. “Harder than expected,” he says with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “That settlement trains them early for evacuations.”
Varek chuckles. “Had to take down two adult scouts before we could secure the perimeter.”
Secure.
My stomach twists.
This is the only way.
That’s what I told myself. That’s what Grandmother agreed to.
If we have their young, Nightshade will negotiate. They will kneel. There will be no drawn-out war, no slaughter in the valleys. A swift end.
Mira’s voice whispers in memory.
This path will stain you, Camille.
I clench my fists.
Mira doesn’t understand leadership. She doesn’t understand what it costs to keep a kingdom from burning.
She is still a scared little girl trying to find a safe place to land.
“I don’t hear them begging,” I say coolly.
Dain shrugs. “Tough little beasts. It made them easier to move. Less noise.”
One of the youngest stumbles. The juvenile in front of him steadies him without looking back.
My lycan bares his teeth inside me.
Look at them.
I am looking, I snap internally. They are going to be fine.
Then Dain’s grin widens.
“Oh—and we got a special one.”
My attention sharpens.
He signals one of his warriors, who drags forward another captive from the rear.
The moment I see him, something cold slides down my spine.
He’s nearly full grown—broad shoulders, tall frame—but it’s the heaviness in his gaze that marks him. Old. Watchful. Controlled.
I know that look.
I grew up with it.
Grandmother’s trainees wore that same expression—children molded into weapons before they ever learned how to laugh.
“Sky,” I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes don't flicker. Don’t give anything away.
“We thought you died with the other scouts we sent to Nightshade.”
Silence.
Rage coils in my chest.
Another traitor.
Another one who slipped through my fingers.
“Nothing to say for yourself?” I step closer, studying the bruises along his jaw.
He took hits. Recently.
But he was always a hard one to crack.
He just stares at me.
“Doesn’t matter,” I continue. “Soon we’ll get everything out of you. And you’ll learn what happens to traitors.”
My lycan prowls.
He is not afraid.
Good.
Fear makes interrogation messy.
A low growl rises from behind Sky.
I shift my focus to the sound and find another male—older juvenile, maybe seventeen—baring his teeth at me.
I take a step toward him.
But it isn’t him who speaks.
It’s the girl beside him.
She steps forward despite the rope binding her wrists. Her eyes lock on mine—and I freeze.
One eye is silver.
The other is coppery brown.
Her chin lifts in challenge.
“You’re the traitor.”
The clearing stills.
“A traitor to your own father,” she continues, her voice steady despite the tremor in the youngest children behind her. “There has never been a bigger disgrace of a male. And you call yourself King.” She huffs a humorless laugh. “It’s laughable.”
Then she spits at my feet.
The sound is deafening.
My warriors surge forward instinctively.
One grabs her arm roughly, jerking her backward. The other captives protest immediately, snarls breaking through their silence.
Sky explodes.
He throws his body into the warrior holding her, slamming him sideways despite his bound wrists. The male stumbles.
“Hold him!” Dain roars.
Dain tackles Sky to the ground. They hit hard, snow and dirt spraying into the air.
The youngest children start crying.
The clearing descends into chaos—warriors shouting, captives struggling, snarls splitting the quiet woods.
My lycan rises inside me, teeth bared.
This is what you’ve created.
“Enough!” I roar.
Power rolls off me in a crushing wave. My dominance snaps through the clearing like thunder.
Every wolf freezes.
Even Sky.
My warriors drag the captives upright again, breathing hard. The girl with the mismatched eyes stares at me with undiluted hatred.
I step toward her.
“Careful, child,” I say quietly. “Your tongue may cost you.”
Her lip curls.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
She should be, my lycan whispers.
But she isn’t.
Before I can respond—
A familiar scent threads through the air.
Old pine. Iron. Rose oil.
My spine stiffens.
And then her voice drifts into the clearing like steel drawn from a sheath.
“I knew I was needed.”
The entire forest seems to bow.
My warriors part immediately as my grandmother steps into the clearing.
Her posture is regal, spine straight, silver hair braided down her back like a crown of frost. Two elite bodyguards flank her, silent and lethal.
Even Dain lowers his gaze.
I inhale slowly, forcing control over the unease prickling across my skin.
“Grandmother.”
She doesn’t look at me at first.
Her sharp eyes sweep over the captives—calculating, clinical.
She moves slowly, stopping in front of each child.
The youngest shrink back.
But she smiles.
A gentle, grandmotherly smile that never quite reaches her eyes.
When she reaches Sky, she pauses.
Her expression shifts.
Recognition.
“Oh,” she murmurs softly.
She steps closer, lifting a hand.
Sky doesn’t flinch.
That unsettles me more than if he had.
Her fingers brush his cheek.
The gesture is almost tender.
Something about it makes my stomach churn.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she coos, her voice honeyed and cold all at once. “You’ll regret turning your back on me.”
Sky’s jaw tightens.
He doesn’t speak.
But I see it then.
The flicker.
Not fear.
Not submission.
Resolve.
My lycan growls.
He was hers.
Of course he was.
Grandmother trained the strongest of our generation before I took the throne. She shaped them. Broke them. Perfected them.
And some ran.
Some chose exile over obedience.
I always wondered why.
Now one stands before me.
“We aren't to harm them.” I say carefully, “ They won't make a good trade if they're broken.
Her eyes shift to me, sharp as blades.
“Retrving what's mine is hardly a matter for a trade. No, I think I'll use my investments in a more productive manner,” she replies smoothly.
Investment.
The word settles heavy in my chest.
The girl with the mismatched eyes tugs against her restraints again. “Don’t you dare touch him, you witch.”
One of the warriors jerks her back.
Grandmother’s gaze snaps to her.
For a split second—just a split second—something dark flashes across her face.
Interest.
“Well,” she murmurs. “This is unexpected.”
“She’s insolent,” Dain says quickly. “Shall we silence her?”
“No,” Grandmother replies calmly.
Her eyes linger on the girl’s face.
“Heterochromia,” she says softly. “Rare. Powerful lineage.”
The girl spits again, this time nearly hitting Grandmother’s boots. “I can’t wait to see you choke on your arrogance.”
The bodyguards move instantly, but Grandmother raises a single finger.
They stop.
She laughs.
A low, delighted sound.
“Oh, I do enjoy spirit.”
My unease grows.
She is pleased, my lycan warns.
That is never good.
I straighten my shoulders. “We have what we need,” I say firmly. “Nightshade will come to the table now.”
Grandmother turns her full attention to me at last.
“And if they don’t?”
“They will.”
“And if they decide their children are worth martyrdom?”
My jaw tightens.
“They won’t.”
She studies me.
Searching.
Weighing.
“How will you ensure it?” she says quietly.
I'm silent. I know what she wants, what she is suggesting.
Filth. A disgrace to honor, my lycan counters.
Her gaze sharpens. “This was your decision, Camille. Do not falter now.”
“I’m not faltering.”
But I feel it.
That small crack beneath my ribs.
The youngest child is sobbing openly now, tiny shoulders shaking. One of the older juveniles shifts to block him from view, lifting his chin defiantly at me.
I swallow.
“This prevents war,” I say, more to myself than anyone else.
Grandmother steps closer, her voice lowering.
“War is inevitable,” she whispers. “Control is not.”
I meet her eyes.
Cold.
Ancient.
Certain.
She turns back to Sky, brushing her thumb along his jaw once more.
“You could have had a good life, status, power,” she says softly. “Instead, you chose weakness.”
Sky finally speaks.
His voice is rough but steady.
“I chose freedom.”
The word slices through the clearing.
My lycan stills.
Grandmother’s smile fades.
“Freedom,” she repeats, as though tasting something bitter. “Freedom is an illusion sold to the naive. You’ll soon learn how little value you have.”
Sky’s gaze flickers to me.
And for a heartbeat—
I see accusation there.
Not fear.
Not hatred.
Disappointment.
“I never took you for a coward,” he says quietly.
The words land more heavily than the girl’s insult.
The clearing goes silent again.
Dain shifts uncomfortably.
Varek avoids my eyes.
Grandmother’s expression hardens.
“I am making him strong.”
“You’re making him alone,” Sky counters.
My chest tightens.
Enough, my lycan growls.
“Bind them separately,” I order abruptly. “Transport them to the lower holding grounds.”
The warriors move.
The children resist again—more quietly this time, exhaustion setting in.
As they drag Sky past me, he stops just long enough to murmur—
“She will let you burn long before she does.”
My heart skips.
My lycan presses forward. Instead of the hostility I expect, there is agreement.
“Take him,” I snap, refusing to let him know I'm not as sure as I portray myself.
They pull him away.
I watch them disappear into the trees.
The clearing feels colder now.
Grandmother stands beside me.
“You did well,” she says.
I don’t answer.
Inside me, my lycan does not settle.
He paces.
Restless.
Angry.
Afraid.
This will not end the way you think.
I stare into the forest where the children vanished.
War avoided.
Kingdom secured.
That was the plan.
So why does it feel like I’ve just lit the first spark instead?