Chapter 6 The Silvercrest Problem (Sage POV)
The Silvercrest common room smells like cedar and anxiety.
I stand at the back of the gathered pack members, trying to make myself inconspicuous—a skill I've unfortunately mastered over the years. Uncle David presides from the ornate chair at the room's center, his silver-streaked hair catching the lamplight. He's not technically my uncle by blood, but in Silvercrest, the Alpha is everyone's uncle. It's supposed to feel familial. Warm.
Right now, it feels suffocating.
"…cannot overstate the severity of this situation." Uncle David's voice carries that particular Alpha timbre that makes your spine want to straighten automatically. "Tyler Morrison was not just any student. He was Ironwood's representative on the Concordance Committee. His death threatens the entire peace process."
Murmurs ripple through the room. There are maybe thirty of us here, students, faculty, a few adult pack members who live in the surrounding territory. All Silvercrest. All looking for someone to blame.
Several pairs of eyes drift toward me.
I dig my fingernails into my palms, focusing on the sharp bite of pain to keep myself grounded. They know Rowan is my roommate. My friend. The human I've been defending for three years against pack members who thought I was degrading myself by associating with her.
"The evidence is irrefutable," continues Olivia Hart, one of the senior pack members and Uncle David's chief advisor. She's elegant and austere, with the kind of perfect posture that makes me feel like a slouching child. "The Ashford girl's DNA was found at the scene. Multiple witnesses place her in the vicinity. And now we learn she was illegally Turned…"
"She didn't do it." The words escape before I can stop them.
The room goes quiet. Every face turns toward me.
Uncle David's expression doesn't change, but I can see the subtle tightening around his eyes. Disappointment. I've become intimately familiar with that look.
"Sage." His tone is carefully neutral. "You have something to contribute?"
My mouth goes dry. I should back down, apologize for the interruption, sink back into invisibility. That's what the weak wolves do—the ones who can't shift properly, who embarrass their packs with their inadequacy.
But Rowan is locked in a cell, and I know she didn't kill anyone.
"Rowan wouldn't hurt anyone," I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. "I've lived with her for three years. She's gentle and kind and completely non-violent. The idea that she would suddenly…"
"The Turning changes people." Olivia's interruption is smooth as silk and twice as cutting. "Especially forced Turnings. The wolf emerges without training, without control, without pack bonds to anchor it. Feral behavior is not just possible—it's probable."
"But she was unconscious when it happened," I argue, taking a step forward. "She has no memory of the night. Someone drugged her, Turned her against her will, and then…"
"And then she killed Tyler Morrison." Uncle David stands, and the casual authority in the gesture makes me falter mid-sentence. "Sage, I understand your loyalty to your friend. It speaks well of your character. But sentiment cannot outweigh evidence."
"What if the evidence was planted?"
The question hangs in the air like a blasphemy.
Uncle David's expression hardens. "That's a serious accusation. Are you suggesting someone within the packs would frame an innocent girl for murder to... what? Destabilize the Concordance? Create political chaos?"
When he puts it like that, it sounds paranoid. Conspiratorial. Exactly the kind of wild theory a weak wolf might grasp at to avoid facing uncomfortable truths.
"I'm saying Rowan deserves a fair investigation," I manage, though my conviction is crumbling under the weight of thirty skeptical stares. "Not a rush to judgment."
"The trial is in four days," Uncle David says. "She'll have her opportunity to present a defense. Until then, pack unity requires we trust the evidence and prepare for the consequences."
"Consequences?" My voice cracks slightly.
"Ironwood is furious." Olivia takes over, clearly eager to move past my disruption. "They're demanding immediate execution. Catherine Reyes is calling the Turning an act of war—a human infiltrating pack structures and murdering from within. If we appear to defend the accused, we risk Ironwood viewing Silvercrest as complicit."
The politics click into place with nauseating clarity. This isn't about justice. It's about positioning. Silvercrest is the smallest of the three packs, perpetually caught between Nightshade and Ironwood power plays. We can't afford to alienate either faction, which means we can't afford to defend Rowan—even if she's innocent.
"So we sacrifice her." I don't phrase it as a question.
Uncle David's expression softens slightly. "We maintain neutrality. Let the evidence speak for itself. If she's truly innocent, the trial will reveal that."
Liar, I think but don't say. We both know pack trials are about politics as much as truth.
"Sage." My mother's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. She's been standing near the window, silent until now. Lydia Kimura is petite and graceful, everything a Silvercrest wolf should be. Everything I'm not. "A word. Outside."
It's not a request.
I follow her into the hallway, my stomach already churning with dread. The common room door closes behind us, muffling the resumed conversation inside.
Mom doesn't speak immediately. She just looks at me with that particular expression of maternal disappointment that's somehow worse than anger. Like she's grieving the daughter she could have had instead of the one standing in front of her.
"You embarrassed yourself in there," she says finally.
"I was defending my friend."
"You were being naive." She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose in a gesture I've seen a thousand times. "Sage, sweetheart, I know you care about Rowan. But this loyalty, this stubborn refusal to see reality, it's exactly the kind of weakness that…"
"That what?" The words come out sharper than intended. "That makes me a bad wolf? A disappointment to the pack? The weak link?"
Mom flinches. "I never said…"
"You didn't have to." I'm shaking now, months of accumulated hurt bubbling to the surface. "Everyone knows I can barely shift. That I'm defective somehow. That I'm an embarrassment to the Kimura name."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" I laugh, and it sounds brittle even to my own ears. "When's the last time you introduced me to visiting pack members? When's the last time you mentioned having a daughter without immediately changing the subject?"
The silence stretches between us, damning in its completeness.
"I'm trying to protect you," Mom says quietly. "The pack hierarchy is brutal to those who can't meet expectations. If you draw attention to yourself by defending a murderer…"
"She's not a murderer."
"…then you make yourself a target." Mom steps closer, lowering her voice. "Please, Sage. For once, just keep your head down. Let this play out. Don't tie yourself to a sinking ship."
The metaphor is apt. Rowan is drowning, and my mother is advising me to let her go rather than risk going under myself.
"I can't do that," I whisper.
Mom's expression hardens. "Then you're a fool."
She walks away, her footsteps echoing down the hallway with finality. I stand there alone, feeling the familiar weight of inadequacy settle over my shoulders like a shroud.
I make it to the bathroom before the nausea overwhelms me.