Chapter 40 Edmund's Response (Edmund POV)
I'm in room 237 reviewing surveillance footage when the howl tears through the afternoon air, not just loud, but wrong. Layered with harmonics that shouldn't exist. Carrying authority that makes something primal in my brain want to drop to its knees.
I know that sound.
Seventeen years ago, in a delivery room soaked in blood, I heard something similar. Not as powerful. Not as refined. But the same fundamental tone.
Lyanna.
My hands are shaking as I move to the window, looking toward Blackthorn Academy in the distance. Three miles of forest and moorland separate us, but the howl cut through it like the distance meant nothing.
She's fully awakened.
My daughter…my Vivienne…just announced to every supernatural creature in Yorkshire that she's Silvermane.
"No," I breathe, pressing my forehead against the cold glass. "No no no. Not yet. She's not ready. Not strong enough. They'll kill her."
Or I will.
The thought surfaces unbidden, and I want to reject it. Want to insist I'd never harm my own daughter. But I murdered her mother. Spent seventeen years suppressing everything that makes Vivienne who she is. Hired hunters and bought weapons and prepared an operation specifically designed to massacre werewolves.
Including…if necessary…my own child.
I sink into the desk chair, my carefully constructed justifications crumbling.
For seventeen years, I've told myself I was protecting her. Keeping her safe from the monster inside. Preventing her from becoming what killed her mother.
But Lyanna didn't die because she was a werewolf. She died because I killed her. Panicked and murdered my own mate because I couldn't handle what she was.
And now Vivienne is becoming the same thing. And I'm planning to do the same thing.
Again.
The pattern is so clear it makes me sick.
My mobile rings. Marcus, my lead hunter.
"You heard it," he says without preamble.
"Everyone in a five-mile radius heard it. What was it?"
"Silvermane. Had to be. That level of power, that ancestral resonance…nothing else sounds like that." He pauses. "Edmund, if that was your daughter..."
"It was."
"Then we need to accelerate. If she's accessing Silvermane abilities already, she's more dangerous than we anticipated. She could create new werewolves. Could force transformations. Could build an army before we're ready to move."
"She's seventeen years old. She doesn't know how to do any of that."
"You sure? Because that howl sounded like someone who knows exactly what they are." Another pause. "I'm calling in the full network. All twenty-three specialists. We move in three weeks during the tournament as planned, but we prepare for worst-case scenario."
"Which is?"
"That your daughter is the most powerful supernatural in Britain. And that eliminating her becomes priority one."
The words hit like physical blows. "She's not…"
"She's Silvermane. Ancient bloodline. Werewolf royalty. If the legends are even half true, she's more dangerous than all seven packs combined." Marcus's voice is clinical, professional. "This isn't about your feelings. This is about preventing a threat that could destabilize the entire supernatural ecosystem."
"She's my daughter."
"Is she? Or is she the thing wearing your daughter's face?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "Network arrives tomorrow. We need secure location for briefing. Somewhere off campus, away from supernatural surveillance."
"The warehouse on the industrial estate. Three miles south of town."
"Good. Tomorrow, nineteen hundred hours. Be ready to brief the full team." He hangs up before I can respond.
I sit in silence, staring at my phone.
Twenty-three hunters. All specialists. All trained specifically to kill supernatural creatures. All arriving tomorrow because my daughter howled.
This is what I wanted. What I've been planning for months. All the pieces falling into place for the operation that will eliminate the werewolf threat in Yorkshire permanently.
So why do I feel like I'm making the worst mistake of my life?
The warehouse smells like rust and old motor oil, but it's isolated and large enough for the full hunter network to assemble without attracting attention.
Twenty-three faces stare at me from folding chairs arranged in rows. Most are men, though three are women. All are professionals…ex-military, private security, mercenaries who've specialized in hunting supernatural creatures.
"Thank you for coming on short notice," I begin, projecting confidence I don't feel. "I've called you here because we have a unique opportunity. In three weeks, on December twenty-first, seven werewolf packs will gather underground for a tournament called The Culling. Approximately fifty wolves, all in one location, all focused on competition instead of security."
"That's the opportunity," says one hunter…James, I think, from Manchester. "What's the complication?"
"The complication is Silvermane."
The room goes quiet.
"You're certain?" asks another hunter, a woman named Sarah from Edinburgh. "Silvermanes have been extinct for over a century."
"I was married to one. I killed her seventeen years ago during childbirth. And yesterday, her daughter…my daughter…released a dominance howl that was heard three miles away. Every supernatural in the area felt it." I pull up photographs on the projector. "This is Vivienne Ashford. Seventeen years old. Fully awakened as of yesterday. Silvermane bloodline."
The photographs show Vivienne at various points over the past months. Training with the Greyfang Pack. Walking across campus. Sitting in classes. Looking so young, so innocent.
So human.
"She's a child," objects another hunter…Daniel, from Wales. "We're being paid to eliminate threats, not murder teenagers."
"She's Silvermane. That makes her more dangerous than any adult werewolf you've ever encountered." I change to the next slide, historical accounts of Silvermane abilities. "They can force transformations. Create new werewolves without biting. Command other wolves through sheer dominance. If she learns how to access even half of these abilities, she could build an army. Could transform hundreds of humans into werewolves before we could stop her."
"Could," Daniel repeats. "Not has. Not is. Could."
"Which is why we act now, before potential becomes reality." I move to the tactical maps. "The Culling takes place in the Subterranean Pitch beneath Blackthorn Academy. Single entrance, limited exits, enclosed space. We seal them in, deploy silver gas through the ventilation system, and eliminate every wolf inside. Including Silvermane."
"You're talking about killing your own daughter," Sarah says quietly.
"I'm talking about preventing a threat that could destabilize Britain's supernatural population. Personal feelings are irrelevant."
"Are they? Because from where I'm sitting, this looks like a father trying to finish what he started seventeen years ago when he murdered his wife."
The accusation stings because it's accurate. "My wife transformed during childbirth. Lost control. I acted to protect my daughter."
"And now you're acting to kill her. How is that protection?"
"Because she's not my daughter anymore. She's a werewolf. She's the enemy." I say it firmly, needing them to believe it. Needing to believe it myself. "The girl I raised doesn't exist. What exists is a Silvermane female with enough power to create an army. And we have three weeks to prepare to eliminate her."
"What if she surrenders?" asks James. "What if we offer her a way out? Suppression instead of execution?"
"Suppression doesn't work. I spent seventeen years suppressing her abilities. The moment she met her mate, everything broke down. You can't suppress Silvermane power permanently. You can only eliminate it."
"By killing a seventeen-year-old girl."
"By eliminating a supernatural threat before it becomes unstoppable." I'm raising my voice now, frustration bleeding through. "If you're not comfortable with the target, there are forty-nine other wolves in that facility. Focus on them. But I need all of you committed to this operation."
The room is silent for a long moment.
Then Marcus stands. "I'm in. Silvermane or not, fifty wolves in one location is too good an opportunity to pass up. We take the shot."
Slowly, others nod agreement. Not all. Daniel and two others remain seated, their expressions conflicted. But nineteen out of twenty-three is enough.
"Good." I move to the next slide, equipment inventory. "We have ten thousand rounds of silver ammunition distributed across six weapon platforms. UV cannons positioned at all exit points. Silver gas dispersal systems installed in the ventilation. And emergency protocols if anything goes wrong."
"What's the extraction plan?" Sarah asks.
"There isn't one. This is elimination, not capture. We seal them in, we deploy the gas, we wait for them to weaken, and then we finish it. No survivors. No witnesses. No evidence beyond what we choose to leave."
"And if something goes wrong? If they break through the containment?"
"Then we have backup positions on all access routes. Snipers with silver rounds. UV lights on portable generators. Enough firepower to handle anything that escapes the initial assault." I meet her eyes. "But nothing will escape. This is eighteen months of planning. Every contingency has been considered."
"Except one," Daniel says quietly. "What if your daughter doesn't go into that facility? What if she stays out of the tournament?"
The thought has been haunting me for weeks. "Then we adjust. But based on surveillance, she's been training with the Greyfang Pack specifically for The Culling. She'll be there."
"And if she's not?"
"Then we find her afterward. But one way or another, the Silvermane bloodline ends in three weeks."
The words taste like ash.
After the briefing, Marcus finds me in the warehouse office.
"You're having doubts," he observes.
"I'm always having doubts. This is my daughter we're discussing."
"Is she though? The girl you raised was human. Obedient. Safe. What exists now is a werewolf who released a howl that made every supernatural in Yorkshire acknowledge her dominance." He leans against the desk. "That's not your daughter, Edmund. That's Lyanna's legacy. And you know what happens if we let it continue."
"Enlighten me."
"She creates more Silvermanes. Transforms humans, builds a pack, establishes territory. Within ten years, Britain has a new werewolf royal family. Within twenty, they're spreading across Europe. Within fifty, we're back to the dark ages when supernatural creatures ruled and humans served."
"That's speculation."
"Based on historical evidence. The Silvermanes were eliminated for a reason. They were too powerful to coexist with humanity. Your wife knew this. That's why she hid. Married human. Tried to live quietly. But the power doesn't disappear. It just waits for the next generation."
"Vivienne isn't building an army. She's a teenager trying to understand what she is."
"Now. But what about next year? Five years? Ten years? When she's had time to master her abilities. When she's formed alliances with other packs. When she decides that humans are the threat and starts eliminating us?" He straightens. "We stop it now, while she's still vulnerable. While we have the element of surprise. Or we wait and fight a war we can't win."
I want to argue. Want to insist Vivienne would never become what he's describing. But I don't know that. Don't know what seventeen years of suppression followed by sudden awakening has created.
The girl I raised was human. Innocent. Mine.
The creature who howled yesterday is something else. Something powerful and ancient and fundamentally not human.
And I'm the one who created her. Who married Lyanna. Who failed to suppress the bloodline completely. Who set in motion the events that led to this moment.
"Three weeks," I say quietly. "We have three weeks to prepare. To position equipment. To finalize protocols."
"And to make peace with what we're doing," Marcus adds. "Because when that gas deploys and those wolves start dying, there's no taking it back. No changing your mind. You need to be certain, Edmund. Because if you hesitate when it matters, people die. Probably us."
"I'm certain."
The lie comes easily. I've been lying for seventeen years.
But when Marcus leaves and I'm alone in the office, I pull out my phone and scroll to a photograph I keep hidden in a locked folder.
Vivienne at day old, holding a stuffed wolf and crying at something I've forgotten. Before I started the suppression. Before I systematically destroyed every trace of her mother's heritage.
Before I turned her into exactly what I feared.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to the photograph. "I'm so sorry. But I can't let you become what she was. Can't watch you turn into a monster. Can't lose you the way I lost her."
Even though killing her is the ultimate loss.
Even though everything I'm doing guarantees the opposite of what I claim to want. Even though I've become the monster I was trying to prevent. I delete the photograph. Can't afford sentimentality. Can't afford doubt. In three weeks, I lead twenty-three hunters into battle against fifty werewolves. And if everything goes according to plan, my daughter dies. Along with everyone she cares about. Because that's what fathers do. They protect their children. Even when protection looks like execution. Even when love becomes murder. One way or another.