Chapter 275

Chapter 275
The Snow Palace was too quiet.

It had been quiet before, during the hours after Damien returned from the mountain ridge with blood on his hands and frost in his hair, but this was different. This was a quiet that did not belong to peace. It belonged to a blade held just out of sight.

Damien stood alone in the war room, palms braced on the long table, head lowered. The map beneath him was useless tonight. Borders and patrol routes meant nothing when the danger was already inside his walls. The fire in the hearth snapped and shifted, and each sound felt sharp, like the palace itself was trying to warn him.

He had not slept.

Each time he closed his eyes, he saw the creature’s mouth forming Logan’s name. Each time he opened them, he saw Robert’s face going slack beneath his ice.

And worse than both, he saw Lorne’s eyes.

The lie in them.

Damien lifted his head slowly, staring at the shadowed doorway.

He could smell his pack beyond these walls, sleeping, restless. He could smell Brianna two halls away, curled around their son. He could smell Logan’s little body like warmth and milk and something wild that had not yet learned fear.

Damien’s chest tightened.

He had promised.

No one would touch this child. Not while he breathed.

The door opened without a knock.

Lorne stepped inside.

He shut the door behind him softly, too softly. He should have pushed it, should have let it thud like a man unafraid. The quiet close felt like a confession.

Damien did not turn.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Lorne said.

His voice was steady. It always was. That had been one of his gifts, back when Damien had believed in him without question. Lorne could sound calm even with blood on his hands.

Damien stared at the map.

“You have been walking,” Damien said. “I can smell the cold on you.”

Lorne paused.

Damien heard his breath shift, a small change. A man adjusting his stance.

“I needed air,” Lorne said.

Damien finally turned.

The firelight painted Lorne’s face in gold and shadow. He looked tired. He looked hollow. He also looked like a man who had made a decision and was carrying it like a stone in his chest.

Damien studied him for a long moment, letting the silence stretch until it became a weight.

“I killed Robert,” Damien said at last.

Lorne’s expression did not change. His eyes flicked once, barely, like the words had landed and he had already known where they would fall.

Damien watched the flicker.

“You’re not surprised,” Damien said.

Lorne swallowed. “I’m relieved.”

Damien nodded slowly, as if accepting the answer.

Then he stepped closer.

The floor frosted beneath his boots without him willing it. His power always answered his mood. Tonight it responded like an animal cornered, eager to bite.

“I stood in that fortress,” Damien said quietly, “and I smelled you in the walls.”

Lorne’s jaw tightened.

Damien kept walking until they were only a few feet apart.

“I smelled you on his hands,” Damien continued. “I smelled you on his equipment. I smelled you in the cage where he kept that thing.”

Lorne’s throat moved. Another swallow.

Damien’s voice dropped lower.

“You told me you did not know.”

Lorne’s eyes held his. “I didn’t know what he made.”

“You knew enough,” Damien said.

Lorne’s lips parted, then closed again.

Damien waited.

Lorne did not speak.

Damien’s eyes narrowed. “Say it.”

Lorne’s nostrils flared, anger flashing for the first time. “Say what.”

Damien’s voice cracked, just slightly, as if something human had pushed through the Alpha for one breath.

“Say you were there,” Damien said. “Say you helped him. Say you handed him my blood.”

Lorne’s face went still.

The quiet between them turned sharp.

Damien felt his heartbeat like a drum. He hated that he needed to hear it. He hated that even now, even after everything, some part of him was still begging to be wrong.

Lorne finally spoke, and his voice was flat.

“If I say it,” he said, “what happens next.”

Damien’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “I want the truth.”

“The truth,” Lorne echoed, and there was bitterness in it now. “You want truth now.”

Damien’s eyes flashed. “Do not do that.”

Lorne took a step forward too, closing the space until the air between them felt thin.

“You decided who deserves breath,” Lorne said softly. “You decided who lives and who dies, and you call it protection. You call it righteousness. When it’s you doing it, it’s noble. When someone else does it, it’s evil.”

Damien’s voice turned ice. “Robert murdered people.”

“So have you,” Lorne shot back.

Damien’s jaw clenched. The room seemed to shrink around them.

“I have defended my pack,” Damien said. “I have done what I had to do to keep my family alive.”

Lorne’s eyes burned. “And you think that makes you better.”

Damien stared at him, and for a second, the rage was not the worst thing in his chest. The worst thing was grief.

“I trusted you,” Damien said, and his voice went quieter. “I called you brother.”

Lorne’s mouth tightened as if the words hit somewhere tender.

Damien took one step closer.

“If you touched my blood,” Damien said, “if you handed it to him, if you helped build that thing that dared call me father, then you have already crossed a line you cannot crawl back from.”

Lorne’s hands curled.

The tendons in his neck stood out.

“You think I wanted to,” Lorne said, voice low. “You think I woke up one day and decided to betray you for the fun of it.”

Damien did not answer.

Lorne’s laugh came sharp and humorless. “No. You never bothered to ask why. Because you never actually saw me, Damien.”

Damien’s eyes narrowed. “I saw you.”

“You saw what you needed,” Lorne said. “A second. A shadow. A loyal dog at your heel so you could pretend you were not alone at the top.”

Damien’s nostrils flared.

He remembered Lori’s words. The echo of them. Damien’s dog.

He had thought it was poison meant to wound Lorne, not truth.

Damien’s voice went dangerous. “Do not speak about loyalty like you understand it.”

Lorne’s eyes hardened. “I understand it better than you.”

The fire popped in the hearth. A small sound. A reminder of warmth that felt distant now.

Damien stepped back half a pace, drawing a slow breath through his nose.

“I will ask you once,” Damien said. “Were you part of it.”

Lorne’s gaze did not flinch.

Damien could smell the answer before the words came. It was in Lorne’s sweat, in the tension of his muscles, in the way his heartbeat sped.

“Yes.

Lorne’s lips moved, and the word came out almost like a release.

“Yes,” he said. “I was.”

Damien felt the room tilt.

Not physically, but inside him. Like something that had been holding him upright finally snapped.

His vision sharpened.

His power surged, frost creeping along the table’s edge, crawling up the carved legs.

Lorne did not move.

He stood there like a man inviting judgement.

Damien’s voice turned very calm.

“Then you leave,” Damien said. “You leave tonight. You will not come near my family again.”

Lorne’s eyes flashed. “And if I don’t.”

Damien stepped forward, and the temperature dropped so sharply the air stung.

“Then I will make you,” Damien said.

Lorne’s jaw tightened.

He stared at Damien for a long moment, then let out a slow breath.

“You see,” Lorne said quietly. “This is why Robert was right about you.”

Damien’s eyes narrowed. “Do not speak his name.”

Lorne’s lips curled. “He’s dead. You killed him. You killed the creature too, like it was nothing. Like killing is just a tool in your hand. And you can stand here and tell yourself it is always for love, always for family, always for protection.”

Damien’s expression did not change.

Lorne’s voice lowered.

“But if you can kill a miracle made from your blood, and you can kill the man who built it without blinking, what do you think you’ll be able to kill next time,” Lorne asked softly, “when you feel threatened.”

Damien’s gaze went sharp.

“Are you threatening my son,” Damien said.

Lorne’s eyes flickered, and for one instant, Damien saw it.

Not threat.

Not hatred.

Fear.

Lorne swallowed. “No.”

Damien took another step forward.

“Then why are you here,” Damien demanded.

Lorne’s hand moved.

Not to his blade.

To his coat pocket.

The motion was small, almost nothing, but Damien saw it.

His eyes narrowed.

“What is that,” Damien said.

Lorne’s face did not change, but his pulse spiked.

Damien moved.

He crossed the space in a blur, grabbing Lorne’s wrist, twisting it up hard.

Lorne hissed, fighting the grip.

Damien’s fingers tightened. “What is it.”

Lorne’s eyes burned with fury. “Let go.”

Damien’s voice went low. “Not until I know what you are carrying.”

Lorne jerked hard.

For a heartbeat, they were locked, strength against strength.

Damien was stronger. He always had been. Lorne had always known it. It had always sat between them like an unspoken truth.

Lorne’s expression shifted. Something snapped in his eyes, like a door finally slammed shut.

Damien felt it in the air.

A change.

Lorne stopped fighting the wrist.

Instead, his other hand shot up.

A small needle flashed in the firelight.

Damien’s eyes widened.

The sting hit his neck before he could react.

A sharp pinch, deep enough to bite.

Damien’s body jolted.

He grabbed at Lorne’s arm, but the needle was already gone, slipped away like a snake.

Damien staggered a half step back.

His breath came out harsh.

“What did you do,” he snarled.

Lorne’s chest rose and fell fast. His eyes were wild now, but his voice was oddly steady.

“What I had to,” Lorne said.

Damien tried to summon ice.

The air responded, frost forming at his fingertips, then stalling, stuttering like a broken heartbeat.

The power did not flow clean.

It felt muffled.

Damien’s stomach dropped.

He stared at his hand like it betrayed him.

Lorne’s eyes did not soften. “You’re not untouchable,” he said quietly.

Damien’s breath hitched.

The injection was working. It was dulling his senses. It was blunting his power.

Robert’s tools.

Robert’s science.

Damien’s rage turned cold.

“You brought his poison into my house,” Damien said.

Lorne took a step forward, and his voice became almost gentle, like he was speaking to someone he pitied.

“You were always going to fall, Damien,” Lorne said. “I just finally accepted that it had to be me.”

Damien’s eyes flashed. “For what. For power.”

Lorne’s laugh was short. “Power. You think this is about power. You think I want your throne.”

Damien’s vision blurred for a moment, then sharpened again.

He tried to steady himself.

His body was strong, but he could feel something sliding under his skin, dulling reflexes, slowing the edge of his instincts.

He forced his voice steady. “Then why.”

Lorne’s face twisted, and the bitterness poured out.

“Because I have lived in your shadow for years,” he hissed. “Because every time you saved me, you made me smaller. Because you looked at me like a loyal tool, not a man.”

Damien clenched his fists.

“That is not true.”

Lorne stepped closer. “You called me your best friend like it was a pat on the head. Like I was lucky to be noticed by you.”

Damien’s jaw tightened.

He reached for his blade at his side.

His fingers closed around the hilt.

Lorne watched the motion, eyes narrowing.

Damien drew the blade. Steel flashed.

His stance shifted, instinct taking over, even with his power dulled.

Lorne’s hand went to his own weapon.

For a heartbeat, it looked like a duel between brothers.

Then Lorne moved first.

Not with a blade.

With words, sharp as glass.

“If you kill me,” Lorne said softly, “you prove Robert right. You become exactly what he said you would.”

Damien froze for half a beat.

The hesitation was small.

It was enough.

Lorne lunged.

His blade drove forward, aimed for Damien’s ribs, swift and precise.

Damien twisted.

The blade cut him anyway, a shallow slice across his side.

Pain flared.

Damien snarled, swinging his own blade.

Steel met steel.

Sparks flew.

Lorne’s eyes were bright with something feral.

Damien’s mind raced.

He was dulled, slowed, but not helpless.

He could still fight.

He could still kill.

But his body felt heavier, as if the air itself had turned thick.

They clashed again.

Damien shoved Lorne back against the table.

Maps scattered.

The chair toppled.

Lorne slammed his elbow into Damien’s jaw.

Damien’s head snapped to the side.

His vision flashed white.

He stumbled back a step, blood on his tongue.

Lorne did not hesitate.

He drove forward, blade aimed for Damien’s throat this time.

Damien caught his wrist, twisting hard.

Lorne grunted.

Damien shoved him away.

Lorne hit the wall, hard enough to rattle the sconces.

The torch flame flickered.

Damien’s breath came fast.

His heart hammered.

He could end this.

Even dulled, he could end it.

He lifted his hand, trying to summon ice again, forcing it through the fog inside him.

A thin sheet of frost formed, weaker than it should have been.

Lorne’s eyes widened.

Damien’s jaw clenched, anger and betrayal burning through him.

“You cannot have my family,” Damien growled. “You cannot have my son.”

Lorne’s voice was hoarse. “This isn’t about your son.”

Damien’s eyes narrowed. “Then what.”

Lorne pushed himself upright, blood on his lip.

He looked at Damien like a man staring at the sun, hating it for burning.

“It’s about you,” Lorne whispered. “You are the storm that never ends.”

Damien took one step forward.

His balance wavered for a fraction.

The drug was deep in him now.

Lorne saw it. His eyes sharpened.

He moved again, faster.

His blade drove into Damien’s abdomen.

Deep.

Damien’s breath punched out of him.

His eyes widened.

Pain bloomed, hot and shocking.

He grabbed Lorne’s wrist, trying to yank the blade out, trying to stop the second strike.

Lorne leaned in close.

His breath was ragged.

His voice was low, almost intimate.

“I’m sorry,” Lorne whispered.

Damien’s eyes burned with fury.

“Liar,” Damien rasped.

Lorne’s jaw clenched.

He twisted the blade.

Damien choked on a sound that was half snarl, half gasp.

His knees buckled slightly.

He forced himself upright, refusing to fall.

Refusing.

He tried again to call his ice.

Nothing.

A flicker.

A failure.

His power was muffled, trapped behind fog.

Betrayal in liquid form.

Damien’s hand clamped on Lorne’s shoulder, fingers digging in, strong enough to bruise.

He leaned forward, blood spilling from his lips.

“You will die,” Damien growled, voice thick. “I will still kill you.”

Lorne’s eyes flashed with pain.

“Maybe,” Lorne whispered. “But you won’t.”

He yanked the blade free.

Damien staggered.

Blood poured, dark against the pale stone.

His body fought to keep him standing, but the wound was too deep, and the drug was too strong.

Damien’s vision blurred.

He forced it clear.

He looked at Lorne.

For a heartbeat, through the rage, through the betrayal, there was something else.

Not forgiveness.

Not softness.

Recognition.

Damien finally understood.

This was not a moment of madness.

This was a plan.

A long one.

A slow one.

A betrayal that had been growing for years.

Damien’s mouth opened.

He tried to speak.

He tried to say Brianna’s name, or Logan’s, or something that would anchor him.

No sound came, only breath and blood.

His legs buckled.

He caught the edge of the table with one hand, fingers slipping on spilled ink and blood.

Lorne stood still, watching him.

Damien’s eyes lifted to him again, and the hurt finally cracked through the Alpha’s face.

“You were my brother,” Damien rasped.

Lorne’s face tightened, and for a moment he looked like he might break.

Then his eyes hardened again, sealing shut.

“You never really meant that,” Lorne said, voice shaking. “You just liked how it sounded.”

Damien’s breath hitched.

He tried to straighten.

His hand slid.

He collapsed to one knee.

His vision narrowed.

He could hear the palace around them, distant and unaware.

The crackle of fire.

The sigh of wind against stone.

The world continuing as if an Alpha was not dying in his own home.

Damien lifted his gaze again.

And in the corner of the room, behind the heavy curtain near the doorway, he saw something small.

A shadow that did not belong.

A breath that did not belong.

Two wide eyes reflecting firelight.

Logan.

Damien’s heart lurched.

His throat tightened.

No.

Not here.

Not now.

Damien tried to move, tried to reach, tried to speak to his son.

His hand lifted.

His fingers trembled.

Logan did not move.

His face was pale, lips parted, eyes enormous with terror.

Damien’s chest tightened with panic and love.

He forced one word out, barely a whisper.

“Run.”

Logan’s body jolted, like the whisper struck him.

He backed away silently.

Then he turned.

And he ran.

Damien’s breath shuddered.

Relief and grief crashed together.

Lorne did not notice the child.

Or if he did, he did not show it.

Damien’s vision blurred again.

His head dipped.

He heard Lorne’s boots shift.

He felt Lorne step closer.

Damien tried to lift his head.

He wanted to look at his friend one last time, to memorize the face of the man who ended him.

Lorne crouched.

His shadow fell over Damien like night.

Damien’s voice came out thin. “Brianna.”

Lorne’s jaw clenched.

Damien swallowed, blood thick.

“Do not,” Damien whispered. “Touch them.”

Lorne’s eyes flickered, and something like shame crossed his face, brief and sharp.

“I won’t,” Lorne said hoarsely. “That isn’t the point.”

Damien’s breath rattled.

The room swayed.

The last thing Damien saw was the fire in the hearth, and the way the light danced on the walls like it did not care.

Then his body went heavy.

The world went dim.

And the Snow Alpha fell.

Logan did not stop running until his lungs burned.

He did not cry.

He did not scream.

He did not make a sound, because somewhere deep inside him, a primal instinct had wrapped around his throat like a hand and squeezed.

Hide.

Survive.

Do not be seen.

He darted through familiar corridors, his small feet slapping against stone. The palace was huge, and most of it was quiet at this hour. Guards stood at their posts, but none looked down long enough to notice the child racing past, eyes wild, hair messy, breath coming in small gasps.

Logan’s mind was not a mind anymore.

It was images.

His father’s face.

Blood on the floor.

Lorne’s blade.

The sound Damien made when he fell, not loud, not dramatic, just a soft, awful shift like a mountain cracking.

Logan shoved himself into a storage alcove behind a tapestry and pressed both hands over his mouth.

He shook.

His whole body shook.

He tried to make sense of what he saw, but the only thing he understood was that Papa was not supposed to fall. Papa was supposed to be bigger than the world. Papa was supposed to catch him.

Logan squeezed his eyes shut.

When he opened them again, the palace was still quiet.

The world had not changed.

But Logan had.

He waited there until the sounds came.

A shout in the hall.

Boots running.

A door slamming open.

Voices.

Panic rising like smoke.

Logan pressed himself tighter into the shadows, heart pounding.

He heard names.

“Damien.”

“Alpha.”

“Get the healer.”

He heard Brianna’s voice then, and it made something in his chest crack.

“Mama,” he whispered, too quiet for anyone to hear.

Her voice was sharp, furious at first, because Brianna was not a woman who broke easily.

“What happened,” she demanded.

Then silence.

A long silence.

And when Brianna spoke again, her voice was not Brianna’s anymore.

It was a sound ripped out of something deeper.

A sound that did not feel human.

“No,” she said, and the word was so raw it made Logan bite down on his knuckles to keep from crying out loud.

“No, no, no.”

Logan squeezed his eyes shut again.

Images came anyway.

Lorne’s face when he looked down at Damien.

Not triumph.

Something else.

Something cold.

Logan clutched the fabric of the tapestry and shook harder.

He knew he should tell someone.

He knew he should run to Mama, throw himself into her arms, tell her what he saw, point at Lorne and scream.

But fear held him.

Lorne had been Papa’s brother.

Lorne had held Logan when he was little.

Lorne had lifted him onto his shoulders.

If Lorne could kill Papa, what could he do to a cub.

Logan’s breath came in tiny, quick bursts.

His eyes burned.

He stayed hidden.

He stayed silent.

He listened to the palace fill with grief.

And he learned what fear tasted like.

The Snow Palace mourned like a living thing.

For days, the walls seemed to dim, the fires burning lower, voices dropping softer as if sound itself might break something already cracked.

Brianna did not leave Damien’s body at first.

They laid him in the great hall beneath the tallest windows, where pale winter light spilled across his face. His skin looked too still. His mouth looked too quiet. Brianna sat beside him on the stone floor, her hands folded over his chest like she could press life back into him if she held hard enough.

The healer spoke. The council spoke. Wolves came and went, heads bowed, eyes wet, voices murmuring prayers.

Brianna did not answer any of them.

Logan watched from behind pillars and doorways, too terrified to step closer.

Every time he saw his father’s body, something in him screamed.

Every time he saw his mother’s face, something in him broke again.

Brianna’s grief was not pretty.

It was not soft.

It was violent in its own way, like a storm trapped inside a woman’s ribs with nowhere to go.

Sometimes she was silent for hours, staring at Damien’s face like she was memorizing it. Other times she shook with sobs that sounded like choking, fingers clenching in Damien’s shirt as if she could drag him back by force.

The pack moved around her like frightened animals.

They did not know what to do with a grieving mate of an Alpha.

They did not know what to do with a queen without a king.

Lorne stayed close.

That was the cruelest part.

He stayed close like he belonged there.

He stood in the hall when wolves came to pay respect. He directed guards. He spoke quietly to elders, arranging patrols, ordering food, keeping the palace from collapsing into panic.

He looked like a man bearing the weight of loss.

And Brianna believed it.

Because why would she not.

Lorne was Damien’s brother.

Logan watched him with wide eyes, stomach twisting.

Sometimes Lorne’s gaze swept the hall and Logan would press himself farther into shadow, convinced Lorne could smell the truth on him.

But Lorne never looked directly at Logan.

Not once.

That scared Logan more than if he had.

On the third day, after Damien’s body was prepared for burial in the ice crypts, Brianna finally stood.

Her legs shook, and a wolf rushed forward to steady her, but she waved them away.

She walked to the window, staring out at the endless snowfields.

The world looked the same.

It had no right to.

Brianna spoke without turning, voice hoarse.

“He promised me,” she whispered.

No one answered.

Lorne stepped closer, gentle as a man approaching a wound.

“Brianna,” he said softly.

She did not look at him. “He promised me he would stay.”

Lorne’s throat moved. “He tried.”

Brianna’s hands clenched at her sides. “Tried,” she echoed, bitter. “He always tried. He always fought. He always came back.”

Her voice broke on the last word.

Lorne stood behind her in silence, and Logan watched from the doorway, fingers curled around the stone so hard his knuckles went white.

Brianna turned suddenly, eyes red, face streaked with tears.

“Why would anyone be able to kill him,” she demanded, and the question was not to Lorne only. It was to the world. “Why would he leave me here.”

Lorne’s jaw tightened. His eyes flickered, and for a heartbeat Logan thought he saw something like guilt.

Then it was gone.

“He had enemies,” Lorne said quietly. “He was the Snow Alpha. He was… too big for this world. Someone always wanted to prove they could cut him down.”

Brianna’s eyes squeezed shut.

Logan felt like he might vomit.

Because he knew the truth.

It was not an enemy pack.

It was not some faceless rival.

It was the man standing in front of his mother, speaking gently, pretending to share their grief.

Logan’s chest tightened.

He backed away before he could be seen.

The day Lorne left, the snow fell in slow, heavy flakes, like the sky was tired.

Brianna stood in the courtyard with a fur cloak pulled tight around her shoulders. The palace doors behind her were open, warm air spilling out into cold. Wolves moved quietly, heads bowed, some stopping to touch her arm as they passed, offering silent respect.

Logan stood beside her, small hand locked around her fingers.

He had barely spoken since Damien died.

Brianna thought it was grief.

She did not know it was fear.

Lorne approached from the steps, a bag slung over his shoulder. He looked like he had not slept. His face was pale, eyes shadowed.

Brianna’s gaze sharpened on him.

“You’re leaving,” she said.

It was not a question.

Lorne’s jaw worked. He nodded. “There’s nothing here for me anymore.”

Brianna’s mouth tightened.

Logan’s stomach twisted.

He stared at Lorne’s boots.

He imagined the sound they made in the war room when Lorne stepped closer to his father’s bleeding body.

He swallowed hard.

Brianna lifted her chin. “Damien would have wanted you here.”

The words landed like a slap.

Lorne flinched, almost imperceptibly.

“I know,” he said quietly.

Brianna’s voice turned brittle. “Then why are you going.”

Lorne’s gaze flicked toward Logan for the first time, not directly at his face, but at the small hand gripping Brianna’s. His eyes held something unreadable.

Then he looked back at Brianna.

“Because every corner of this palace smells like him,” Lorne said, voice low. “And I can’t breathe in it.”

Brianna’s eyes filled again, and anger flashed with the grief.

“You think I can,” she whispered.

Lorne’s throat moved. He looked away, jaw clenched like he was fighting words back.

“I’m not you,” he said quietly. “You belong here. You have his son. You have his legacy.”

Logan’s grip tightened.

Brianna’s chest rose and fell, and for a moment she looked like she might collapse again.

Then she steadied.

“Where will you go,” she asked.

Lorne’s voice was too calm. Too rehearsed.

“Another part of the country,” he said. “I hear there’s a pack somewhere in the south. It’s called Westside.”

Brianna blinked. “Westside.”

Lorne nodded. “I think I might go there.”

Brianna stared at him, and Logan watched her face, hoping, praying, that something in her would shift. That some instinct would scream. That she would see what Logan saw.

But Brianna only looked tired.

Only broken.

Only a widow trying to survive the loss of her mate.

“If Damien were here,” Brianna whispered, “he’d tell you to stop running.”

Lorne’s eyes flickered, and for one second Logan saw it, something dark and sharp behind the grief.

Then it was covered again.

“If Damien were here,” Lorne said quietly, “none of this would be happening.”

Logan’s stomach twisted harder.

Brianna swallowed, then nodded slowly, like she had no strength left to argue.

“Go,” she said, voice rough. “If you have to.”

Lorne hesitated.

Then he stepped forward.

He reached out as if to touch Brianna’s arm, then stopped himself, hand hovering in the air like he realized he did not have the right anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Lorne said.

Brianna’s mouth trembled. “So am I.”

Lorne’s gaze dropped to Logan again, and this time it lingered longer, as if he wanted to say something.

Logan’s heart pounded so loud he was sure everyone could hear it.

Lorne’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he was studying Logan’s face, searching for something.

Logan held his breath.

Then Lorne looked away.

He turned.

He walked toward the gates.

Snow gathered in his hair and on his shoulders, turning him into a moving shadow against the white world.

Brianna watched him go, face blank with exhaustion.

Logan watched him go, and something inside him hardened.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to run after him.

He wanted to grab a blade and stab him the way Lorne stabbed Papa.

But Logan was twelve, and he was small, and he was afraid, and fear had taught him silence.

So he stood still.

He let Lorne disappear into the snow.

And he kept the secret locked behind his teeth, because he did not know what would happen if he opened his mouth.

Brianna finally exhaled, shoulders sagging.

She looked down at Logan, brushing a thumb over his cheek gently.

“You’re quiet,” she murmured, voice soft. “It’s all right to cry, my love.”

Logan stared up at her.

His eyes burned.

He wanted to tell her.

He wanted to push the truth into her hands like a weapon.

But he saw her grief, raw and deep, and he saw her belly still swelling with the life Damien had left behind, and he saw how thin she looked, like she might shatter if someone breathed too hard near her.

Logan swallowed.

He shook his head once.

“I’m fine,” he lied.

Brianna pulled him into her arms, holding him tightly.

Logan stood stiff for a moment, then slowly leaned into her warmth.

He closed his eyes.

And behind his lids, he saw the war room again.

He saw Damien’s hand trembling.

He saw his father’s mouth forming one word.

Run.

Logan held his mother tighter, and in the pit of his chest, where fear lived, something else began to grow.

Not softness.

Not peace.

A vow.

He would remember.

He would not stay small forever.

And one day, when he was big enough to speak without his voice shaking, he would bring that truth out into the light.

Even if it burned them all.