Chapter Seventy-Three
The war room buzzed with urgency, magical overlays flickering across the map table as data streamed in from the outer territories.
Riven, who had been silent until now, stepped forward. His voice was calm, but carried the weight of thought. “We lure them out,” he said. “Draw them away from their fortified position. That gives us a window to send in a stealth squad — gather intel, maybe even force whoever’s behind this into the open.”
Heads nodded. The idea was sound.
Lucien added, “We should send a delegation to the human realm. Help stabilize the colonies. Show them we haven’t abandoned them.”
Agreement rippled through the room. Even the council members leaned in, already sketching outlines of deployment and logistics.
But Avery didn’t speak.
She stood at the edge of the map table, her arms crossed, her gaze distant.
She could feel the strategy forming around her — the momentum, the precision. But all she could see was the target growing larger on the backs of her mates. On Molly. On Mark and Elena.
They were her heart. Her home.
And this plan — even if it worked — would paint them in brighter colors for the enemy to aim at.
She drew into herself, her power folding inward like wings pulled tight. The others kept talking, unaware of the storm building behind her eyes.
Kael glanced her way, sensing the shift. Molly, still near the doorway, tilted her head, watching Avery with quiet concern.
But it was Remy who moved first, stepping beside her and placing a hand gently on her arm.
“You’re allowed to worry,” she said softly. “You’re allowed to feel the cost before the fight begins.”
Avery didn’t answer. Not yet.
She was calculating. Not just the plan — but the price.
The war room was thick with strategy and tension. Riven’s plan had gained traction, Lucien’s delegation suggestion was already being drafted, and the council was moving fast. Too fast.
Avery stood at the center, flanked by Molly and Remy — her mate and her mother, both anchoring her as the tide of voices rose around her.
She raised her hand, voice steady. “This plan has flaws. You’re talking about luring out an enemy we don’t understand. You’re talking about sending my mates into danger. My family. Me.”
Some heads nodded. Others didn’t.
She continued, her voice growing sharper. “You’re assuming we’ll survive it. You’re assuming we’re expendable.”
One of the nobles — a tall, silver-haired man from the Eastern Territories — leaned forward, his tone clipped. “That’s the point, isn’t it? You’re the shield. The prophecy. You were born to protect us.”
The room went still.
Avery’s breath caught. Her magic surged, unbidden — a pulse of heat and light that made the map table flicker and the air hum.
Her voice dropped to a growl. “Ungrateful monarchs.”
The lights flared. Papers flew. The floor trembled.
And then she was gone.
She landed in the fairie grove with a rush of wind and magic, her body folding to the mossy ground as the silence wrapped around her.
The grove was soft and green, dappled with light. The fairies sensed her unrest immediately, flitting around her in gentle spirals, their wings shimmering like dew.
They didn’t speak. They didn’t ask.
They simply offered peace.
Avery sat with her knees drawn to her chest, her breath slowing, her heart still burning. The fury was still there — but so was the ache. The weight of being the glue. The shield. The chosen.
She let the stillness hold her.
The council chamber was in shambles.
The map table, once glowing with strategic overlays, now sat cracked down the center, its magic flickering like a dying star. Several computer screens had caught fire and were now being doused by frantic aides. Papers and scrolls lay scattered across the floor, some still fluttering from the residual energy Avery had left behind.
And at the center of it all, the silver-haired noble who had dared to speak of sacrifice stood frozen — literally. Encased in a shimmering shell of ice, his expression locked in a moment of stunned disbelief. His entourage surrounded him, crying out for help, begging for release, their voices rising in panic.
Avery’s mates stood motionless, still absorbing the shock of her departure. Riven’s jaw was tight. Kael’s wolf stirred uneasily beneath his skin. Lucien’s eyes were locked on the frozen noble, unreadable. Molly stood with her arms crossed, her expression a mix of fury and fierce loyalty.
It was Auron and Mark who moved first.
Auron stepped forward, his voice calm but commanding, directing the guards to clear the area and begin repairs. Mark followed, speaking to the council members with quiet authority, reminding them that chaos was no excuse for losing composure.
Despite the tension, both men wore the faintest glimmer of amusement in their eyes.
Auron linked his brother, the King of Werewolves. She has a temper.
His brother’s reply came with a mental chuckle. Yeah. Like you did when we were younger.
There was pride in both their voices — not just in Avery’s power, but in the fire she carried. The fire of her father. The fire of a leader who would not be used.