175

175
As soon as daylight hits the pack house, there is a subtle knock on the door to Theon’s office. like someone who understands protocol and the power of patience.

Theon looks up from the stack of reports on his desk. The light from the high windows paints a pale strip across the floor, catches dust, and the room smells faintly of wood and wet earth. Bernardo stands by the window, arms folded, watching the courtyard like he is reading a map in the ground.

“Come in,” Theon says. His voice is even. They have taught the pack to answer the Alpha’s call with ease; they have also taught the Alpha to reply with weight.

The door opens. The oldest elder steps inside with a slow, measured tread. He bows at the shoulders, a sign of respect the way lip of the moon stains the rim of a bowl. He keeps his hands folded in front, fingers steepled, and he lets his gaze sweep the room before it settles on Theon.

“Alpha,” he says, formal, steady. “I hope the morning finds you well.”

Theon inclines his head, minimal. “It does. Sit.”

The elder takes the chair across from the desk, not too close, not too distant. He does not fidget. He will not rush. The lines at the corners of his eyes deepen when he speaks, as if time itself carved the words he carries.

“I believe,” the elder begins, voice mild but firm, “the Alpha has had time to consider the request from the council—about the mother of the heir.”

Bernardo shifts his weight, a sound like cloth over leather. Theon’s jaw tightens just enough for Bernardo to see. That small movement registers as intention. He is listening. He is not yet moving.

The elder’s hands fold a little tighter. “My daughter, Celeste, has been prepared for such a role. Raised to stand beside an Alpha, schooled in protocol and diplomacy. She was to be given to an allied pack, but the match did not proceed. It seems wise now that she remain where she can best serve the pack—here. She could be the mother to our heir. She would bring stability, respect from other houses. She is unshadowed by any scandal.”

There. The proposition sits on the desk between them like a bowl of cold water.

Theon keeps his face like stone. He breathes and counts the space between the elder’s words. He feels the heat under his skin that answers to Lumina’s name, but he does not speak it.

“You bring such a great deal,” Theon says at last. His tone is quiet, controlled. “You believe the pack wants such a thing, and you assume I will accept the gift of your daughter as an answer to our trouble.”

The elder does not look offended. He looks practiced. “We do not ask lightly. The whispers grow louder, Alpha. The curse on the heir—”

“Stop,” Theon says. The single word falls like a slap across the table.

Bernardo’s hand drops to the back of a chair. His eyes are on Theon, not on the elder. He wants restraint to win this round.

The elder tilts his head. He does not flinch. “We are concerned,” he says. “Your mate’s past—there are stories. Old shadows. A mother tied to a seal with blood is not a comforting sight for the common wolf. The people worry for the child. They ask if the bloodline is safe. They ask if another mother would secure our future.”

Theon’s mouth presses together. The name of Lumina is an ache in his throat; her presence is a soft, constant pressure the world has taught him to ignore in the morning’s tasks. He lets that pressure sit. He will not let it be used as a lever.

“You would exchange a mother for a comfort?” Theon asks. “You would trade a life that chose to save the pack for a face that pleases the council?”

The elder’s expression is careful, as if he is handling a fragile thing. “We offer what we believe the pack needs.”

Bernardo bites his tongue, then speaks in the voice he keeps for handling flames. “Elder, the people are listening to you. They respect you. If you carry this through the ranks without care, the reaction will be loud.”

The elder inclines his head toward Bernardo in acknowledgment. “That is precisely why I come to you first. You will not be cornered into something you do not accept. But you understand, Alpha, that the perception of danger erodes loyalty. You understand that sentiment can become a wave.”

Theon watches the elder’s mouth for signs of softness. He sees nothing. Only patience scaled like armor. He thinks of the way Celeste must have been taught to stand in rooms like this, smile at the right moment, fold her hands like an offering.

“You came once, with Nioma,” Theon says, voice low. “You suggested Nioma as my Luna. You judged fit to decide for me then. Where did your judgment lead?”

The elder’s grace does not slip, but there is a shift. “Nioma was… a thing of different measures.”

“She became my Beta’s mate,” Theon replies. He had kept that soft, steady smile from showing anger. It slips now, not because he cannot contain it but because he wants the elder to know memory remembers. “Your counsel then did not see the truth. Don’t presume the same mistake twice.”

The elder’s hands spread like a man balancing a weight. “We all make mistakes.”

“You do not make them here,” Theon says. “You make motions.”

Silence folds into the office. Outside, a hound barks. Inside, the elder’s robe swishes, the clock on the wall ticks. Bernardo’s fingers drum the window frame. Theon’s inside voice runs down the list of reasons he refuses, the simple ones and the brutal ones. He lives with the heavy, constant knowledge that Lumina’s sacrifices are the only thing between some of the dark that wants their family.

“You think I’ll be bullied by the council’s whispers?” Theon asks finally. “You think my hands will be forced by the noise of wolves who have always relied on others to choose for them?”

The elder’s chin lifts. “I think the pack will speak. They will offer solutions.” He folds his fingers, slow. “Celeste would not force you out. She would bring a bridge to our allies, she would soothe the worry, and she would give the heir a chance to grow without the burden of suspicion. It is the stable path.”

Theon sits very still. The weight in his chest is not the problem. The problem is what spoils like a rot: the idea that a child is a bargaining chip.

“You speak of stability,” Theon says. “I speak of loyalty. I will not replace loyalty with convenience.”

Bernardo moves a breath closer, not to confront, but to remind the elder of the balance. “Take care,” he says. “If this goes to the people without careful words, you will ignite what you try to calm. Hearts will harden. This is why you come here, to seek counsel.”

The elder straightens. For a moment there is something like disappointment easing across his face. “I will consult the people,” he says. “They will have a voice. I will not take that from them.”

It is the sentence Theon has been waiting to hear—more than the suggestion of Celeste, more than the thin insult at Lumina placed between the polite words. It is the weapon he would have to fight on the field of public opinion.

The elder bows his head once, a careful, practiced motion. “I will go now,” he says. “The pack’s future must be considered openly.”

He leaves exactly as he arrived: deliberate, composed. The door shuts behind him and the room seems to inhale the absence. The clock ticks loud now, each second a small drum.

Bernardo looks at Theon. “You handled it.”

Theon’s voice is small, almost unreadable. “I held my hand.”