176

176
The morning air over the packhouse is crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth from last night’s drizzle. The guards at the main gate are used to the occasional early visitor—merchants, hunters, messengers from allied packs—but not this.

A cluster of women, no more than a dozen at first, are gathered just outside the iron gates. They are not shouting. They are not brandishing weapons. Yet their presence is deliberate, the way a still body of water can hide a dangerous current beneath.

They stand in a loose semicircle, wrapped in long coats against the chill, hair pulled back, eyes fixed on the high double doors of the packhouse. At the center is a tall woman in a wine-colored shawl—wife to one of Theon’s most seasoned warriors. Beside her, another carries a neatly folded paper, the edges already creased from being handled over and over.

The guards exchange a glance. One clears his throat. “Can I help you, ladies?”

The woman in the shawl steps forward, chin lifted. “We have come to see the Alpha,” she says, her voice calm but edged with something that prickles the air.

Inside the packhouse, Lumina is in the kitchen, standing by the counter while the tea kettle hums softly. She is speaking quietly with one of the kitchen hands when Bernardo steps in, his face unreadable.

“There’s a… group at the gate,” he says. “They say they want to speak with the Alpha.”

Lumina’s brows knit. “A group?”

Bernardo hesitates. “Women from the inner ring. Wives of high-ranking warriors. It seems… organized.”

The tea in her cup trembles when she sets it down. She does not need to ask why they would come together like that—not after the elder’s visit just days ago.

By the time she reaches the main hall, Theon is already striding down from the upper landing, boots hitting the polished wood with steady weight. His expression is composed, but his eyes are sharp.

“They’re asking to come in,” one of the guards reports when he pushes the doors open.

Theon steps out onto the top of the stone steps. The women’s heads turn toward him in unison. They bow—not deeply, but enough to mark the gesture of respect due to an Alpha.

“Alpha Theon,” the woman in the shawl begins, “we come with petitions.” She lifts the folded paper in her hand. “We ask that Celeste be allowed to stay here in the packhouse. For the good of the heir… and to protect the bloodline.”

Lumina, who has followed Theon out, feels her chest tighten. The phrase protect the bloodline lands like a cold drop of water down her spine. She does not speak, but her hands curl slowly into fists inside her sleeves.

Theon takes the steps down slowly, stopping halfway between the gates and the front doors. “And whose idea is this?” His tone is not raised, but the words carry.

“It is the will of many,” the shawled woman replies. “We have spoken among ourselves. The curse is a danger we cannot ignore, Alpha. Celeste is strong, healthy, prepared. It would be wise to give her a place close to the heir, should the Goddess will it.”

Theon’s jaw shifts slightly. “Prepared… for what?”

The woman’s eyes do not flinch. “Prepared to give the pack a future. One untouched by… misfortune.”

The unspoken word—curse—hangs heavy.

Bernardo steps down beside Theon, speaking in a low voice only the Alpha can hear. “If you turn them away too harshly, it will spread. The men will hear it from their wives before sunset.”

Theon exhales through his nose, the sound short, controlled. He addresses the group again. “The heir already has a mother. And the pack has an Alpha. Decisions about my household are mine to make.”

The shawled woman lowers her gaze briefly, then lifts it again. “We respect your authority, Alpha. But authority is strongest when it listens to its people. We only wish to protect what is ours.”

The murmur of agreement passes through the group—soft, but united.

Lumina steps forward then, unable to stay still. “And what exactly do you think you are protecting?” Her voice is calm, but her eyes are lit with a quiet fire.

The woman hesitates. “We are protecting the heir from harm. From uncertainty.”

“Uncertainty,” Lumina repeats, tasting the word like something bitter. “You speak as though he is already lost. He is not. He is strong. My son is strong.”

A younger woman at the edge of the group mutters, “Strength cannot break a curse.” It is said low, but in the still air, everyone hears it.

Theon straightens, his gaze sweeping over them all. “Enough.” His voice cuts cleanly through the tension. “You have brought your petition. I have heard it. Celeste will not be moving into this house.”

There’s a subtle shift among the women—shoulders squaring, jaws tightening. The shawled woman gives a small nod, as if she expected nothing less.

“Then we will consult the people,” she says simply, tucking the paper back into her shawl. “Perhaps they will speak where we cannot.”

The words are polite, but the implication is sharp as glass. She turns, and the group moves with her, leaving as deliberately as they came.

The gates close behind them with a muted clang.

For a long moment, Theon stands at the base of the steps, watching them walk down the dirt path toward the village. Bernardo watches too, one hand braced on the railing.

Lumina feels the weight of something settle in her chest—not the simple sting of insult, but the deeper, heavier awareness that this was only the beginning.

Inside, the air feels different, as if the walls themselves have caught the scent of unrest.

Bernardo speaks first. “It won’t end here. You know that.”

Theon’s voice is low. “I know.” He looks at Lumina, eyes steady. “But they’ll learn soon enough where the line is.”

She meets his gaze, but she can’t shake the echo of the shawled woman’s parting words.

And somewhere, beneath the steady beat of her own heart, she wonders how much longer that line will hold.