The storm had softened into a low growl by the time Reyna reached the lower corridor. The Obelisk still shuddered occasionally, stone bones protesting under the weight of the wind, but the worst had passed.

Her pulse had not gotten the message.

She kept her stride even as she descended the spiral stair, boots hitting blackstone hard. Fang training had taught her long ago how to walk off adrenaline. To leave it in her muscles, not on her face.

Reyna adjusted the strap of her coat, the leather creaking softly over her Fang suit. The familiar feeling of reinforced Prussian-blue fabric on her skin. The twin falchions at her hips bumped lightly against her thighs with each step, their presence as grounding as the cold air on her cheeks.

Luna-born. Roth’s words wouldn’t loosen their grip.

She’d known what she was since sixteen, and had sworn then that no one would ever know.

And now a Maynord did.

She flexed her fingers to stop herself from curling them into fists. The leather gloves creaked. Her shoulders had gone tight again, she realized, and she forced them to loosen.

By the time she stepped out into the main passage leading toward the northern wing, her face was a mask again. Frostcall’s Prime of it's First Fleet, was not some girl rattled by an Alpha’s attention.

The corridor was mostly empty at this hour. Flame-runes burned along the walls behind frosted glass, shedding blue light across banners and stone. Wolves had carved their history into these walls over centuries: Icehelm crests, old victories, maps of the Wild Lands in silver.

Reyna had grown up tracing those lines with ink-stained fingers, pretending she’d one day command every mark on them.

Now that future looked a lot less hypothetical.

“Prime!”

The call snapped her out of her thoughts. Reyna turned just as Lance rounded the corner, nearly colliding with a servant carrying a crate of bandages.

“Careful,” she warned.

Lance twisted sideways at the last second, his cloak flaring. The servant yelped but kept his feet.

“Apologies, Ryla,” Lance tossed over his shoulder, then focused on Reyna. His pale hair was pulled into a short tail at the nape of his neck, a few icy strands already escaping to frame his sharp, angular face. There was a fresh scrape along his jaw, half-hidden by frost, and his grin was annoyingly intact.

“You look like you wrestled the storm and lost,” Reyna said.

He skidded to a halt in front of her, breath ghosting in the cold corridor air. “We sent word to your quarters, but Keir said you weren’t there. I thought you might’ve frozen yourself to a parapet again.”

“Once,” she muttered. “That happened once.”

“And yet the Feral Five still talk about it,” Lance said, eyes glinting. “They’re fond of that story.”

“Because they’re cruel,” Reyna replied. “What’s going on?”

He sobered quickly. “Bandos summoned you. War Room. The fleets are already gathering.”

A prickle ran down the back of her neck. “Did he say why?”

“Just that it’s urgent,” Lance said. “It sounded… not good.”

Nothing ever does, she thought.

Her mind skipped ahead. Tearoom. Roth. The way his eyes had darkened when she brushed his intent. The pull that threatened to become something more if she let it.

“Fine,” Reyna said. “Where’s my Fleet?”

“Waiting outside the hall,” Lance replied. “They refused to go in without you.”

“Good.” She started down the corridor, Lance falling into step beside her. “That means I trained them properly.”

“You trained us to be difficult,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Reyna’s lips twitched. “Difficult Fangs live longer.”

He glanced sideways at her, sharper than his tone suggested. “You all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

She shot him a look. “Careful, Lance.”

He lifted both hands briefly. “Just saying. You look like you bit through a steel nail.”

“That would improve the taste of today,” she muttered.

They continued in silence for a few breaths. The closer they got to the War Room level, the busier the corridors became. Fangs moved in formation, armor clinking softly, their breath fogging the air. Messengers darted back and forth with scrolls and orders. The muted thrum of voices filtered from the great hall above, where lesser wolves gathered to speculate and spread fear.

Reyna shut all of it out. Focus narrowed her vision, turning the world into distances, angles, exits.

At the base of the stair leading to the War Room level, Reyna paused and rolled her shoulders back. Lance gave her a small nod, knowing that look; she was locking herself into Prime mode.

The stairwell opened into a wide landing overlooking the central hall below. Frostcall banners hung heavy on the walls: a silver howling wolf on a field of blue, ringed with stylized snow. Her First Fleet waited to the right of the War Room doors, lined up in two precise rows.

Every one of them stood straight as a spear.

They wore full Fang suits in varying shades of muted blue and steel, fur-lined collars pulled up against the cold. Frost speckled their hair and lashes. Gauntlets rested loose at their sides, but Reyna could see tension in their fingers, the rigid readiness in their shoulders.

She stopped in front of them, scanning faces she’d bled with. Kira with her scarred cheek. Jorund with his broken nose. Talen, who should’ve been in recovery still, stubborn idiot.

“Prime,” they chorused, fists thumping over their hearts.

“At ease,” Reyna said. They shifted minutely. “Any of you know why we’re here?”

“Rumor of movement in the South,” Kira said. “Some say Highthaws. Some say Berserkers.”

“Some say Greenpeak trouble spilled over,” Talen added.

Wolves loved gossip more than fresh meat.

“Rumors are wind,” Reyna said. “We’ll hear the truth inside.” She looked each of them over once more. “You remember how to behave in the War Room?”

Kira smirked. “Don’t stab anyone unless you stab them properly.”

“Don’t speak unless addressed,” Jorund added, more dutifully.

“Don’t let the Redfalls see us flinch,” Talen finished.

Reyna’s mouth curved. “Good. Hold the line. I go in first. Lance, with me.”

She turned toward the heavy double doors. The wood was dark, the iron bands across it were crafted with runes older than most packs. She laid a hand against it for a moment, feeling the hum of warding spells laid there generations ago.

Then she pushed them open.

The War Room smelled of ink, old leather, and cold metal. A massive circular table constructed in the shape of the Wild Lands dominated the center, mountains rising in miniature relief across its surface. Small carved wolf figurines marked Parks, fleets, territories.

Bandos stood on the far side, near Frostcall’s quadrant. His massive frame was wrapped in a thick pelt cloak, copper-streaked hair tied back, beard braided with ice-white threads.

Around him stood the other Frostcall Warmasters, their armor less ceremonial than earlier in the hall. A few council scribes lingered at the corner, quills hovering nervously over parchment.

And to the left of the table, near Greenpeak’s carved jungle, stood Roth Maynord.

He had shed his ceremonial cloak for a simpler, dark-green one lined with fur. The pelt Reyna had tossed at him was gone; in its place, a heavier mantle with the Maynord crest rested against his broad shoulders. His tawny hair was still damp from melt, pushed back from his forehead. The scar across his nose caught the rune-light. His mismatched eyes lifted to her as she entered.

Reyna forced her spine to stay straight as their gazes met. Her Azure sense stirred out of reflex, but she shoved it down ruthlessly. No resonance here, in a room full of wolves trained to smell weakness.

“Prime Commander Reyna,” Bandos said. “Good. Join us.”

Reyna moved to his right side, where she always stood in this room. It was the place of a Prime of the First Fleet. She could feel Roth watching her even after his gaze appeared to shift back to the table.

“What’s the situation?” she asked.

Bandos didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he nodded toward the carved jungle and desert corresponding to Greenpeak and its southern neighbors. Several carved wolf tokens had been knocked onto their sides. Others had been shifted away from territorial borders entirely.

“Reports from the southern frontier,” one of the Warmasters said. “There’s unrest in Suncrest.”

“Unrest or open conflict?” Reyna asked.

“Depends on which messenger you believe,” another Warmaster muttered.

Roth finally spoke. “The Suncrest Warmaster is losing his grip.”

His voice pulled the attention of very wolf in the room.

Reyna watched his profile as he spoke; serious, controlled, no trace of the teasing personality from the tearoom. This was Roth Maynord, Alpha, not the wolf half wrapped in a Frostcall blanket.

“You have confirmation?” Bandos asked.

Roth nodded. “My scouts watched three Parks refuse his summons at the last solstice wind-call. Two more have begun withholding tribute. A territory without a Warmaster does not obey for long.”

Reyna frowned. “What’s the connection to us? Suncrest has ran itself for centuries without asking for help.”

“Well, this time it isn’t just internal,” Roth said. “Highthaw packs are moving along the southern border. Berserkers are being hired as extra muscle. And they’re not just raiding Suncrest lands.”

He reached across the table and moved a carved wolf token from the southern border of Suncrest up toward the border between Frostcall and Greenpeak.

“They’re drifting north,” he finished.

The room went cold in a way that had nothing to do with the weather.

Reyna’s jaw tightened. If Warmaster Decker was bold enough to hire Berserkers to destabilize the borders, why had Roth arrived with Berserkers of his own? He still hadn’t explained that contradiction. And there was the question no one else seemed to be asking: why sneak into Egranox at all when the Maynords were expected at Winter Solstice?

“None of this adds up,” Reyna said. “You’re in a power struggle with Decker for Alpha of Aupheadia. If his packs stand behind him, Suncrest keeps the Crowned seat for another decade. Why wouldn’t they support their own Warmaster?”

“That is one way to see it,” Roth said.

“How else is there?” Reyna pressed.

Roth shifted his attention fully onto her, mismatched eyes cold across the table landscape. “You could see it as an early warning. Decker isn’t shoring up support. He’s preparing to conquer all three territories.”

Reyna cocked a brow. “How is that any different from what the Maynords did to the North?”

A muscle in Roth’s jaw flexed at that, but his tone remained civil. “The difference is intent. And consequences.”

Before she could retort, Bandos spoke. “Continue, Alpha Maynord.”

Roth inclined his head. “If Decker collapses Suncrest’s borders, Berserkers will flood north. Greenpeak is already strained. Frostcall won’t stay untouched. This is not a contained issue, it’s a kingdom-wide collapse.”

“The Maynords are supposed to protect the kingdom,” one Warmaster said. “You hold the Crowned seat in Greenpeak. Why drag us into your failing?”

“I want the territories to unite,” Roth said. “Without it, we lose Aupheadia piece by piece.”

“Unity under whose banner?” Reyna asked.

“That's enough, Prime,” Bandos warned under his breath.

She could feel her Fleet behind the doors, senses attuned to the shift in the room’s mood. Frostcall’s wolves were listening, and waiting.

“You want Frostcall blood,” Reyna said. “You want our Fangs on Suncrest soil, our fleets on your borders. Fine.” She planted both hands on the table, leaning over the carved mountains until they stood almost opposite each other over the map. “But answer me this, Alpha Maynord.”

Her voice was a gorwl now.

“Why should Frostcall fight for you?” she asked.

Warmasters stilled, and scribes stopped scribbling. Roth held her gaze.

Reyna felt her Azure sense rise of its own accord, brushing just once, lightly, against the boundaries of his intent. Not enough to read him fully, just enough to tell whether he would lie.

He didn’t look away.

When he spoke, his answer would decide far more than troop movements.

It would decide whether Reyna Moltenroar stood with him… or against him.