They brought him in at dawn—bloodied, growling, barely upright.
Three guards flanked him with spears tipped in silver. The rogue’s wrists were bound with rune-forged iron, his ankles dragging behind him like broken weights. He looked half-dead. One eye was swollen shut, and his coat—once a proud russet gray—was matted with blood and ash.
And still, he snarled like a wolf with something left to prove.
Aria watched from the steps of the eastern hall, Elara cradled in her arms. She hadn’t summoned him.
He had come on his own.
Or rather, collapsed at SilverCrest’s gates demanding to see her.
Zara stood close, blade drawn but lowered. “You know who that is?”
Aria nodded slowly. “Rannoch.”
The name tasted of old wounds and burnt soil.
Once a scout for the border packs. Then a mercenary. Then a traitor. He’d led the raid on StoneRidge two years ago—slaughtered innocents under the banner of vengeance, then vanished into the wilds.
Until now.
“Bring him to the council chamber,” Aria said. “But I speak to him alone.”
Zara’s face twisted. “Alone?”
“I said what I said.”
Zara didn’t argue.
She never did when Aria’s voice held that edge.
The chamber was empty except for Rannoch and Aria.
His chains clanked as he was dragged inside, shoved to his knees in front of her.
“Do it quickly,” he growled, lifting his chin. “You want to kill me? Then kill me.”
“I don’t,” Aria said.
He blinked.
“I want to know why you came.”
He laughed—wet, raw. “You don’t kill wolves like me.”
“You think too highly of yourself.”
“No,” he rasped. “I think highly of her.” He jerked his head toward the pendant around her neck. “You bear the mark.”
Aria’s breath caught.
“You knew my mother.”
“I fought with her,” he said. “Bled beside her. She would’ve led us, if the council hadn’t—” He stopped. Looked away. “They feared her too.”
Aria stepped closer. “So why attack us? Why attack StoneRidge?”
“I didn’t,” he said. “Not like they said. I was there, yes. But I tried to stop it. I warned them. They didn’t listen.”
“Who didn’t?”
Rannoch’s eyes flared. “Greenwood. They don’t just want to destabilize you. They want to rewrite the prophecy. Replace your line with theirs.”
Aria’s pulse hammered.
“The heir,” she whispered.
“They’ll keep coming,” he said. “You need allies. You need me.”
She stared.
“You want me to trust you?”
“I want to fight for her,” he said hoarsely. “For Elara.”
He said her daughter’s name like it meant something holy.
“I’ve seen what happens when wolves cower. I won’t cower anymore.”
Aria turned, paced once around the room.
This was madness.
And yet… something in her blood responded.
She remembered what her mother used to say: Every wolf has a moment to choose the pack they serve. Even the ones born in the dark.
She turned back to him.
“You serve me now,” she said.
Rannoch lowered his head.
Not in defeat.
In allegiance.
“Then you will bleed for me,” she said. “But only when I say. You will protect Elara. And if you so much as flinch wrong, I will slit your throat myself.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
Zara entered silently just as the bindings were removed.
Her eyes widened. “You’re serious.”
“I am,” Aria said.
Zara narrowed her gaze at Rannoch. “You screw this up, I’ll make you wish you’d died at the gate.”
Rannoch didn’t flinch.
He simply bowed again.
Later that night, Aria found herself in the courtyard beneath the moonlight, Elara asleep in her sling. Rannoch stood at the edge of the shadowed wall, arms crossed, gaze sharp.
He wasn’t trusted.
Not yet.
But he was here.
And sometimes, presence meant more than legacy.
Aria didn’t look at him. “Why now?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Because your name’s already becoming legend. And legends draw blades—or believers.”
She looked down at Elara’s face.
So small.
So calm.
She would need both.
