Chapter 1

Ethan

Blue Ridge pack runs on timing. Patrols hand off on the minute, ward grids refresh on a fixed schedule, and if the live stream for our ascension slips by more than thirty seconds, my father will make that delay feel like a personal failing.

I stand in the security office one floor below the great room while the packhouse hums overhead. Four wall-mounted displays show border cams, the drone feed, a map of our lands with ward overlays, and the run-of-show for the night. Our logo sits at the corner of the stream preview, clean and unforgiving. Lights crews are setting up at the back lawn while sound check rolls through my earpiece in a clipped sequence; one, two, three, and applause, please. The PR lead speaks into her headset like a conductor coaxing an orchestra and I skim the comments on the test stream and flip back to my map.

Blue Enterprises built this stack to be overprepared. Thermal on the south ridge, motion on the river trail, a camera at the old footbridge because nothing good ever starts there after sunset. The ward team checked interference this morning and we left the outer lattice up for privacy and dropped the inner mesh so the stream doesn't become artificial. Wards can make wifi feel like it's swimming through syrup, and no one wants to watch a coronation buffer.

"Elijah needs a jacket," I say into the triplet channel, watching a replay from twenty minutes ago. "And tuck your shirt properly."

"I heard that, control freak," he shoots back, more amused than annoyed.

"Wear the jacket," I tell him. "We're not performing at a bonfire."

"Bonfires are performance," Ezra says, drifting in on the thread with the lazy ease that gets him in trouble and out of it in the same breath.

I close the channel and let the room find its quiet. The screens tick as border cams log nothing but deer at the east meadow. The map shows patrols moving like steady points of light and I let my eyes unfocus for a second and then snap back to the grid, counting the beats of the night by changing numbers. This is the part I like, the one where everything is accounted for, all moving in concert, and no surprises.

My father prefers surprises when he's springing them on other people. He likes a speech written for someone else's mouth and a camera that finds exactly what he wants the pack to see. I hear his voice before he speaks, the way you can pick a particular instrument out of a crowded score. He fills the doorway without raising his volume.

"Everything on schedule?" he asks, a hand braced on the frame.

"Five minutes ahead," I say, and gesture at the run-of-show. "Procession from the great room to the lawn. Oath, blessing and acknowledgments. The stream cuts to interviews while we do signatures."

He nods at the ward overlay. "And the mesh?"

"The inner mesh is down, the outer stays up. No signal choke on the field," I answer. "We'll bring the inner back after the speeches."

"Good." He studies me and then the screens, not indecisive, he never is, but calculating. "Your mother wants the three of you on the back steps at eighteen hundred sharp. She has photos to take before the light fades."

"Noted." I tap the send icon on a group text. The message pings both brothers and our mother with the time and location. She replies almost instantly with a heart and a camera emoji, which would be funny if it didn't come with a schedule attached.

"Remember," my father adds, voice smooth, "tonight is for the pack. We present stability. The right image travels faster than any rumor."

"We're aligned," I say, because that word makes him relax, and relaxation makes the rest of my job easier.

He lingers a second longer, eyes on the map, then gives a short nod and leaves, moving with the confidence of a man who expects the world to shape itself around his plans. The door shuts and I exhale and roll my shoulders once. Stability, image and the right impression. He means wolves like us and he means the things he says in the softer tone when my mother is in earshot and the harder tone when she is not. I know the script. I grew up with it.

Footsteps in the hall and Ezra slides in sideways, already in black trousers and the baby-blue shirt we agreed on, jacket tossed over his shoulder. He rubs his thumb over the callus at the base of his fingers, a tell he probably thinks no one has clocked. Elijah follows a breath later, hair pushed back, tie hanging open and smile turned up like he's trying to charm the lights into working better. I hand Elijah a jacket and he stares at it like it might bite and then shrugs in, tugging his sleeves straight.

"You checked the south ridge?" Ezra asks, glancing at the thermal feed.

"Twice," I say. "Drones will sweep again at nineteen hundred. Patrol Three is already headed that way."

"Good," he says, too light to be only about the map. He's buzzing under his skin and I pretend I don't see it. Not yet.

Elijah steps in front of the mirror bolted to the filing cabinet and fixes his tie. He tugs it loose again, catches my look, and tightens it with a sigh that almost turns into a laugh.

"It's not a funeral," he says.

"It is an oath," I answer. "The point stands."

He leans back against the cabinet, taps the heel of one shoe against the metal, and watches me watch the screens. His foot stills when the PR lead's voice comes over our shared channel.

"Blue Ridge Alphas, we are ten minutes from step-off," she says. "House to lawn on my cadence. Lights go live in five. Please confirm."

"Confirmed," I reply, then nod toward the hall. "Let's go."

We take the service corridor to the back stairs. The great room opens up in front of us, polished floors reflecting light, everyone scrubbed and smoothed by anticipation and people turn as we pass. Some clap shoulders, some smile the practiced smile of politics and some grin in the easy way that makes me want to hand off my title and sit at their table instead. We move through the center like a current.

Mother materializes at the threshold to the steps, all caramel eyes and a dress that looks like it was made out of evening. She kisses each of us in turn, fixes Elijah's pocket square with a precise pinch, and gives Ezra a look that says stop vanishing and stay seen. Her hand lingers a moment on my arm.

"Proud of you," she says softly so it can't be weaponized. "Stand tall, please."

"I plan to," I tell her, and mean the parts of it I can control.

The back lawn stretches away, green cut flat and edged in glow. The stage sits at the far end, with microphones waiting, and a flag snapping once in a breeze that lifts and settles. Rows of chairs fill the grass where neighbors in their best outfits, allies and the curious are waiting for us. The pack chat on my phone ticks faster than I can read it; is he taller than the last time I saw him, why is Ezra not smiling yet, someone please remind Elijah not to wink at the cameras. I put the phone away and focus on what matters. Ward lines hum under the grass like quiet power stations and the drones hold steady above tree lines. The lights warm our faces without blinding us. It's showtime and I take a deep controlled breath.