Chapter 2

The amulet sat on the weapon rack for four days.

I saw it on the fifth day, when I came to deliver potions. The moonstone was coated in a thin layer of dust, its runic glow half-obscured. Beside it lay an uncleaned dagger and a half-full cup of stale water. I picked it up, wiped it clean, and placed it back—not back inside the armor, just back on the rack.

It wasn't my armor. I had no right to put things inside it.

Later, I learned from Raine that three days earlier, Vera had found the amulet in the inner pocket when changing her armor. She'd taken it out for a look—the moonstone glowed pale blue in the afternoon light—then set it aside on the weapon rack, intending to ask about it later. Then she forgot.

It wasn't a big deal. She was a commander; her mind was full of patrol routes, troop deployments, border intelligence. A little stone didn't rank.

That afternoon, the Darkmoon Pack held a bonfire celebration. The wolf clan celebrated after every victory—there was never a shortage of excuses. Human logistics staff weren't required to attend, but Marcus came by in the evening and said he needed help carrying the wounded from the celebration grounds back to the infirmary. There were always people who drank too much, fell, fought, or sprained their wolf-prided ankles.

I said yes.

The bonfire blazed in the center of the training ground, flames reaching high as if to touch the stars. The wolf warriors gathered in rings around it; the smell of roasted meat and ale mingled in the night wind. Marcus pressed a cup of ale into my hand and said, "Don't just work—have a sip." I took the iron cup but didn't drink; condensation quickly beaded on its outer wall.

I helped Marcus carry two stretchers on the periphery—a young scout with a broken wrist, a logistics soldier with a gash on his forehead from a bottle—and bandaged a warrior's sprained knee. When I was done, I stood at the outermost edge of the crowd, leaning against Marcus's shoulder to catch my breath, waiting to help with the last batch of wounded.

Vera sat at the very center. She'd changed into casual clothes, her silver hair loose, firelight dancing across her face. She held a cup, surrounded by high-ranking warriors, drinking contests underway.

A wolf warrior named Ron—I'd repaired his bracers three times, each time dumped on my workbench with a "by tomorrow"—stood up with his cup, his face flushed with drink.

"Have you all noticed," he said, jerking his chin in my direction, "that human mage is always running to Vera's tent?"

Laughter rippled out from the fire.

"Delivering potions, fixing armor, bringing arrows—" another counted on his fingers. "Does he think we don't see it?"

Cold seeped from my palm into my bones. Droplets from the cup's outer wall slid down onto the back of my hand.

"A human chasing a wolf? You think you're worthy? Do you know your place?"

The words landed by the fire, splashing into a wave of laughter. Ron laughed the loudest, ale sloshing from his cup onto his hand; he shook his fingers off without a care.

I looked at Vera.

She held her cup, her lips against the rim. Firelight reflected in her eyes—I couldn't read what was there. Her fingers paused on the cup's edge for a moment, then she drank. She didn't laugh, but she didn't speak either. No frown, no intervention. No reaction at all.

Maybe she hadn't heard. Maybe she had, and didn't think it worth a response. The two possibilities pulled at me, but the result was the same.

I set down the cup and walked away. Behind me, Marcus sighed.

That night, I sat on the edge of my bed, watching moonlight seep through the narrow window. At the bottom of the tool kit, the ring was still there. I took it out and held it in my palm; the runes on the inside glowed faintly gold in the moonlight. Every turn had been precisely calibrated, the magic flow path flawless. This was the best thing I'd made in three years.

Maybe after tomorrow's pack assembly, I could catch her alone. No bonfire, no warriors watching, no Ron. Just her and me, in the quiet of the night—maybe she'd be willing to listen.

That thought carried me from the bedside as I began practicing in the darkness.

"Vera, I hope to stand beside you as a mate."

Too formal.

"Commander, I'd like to talk to you about—"

Too roundabout.

I clenched the ring, pressing my knuckles to my forehead. By dawn, I still hadn't figured out what to say. But one thing was certain—I would go. Whatever the outcome, I owed myself that much.

The next afternoon, the pack assembly convened in the council hall. The wolf leadership discussed border defense deployments for three hours—tactical reports, troop allocations, resource distribution. None of the logistics staff standing in the back rows were asked anything; no one looked our way. I stood in the last row, hands in my pockets, the ring pressing against my knuckles.

Vera sat in the front left, her back straight. She wore full formal military attire; the chest plate clasp I'd repaired gleamed in the sunlight.

By the time the meeting ended, the sun had already begun to sink. The crowd streamed out of the council hall, dispersing into groups heading toward their tents. Marcus patted my shoulder and said he needed to restock at the apothecary and asked if I'd help him that evening. I said maybe. He gave me a look, didn't press, and walked off.

I followed about thirty paces behind Vera. She was discussing patrol routes with Raine, her pace unhurried. I wanted to call out, but there was a stone lodged in my throat. We kept walking toward the encampment—past the weapon racks, past the water troughs, past the row of pines—and I took a deep breath.

"Commander."

She stopped and turned around.

Raine was there too. Two warriors who'd just been drinking were approaching from the training ground; the one in front was Ron. He slowed down when he saw me standing before Vera, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

My plan had been to speak to her alone.

Now four pairs of wolf eyes were watching me.