The adjustment was subtle.
It came wrapped in courtesy, justified by numbers, and delivered with the kind of calm that made refusal feel unreasonable.
Veyla received the updated schedule at noon.
She read it standing by the long table in her solar, sunlight washing over the parchment so cleanly it was almost mocking. The columns were neat. The margins perfect. The language careful.
*Rebalanced proximity allocation.*
*Optimized for stabilization outcomes.*
*Temporary.*
Temporary had become a favorite word.
Her chest warmed faintly as her eyes traced the entries.
Three sessions with the Crimson Court.
One—conditional—with the Northern Clans.
Her breath slowed.
The bond did not protest.
That was the first warning.
Zora watched from the window, face unreadable. "You noticed."
"Yes," Veyla said quietly.
"And?"
Veyla folded the parchment with deliberate care. "It makes sense."
Zora's eyebrow twitched. "Ah."
That single sound carried more weight than any argument.
⸻
Khorg Ironmaw noticed immediately.
Not because he was told.
Because the ache changed.
It thinned—stretching longer between pulses, growing colder at the edges. The warmth he had learned to fear was replaced by something flatter, duller.
Distance without clarity.
He stood in the training yard, blade hanging loose at his side, staring at nothing as realization settled.
She hadn't come.
Again.
No summons.
No message.
No explanation.
He sheathed his blade slowly, jaw tight.
"Alpha," a guard ventured carefully. "Orders?"
Khorg shook his head once. "Stand down."
The wolf inside him paced, not frantic now—but watchful.
This was different.
This was being *phased out*.
⸻
Vinculus Noctaryn reviewed the metrics with quiet approval.
Stability indices had improved. Volatility curves smoothed. No sharp withdrawal spikes recorded during the last two cycles.
He clasped his hands behind his back, gazing out over the city.
"You see?" he said calmly to no one. "She adapts."
Adaptation meant survivability.
Survivability meant control.
He summoned her again.
⸻
The meeting was brief.
Efficient.
Vinculus did not waste time on persuasion; he didn't need to.
"You've reviewed the adjustment," he said.
"Yes," Veyla replied.
"And?"
She hesitated—just a fraction.
"It's… effective."
The bond pulsed warmly.
Encouraging.
Vinculus noted it with interest.
"This is not exclusion," he said smoothly. "It's prioritization. Crisis management."
"I know," Veyla said.
"And the Alpha?"
Her chest tightened—then steadied.
"He'll endure," she said.
The words tasted strange.
Vinculus's lips curved faintly. "As he always does."
She should have corrected him.
She didn't.
⸻
The next session descended into the Crimson depths.
It was longer than the last.
More controlled.
The sigils hummed softly, tuned to her presence. The warmth beneath her ribs deepened into something almost soothing, like pressure applied to a wound in exactly the right way.
Vinculus stood at his mark, eyes attentive, posture composed.
"You're calmer," he observed.
"I'm focused," Veyla replied.
"Focus," he said, "is a form of peace."
The bond agreed.
That was the second warning.
As the minutes passed, the absence from the other vector faded—not disappeared, but muffled. The ache that once flared at distance now settled more quickly, contained by routine.
Veyla noticed.
She told herself that was good.
When the session ended, she did not stagger.
She did not gasp.
She felt… fine.
⸻
Khorg felt it at the same moment.
The absence did not spike.
It flattened.
A dull pressure replaced the sharp ache—a constant, manageable throb that no longer demanded immediate action.
His wolf lifted its head, confused.
Mate far.
But not gone.
Khorg frowned.
This wasn't relief.
This was *numbing*.
He sought Zora.
⸻
Zora listened without interrupting, hands folded around her cup.
"They changed the schedule," Khorg said bluntly. "She agreed."
Zora nodded. "She did."
"She's choosing him," Khorg said.
Zora tilted her head. "No. She's choosing ease."
"That's worse," Khorg muttered.
Zora studied him for a long moment. "You're afraid she'll stop needing you."
Khorg stiffened. "I'm afraid she'll stop *feeling*."
Zora's expression softened—just slightly.
"That," she said quietly, "is the right fear."
⸻
Veyla did not see Khorg that day.
Or the next.
The corridors shifted subtly, routes rerouted to avoid overlap. Nothing overt. Nothing that could be challenged without sounding paranoid.
She told herself it was temporary.
She told herself it was necessary.
The bond hummed low and steady, no longer tugging sharply in either direction.
Balanced.
Safe.
She slept that night.
Deeply.
That was the third warning.
⸻
When Zora visited her chambers near midnight, she did not sit.
"You're doing very well," the witch said lightly.
Veyla smiled faintly. "I feel… stable."
Zora watched her carefully. "Do you feel *less*?"
The smile faltered.
"I don't feel worse," Veyla said.
Zora nodded. "That's how it starts."
Veyla frowned. "Starts what?"
Zora leaned closer, voice low.
"Convincing the seal that you've accepted its terms."
The warmth pulsed.
Content.
Veyla's breath caught.
"You said comfort was dangerous," she said. "But this feels like control."
Zora straightened. "Control without pain is how consent is inferred."
Silence stretched.
Veyla looked down at her hands.
"I didn't abandon him," she said quietly.
"No," Zora agreed. "You *deprioritized* him."
The distinction cut deeper.
Somewhere far away, Khorg stood alone on the battlements, wolf silent now, staring out at a horizon that no longer pulled as hard as it once had.
And somewhere beneath the citadel, the seal adjusted—quietly, patiently—recording a new pattern:
When given a choice, the bearer chose stability.
And stability, it decided, was permission enough.