POV: Sylva
The ropes were gone, but the cage remained.
Sylva stood at the entrance of the hut, watching the compound stir to life. Warriors sharpened blades. Women carried water. Children chased each other between the shelters, their laughter a strange, painful contrast to the tension crackling in the air.
She was free to walk. Anthony had untied her himself, his hands gentle on her wrists, his eyes holding something she couldn't name. But free to leave? No. The guards at the tree line, the scouts in the forest, the thousand eyes of the pack—they would never let her simply walk away.
Not that I have anywhere to go.
The thought was bitter ash on her tongue. Her father's army was out there, waiting to attack. Her people saw her as a traitor now—she'd killed her own kin to protect her captor. There was no going back. There never had been.
"You're up early."
She didn't turn at the voice. She'd heard Lyra approaching—Swiftfang was fast, but not silent enough to escape a prisoner's heightened senses.
"I don't sleep well in cages."
Lyra moved to stand beside her, her silver-grey hair catching the morning light. She was young, maybe a year or two younger than Sylva, but her eyes held the cold calculation of someone who'd learned to survive young.
"This isn't a cage."
"No?" Sylva finally looked at her. "Then what is it?"
Lyra considered the question. "A waiting room. For whatever comes next."
"And what does come next?"
"That depends." Lyra's eyes met hers. "On you. On Anthony. On the Shadowpine. On the moon." She shrugged. "A lot of things."
Sylva almost laughed. Almost. "You're not very comforting."
"I'm not trying to be." Lyra turned to face her fully. "I'm trying to understand. You killed your own people. For him. Why?"
The question was a knife, and it found the wound she'd been trying to ignore. Why? She'd asked herself a hundred times. The answers were all unsatisfactory.
"Because they were going to kill him," she said slowly. "And I couldn't let that happen."
"Why?"
Sylva was quiet for a long moment. The truth was a tangle of things she didn't want to examine—fear, anger, something that felt terrifyingly like connection. "Because he looked at me like I was a person. Not a pawn. Not a prize. A person."
Lyra studied her, those calculating eyes missing nothing. "And now?"
"Now I don't know what I am," Sylva's voice cracked, just slightly. "Enemy. Ally. Captive. Guest. None of it fits."
Lyra nodded slowly. "Welcome to the pack. None of us fit anymore."
The commotion started an hour later.
Sylva heard it before she saw it—shouts, growls, and the clash of weapons. She was on her feet and moving before she could think, slipping through the compound toward the noise.
At the eastern gate, a knot of warriors had gathered. Goran stood at their center, his massive form blocking the entrance. Beyond him, at the tree line, a small group of wolves waited—four, maybe five, their postures rigid with tension.
"Stand down!" Goran's voice boomed. "No one attacks without my order!"
Sylva pushed through the crowd, and her blood turned to ice.
At the front of the group, his silver hair unmistakable, stood Roric. Her cousin. Her father's most trusted envoy. And behind him, three warriors carrying a white flag—the symbol of parley.
He saw her. His eyes widened, then narrowed with something cold and calculating.
"Cousin." His voice carried across the clearing. "You're alive. How... disappointing."
Sylva's jaw tightened. "Roric."
"I came to deliver a message from your father." He ignored the growls of the pack, the tension crackling in the air. "But I see I'm too late. You've already chosen your side."
"I've chosen nothing."
"Haven't you?" Roric's lip curled. "You killed our kin. You stand among our enemies. You wear their stench like perfume. Tell me, cousin, does the spurned heir warm your bed as well as he warms his hatred?"
The insult was deliberate—a provocation, designed to force a reaction. Sylva felt the pack's eyes on her, felt the weight of their judgment.
Before she could respond, a new voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"Speak your message and leave."
Anthony emerged from the crowd, his face carved from stone, his eyes burning with a fury that made even Roric step back. He moved to stand beside Sylva—close enough that their shoulders almost touched. A statement. A claim.
Roric recovered quickly, masking his fear with a sneer. "My father, Alpha of the Shadowpine Pack, extends his... regards. He offers a choice. Return his daughter, unharmed, and he will withdraw his forces for one moon cycle. Time for your pack to prepare a formal surrender."
"And if we refuse?"
"Then he will burn this compound to the ground and salt the earth where it stood. " Roric's eyes flicked to Sylva. "He also asked me to deliver a personal message to his daughter. "He paused, letting the silence stretch. "He says, 'Traitors die last.' So you can watch."
The words hit like a physical blow. Sylva felt them sink in, felt the cold certainty of her father's hatred. She'd known, of course. Known she was a pawn, known she was disposable. But hearing it spoken aloud, in front of everyone...
Anthony's hand found hers. Squeezed once. Released.
"Your message is delivered," he said, his voice flat. "Now leave before I forget that you came under a flag."
Roric smiled—a thin, cruel expression. "Until we meet again, cousin. Try to enjoy your last days."
He turned and walked into the forest, his warriors following. The pack watched them go, tension thick enough to choke on.
When they were gone, Anthony turned to Sylva. His eyes were unreadable, but his voice, when he spoke, was gentle.
"You okay?"
She should have lied. Should have nodded and walked away. But something in his voice, in the way he looked at her, broke through the walls she'd built.
"No," she whispered. "I'm not."
He nodded slowly. "Good. Neither am I."
He walked away, disappearing into the crowd. But Sylva felt the warmth of his hand on hers long after he was gone.
And for the first time since she'd woken in that hut, she didn't feel quite so alone.