Silas came through the wall three nights later, not with code but with a voice.

"Bennett," he said, low and clipped. "You'll want to hear this." He was a guard with a Lycan's discipline and a dead man's patience. I'd never seen his face. I'd smelled him for weeks—leather and ash, the particular scent of a wolf who'd been waiting a very long time for a signal.

"Say it," Pierce said.

"Three of your father's men. They've been fourteen months in a safehouse outside the border, keeping your death report open and quietly pulling threads. I gave them the word when the dose was ordered." A pause. "They found Voss's schedule. The real one. Alpha's hands him a vial within the week, and he writes 'feral collapse' in the log the same day. He's already filled out the form."

The words came through the crack like water finding a floor. I listened to them pool in the dark.

"When," Pierce said.

"Six days. They wanted it nearer the Ceremony so the body wouldn't sit, but Voss insisted on a window. Softer paperwork that way." Silas's voice dropped. "There's one more thing."

"Say it."

"The Ceremony's guest list is confirmed. Every regional Alpha, the Council's seat for the northeast, and the ceremonial witness." A beat. "The Lycan King himself. He accepted three days ago. Official."

The silence that followed was the loudest thing I'd heard in weeks.

I pressed my face to the silver. "Pierce."

"I'm here."

"Does your uncle know the King will be there?"

He didn't answer right away. I counted his breaths. Four. Seven. When he spoke, his voice had a different weight to it. "Truett has spent three years believing I'm dead and burying the evidence that proves otherwise. He doesn't attend Ceremonies. He sends Colby as his proxy or declines outright. He doesn't know the King is going." A pause. "Which means Truett never saw the one variable that makes his whole plan collapse."

"He'll know the moment the King steps out of that car," I said. "And by then it'll be too late for him to do anything about it."

"By then," Pierce echoed, "it'll be too late for all of them."

Something cold settled behind my ribs. Not fear. Clarity. The shape of the trap was finally visible, and we were going to spring it from the inside.

Six days passed. I counted them in guard rotations and the burn of the wolfsbane drip. On the sixth afternoon, the corridor above went quiet early, and I heard the sound of a key in the door.

Dara Voss came in alone. No escort. That was strange. He'd always had a guard with him before.

He set his kit on the floor and knelt beside my cot. I watched his hands the way I used to watch a wolf's posture across a negotiation table. He was trembling slightly. Just his fingertips. He thought I couldn't see it.

"The Alpha's prescribed a new protocol," he said. His voice was flat, clinical, the voice of a man reading a form out loud. "For your condition."

I didn't say anything. I'd learned that silence made him uncomfortable. It made all of them uncomfortable, the ones who did the work they knew was wrong.

He drew the vial from the kit. Thick. Dark. I could smell it through the glass the instant it was exposed. Wolfsbane. Concentrated. Enough to stop a wolf's heart outright.

But the fingers holding the vial weren't Dara's. Not really. The hand that lifted it had been swapped somewhere in the corridor—I'd learned to read shadows during my years as Luna, and I'd learned to trust Pierce's word completely. Silas was in position. Silas was the escort. The vial in Dara's trembling hand was already the paralytic.

"Hold still," Dara said.

My hand found the piece of my mother's collar through the bracer. Thumb pressed against the worn leather. The scarred edge. The only proof I had that a woman named Cressida Sanders ever existed, that her scent had once carried wildflower and moonlight through a house I'd never see again.

Dara inserted the vial into the drip line. I felt it hit my blood like a wave of cold water.

It was nothing like the wolfsbane. The wolfsbane was a burn, a gnawing, a constant siege on the edges of my mind. This was a shut-down. Clean. Methodical. My heartbeat slowed to a single dull*thump* in my chest, then to nothing I could feel anymore. My lungs stopped moving. My fingers went cold around the bracer, and the cold crept up my arms, through my shoulders, into my face.

I was still awake. That was the horror of it, and the triumph of it. I was locked inside my own body, screaming silently, every nerve alive and frozen at the same time. I could hear Dara breathing. I could smell the wolfsbane residue in the air, the sweat on his palms, the leather and ash of Silas standing in the doorway, checkable, memorized, catalogued against the day I'd walk out of this place on my own feet.

Dara leaned over me. His fingers found my wrist. He held still for a long moment, counting what he thought was the absence of a pulse.

Then he nodded to the guard behind him.

"She's gone," he said. "The feral collapse. We'll log it as natural."

The door opened. I heard footsteps approach, and I saw, through the sliver of vision I still had, the shape of two Omegas carrying a stretcher. They lifted me. The silver shackles came off my wrists with a click.

I was being carried out of the den.

And inside my chest, behind the frozen mask of my face, my heart was still beating. Slowly. Quietly. Waiting.