Sable tapped the encrypted comm-link against her palm, then set a second, thinner file on the scarred table.

"The Prince," she said simply.

I took the file and scanned the pages. I didn't care about royal titles or court honors. I read the operational facts: Caelan Ashford, Nina’s designated heir. Methodical. Relentless. He had run the deep-cover counter-intelligence against Kaylee’s rogue cell for six months without leaking a single leak to the media or the Alpha packs.

"Two questions," I said, my voice level.

"Go ahead."

"Can his case file against Kaylee stand in Council without my testimony?"

"It has the paper trail and bank logs," Sable answered without hesitation. "It proves financial fraud. But without your eyewitness proof on the ground—without the poisoned bowl and Maren’s sworn vial—it cannot prove attempted murder of an Alpha's heir. We need you."

"And Jude?" My fingers dug into the edge of the paper. "Can the Lycan Council force Landon to return him to the medical wing?"

"Under the Imperial Bloodline Charter, any child whose bloodline status is challenged during a formal inquiry must be placed under independent Council-appointed healers," Sable replied. "Landon cannot hold him in private quarters once the tribunal convenes. Not legally. Not under blood-law."

I nodded once.

I pulled a fresh sheet of paper from Sable's leather portfolio. My pencil moved swiftly across the page, writing in clean, clinical bullet points:

*• Infiltration pattern: Target enters via fabricated Alpha-lineage scent, isolates Alpha from blood kin, leverages domestic staff.*

*• Maintenance vulnerability: The synthetic scent formulation relies on daily micro-doses. Half-life is forty-eight hours.*

*• Critical exploit: Without direct access to black-market compound stores within two days, the Alpha-daughter scent signature will break down entirely.*

I folded the paper and handed it to Sable. "Give this to the Prince. Tell him I'll see him at the tribunal."

"We move now," Sable said, checking her watch. "Ironmaw scouts picked up our transponder chatter. They're coming."

I picked up the scrap of paper the Omega had given me hours ago: *The boy is awake. He's asking for you. Alpha said no visitors.*

Beneath the scribbled ink, I pressed the pencil down and wrote five words:

*Filed. See you at the tribunal.*

I left the note lying face-up on the scarred wooden table. Twenty minutes later, we were two miles north, moving through the deep cedar canopy toward the staging point.

***

Theo Graves kicked open the drafty door of the transit shed, his pistol drawn and Delta warriors fanning out behind him.

The outpost was dead silent. The rain tapped against the tin roof.

Theo walked slowly to the picnic table. His eyes dropped to the single scrap of paper left beneath the hanging bulb. He read the Omega's handwriting. Then he read Charlotte's response.

His jaw tightened. He stood frozen for a long moment, his large hand pressing flat against the rough wood.

"Beta?" an enforcer whispered from the doorway, his weapon raised. "Did we catch her? Is she here?"

Theo stared at the ink. He slowly folded the paper in half, slid it deep into the inner pocket of his tactical coat, and turned around.

"Nothing," Theo said, his voice completely dead. "The shed is empty. Return to the packhouse."

***

Ten miles south, the earth under Ironmaw's soil gave a sharp, shuddering groan.

At the eastern boundary line, the border sirens stayed quiet, but the air rippled like disturbed water. Three rogue scouts, lurking in the border scrublands, tested the outer perimeter. For seven years, no rogue had ever dared touch Ironmaw land; an unseen, smothering pressure had always driven them back with splitting headaches and phantom terror.

Today, the pressure was weak.

The Luna ward was still alive—anchored to my soul—but with every mile I moved away from the territory, the golden barrier thinned. The rogue scouts threw themselves against the perimeter. The ward held, repelling them with a dull crackle of energy, but the ripple echoed straight back to the packhouse command room.

Landon stood over the monitors, slamming his fist onto the console.

"Three probes on the eastern line in broad daylight?" Landon roared, his chest heaving with Alpha arrogance. "Charlotte's exile has barely been announced and the border trash thinks our morale is shaken. Double the perimeter guards! Theo, take forty Deltas to the line. Let them see what Ironmaw steel does to trespassers!"

He didn't ask why the perimeter had never been breached before. He didn't ask why the soil had never trembled under his boots. He simply assumed the peace had always been his own.

Then, the packhouse foundations shook.

It wasn't a mechanical tremor. It was a biological shockwave—a crushing, suffocating weight that rolled across the forest like an avalanche.

Landon's monitors shrieked in unison. Panic-stricken mind-links flooded his head:

*“Alpha! Eastern gate! It’s—it’s not rogues!”*

*“The aura—God, I can’t stand up—”*

*“Fall back! Fall ba—”*

The link snapped.

Landon shoved through the heavy oak double doors and burst onto the front terrace of the packhouse.

Down the main gravel drive, forty of his elite Delta warriors—men bred for war, heavily armed and armored—were already stumbling. The pine trees bent back as if pushed by a gale force wind.

Through the mist, she came.

A massive silver Lycan wolf, over nine feet at the shoulder, stepped out of the tree line. Her silver fur gleamed like polished armor under the gray sky. Flanking her were six royal guards, their eyes burning with lethal, disciplined purpose.

Lycan Queen Nina.

She did not roar. She did not bare her fangs.

She simply took one more step onto Ironmaw soil and released a single, concentrated pulse of pure Lycan aura.

The air exploded with a low, bone-cracking hum.

All forty Ironmaw warriors hit the dirt at once. Their knees slammed into the sharp gravel, their weapons clattering uselessly against the stones. Involuntary biological submission ripped through their nervous systems, forcing their heads flat to the earth, baring their throats to the mud in absolute, helpless surrender.

Landon gripped the stone railing of the terrace, his knuckles white, his breath seizing in his throat as the silver beast turned her molten eyes straight toward him.