Chapter 2 - Reeyan
The map is telling me something I don’t want to see.
I lean over the worn parchment spread across my desk, comparing three centuries of territorial disputes to the current Thornridge scout positions.
The pattern is there if you know how to look for it.
Every major infiltration in Edune Valley history started exactly like this—systematic mapping of border regions, careful documentation of weak points, and slow encroachment disguised as innocent exploration.
We’re not dealing with random opportunists. These people know what they’re doing.
I mark another position with red ink, noting the date and approximate number of operatives spotted.
The dot joins a dozen others, forming a semicircle around Grayhide’s eastern territory.
They’re being careful to avoid our main patrol routes, but not careful enough.
Every movement leaves traces for someone who knows where to look.
My worn journal sits open beside the map, filled with observations from the past year.
Scout sightings, territorial markers, and communication patterns.
I’ve documented everything I can about Thornridge’s movements since they first appeared in our region.
As the pack’s historian and strategic advisor, this kind of analysis is exactly what Oren pays me for.
Well, “pays” is a strong word. Oren gives me a place to live and access to the pack’s resources in exchange for keeping everyone from repeating the mistakes of the past. Fair trade, considering I’d probably do this work for free anyway.
The door to my office swings open without warning.
“Still at it?” Axle leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. He’s one of Oren’s security team, built like he could bench press a small car. “You’ve been in here since dawn.”
“The Thornridge scouts moved again last night.” I tap the newest mark on my map. “Fourth position change in two weeks. They’re definitely planning something.”
He moves closer to examine my work. “You think they’re going to make a move on the Amanzite reserves?”
“That’s what all the evidence points to.” I grab my journal and flip to a previous entry. “See this pattern here? It’s almost identical to the Blackwater incursion of 1847. They spent six months mapping territory before launching their assault.”
“And how did that turn out?”
“Badly for everyone involved. Blackwater lost half their pack. The defenders lost their alpha and most of their council.” I close the journal. “We need to avoid repeating that disaster.”
Axle whistles low. “Oren’s going to love hearing this.”
“Oren already knows. I briefed him yesterday.” I roll my shoulders, trying to work out the stiffness from hunching over maps all morning.
“Today I’m supposed to head to Llewelyn territory to discuss setting up a collaborative intelligence network.
Share information across Badlands so we can identify threats before they become crises. ”
“Like the Bastian situation.”
“Exactly.” I gather my maps and tuck them into a leather case. “If we’d had better communication between territories, someone might have flagged his movements earlier.”
The council meeting starts at noon and runs long, because everything with Oren’s council runs long. Dorian Fields joins via video call from Ambersky territory, his face pixelated on the screen mounted to the wall. He looks tired, probably dealing with his own security concerns.
Dorian runs a hand through his dark hair and declares, “The intelligence network is a good idea in theory, but implementation is going to be tricky. We’re asking packs to share sensitive information about their territories and vulnerabilities.”
“Trust issues,” Oren notes. “Everyone’s still raw from the Thornridge infiltrations.”
“Can you blame them?” Ash, Oren’s wife, sits beside him looking as fierce as ever. “Bastian spent months gathering intel on the Llewelyn pack. Who knows what other operatives might be embedded in our territories right now?”
The discussion goes in circles for another hour. Everyone agrees we need better coordination, but nobody wants to be the first to volunteer their pack’s secrets. I take notes in my journal, documenting arguments and concerns for future reference.
Finally, Oren calls for a vote. The intelligence network passes with a narrow majority.
“Reeyan, you’re still heading to Llewelyn tonight to discuss logistics?” Oren looks at me from across the table.
I check my watch and grumble at how late it’s gotten. “That was the plan. Though it’s getting late. I might not arrive until after dark.”
“The roads are safe enough. Just take the main route, and you’ll be fine.” He stands, signaling the end of the meeting. “Give Matriarch Lydia my regards. Tell her we wish she could’ve joined us for today’s meeting.”
The other council members file out, leaving me to pack up my materials. I grab my leather case full of maps and documentation, along with the worn journal that never leaves my side. Years of observations and research condensed into one battered book.
My truck is parked outside the packhouse, dusty from desert roads and overdue for an oil change. I toss my case onto the passenger seat and climb in before starting the engine with a familiar rattle. The vehicle is old but reliable, which is all I need.
The drive from the heart of Grayhide territory to the Llewelyn border takes about two hours on a good day. I’m making decent time despite the late start, watching the landscape transition from the red desert to the rocky terrain that marks the boundary between territories.
Twilight paints everything in shades of purple and gold.
The temperature drops as I drive, and I crack the window to let in cooler air.
My mind runs through the presentation I’ve prepared for Matriarch Lydia and her council.
Historical precedents for intelligence sharing, examples of successful collaboration between packs, projected benefits of early threat detection.
I’ve spent weeks preparing for this meeting.
The Llewelyn pack is notoriously insular.
After the Bastian betrayal, they seemed to be on board with a full-blown alliance, but then they slowly retreated into themselves even more than before.
Convincing them to participate in an intelligence network will require every ounce of diplomatic skill I possess.
Which isn’t much, if I’m being honest. I’m better with books than people.
Movement catches my eye off to the right.
I slow the truck and squint at a cluster of rock formations about fifty yards from the road. At first, I think it’s just animals, or maybe shadows playing tricks in the fading sun. Then I see them clearly—three figures dragging someone toward a large black vehicle hidden behind the rocks.
The someone is fighting back. Hard.
I pull over and grab my binoculars from the glove compartment.
Through the lenses, details come into focus.
Three men, all built like fighters, restraining a woman who’s putting up one hell of a struggle.
She manages to wrench one arm free and scratches deep gouges across the nearest guy’s face with elongated nails.
Good for her.
Then I see her face properly, and everything inside me goes still.
Silver-blonde hair, long and straight, now tangled from the fight.
Pale skin that marks her as Llewelyn. She’s tall for a woman, maybe five-nine, with an athletic build that speaks to regular training.
Even from this distance, I can make out her pale blue eyes—almost crystalline in the dying sun—blazing with fury as she tries to break free.
Sera Thornwick.
I’ve never officially met her, but Raegan has talked about her friend from Llewelyn territory enough, and I’ve seen her in passing from a distance.
And I’ve kept that distance because something about her makes my wolf…
unsettled. It’s not just that she’s gorgeous—and by the moon, is she gorgeous—but somehow just looking at her from a distance has always made my heart kick up, and I don’t particularly care for that feeling.
The men holding her definitely aren’t Grayhide or Llewelyn. I catch their scents on the evening breeze—Thornridge operatives. The same signature I’ve been tracking for months; the same threat I’ve been warning the council about.
They found a target. A high-value one, if they’re going after Raegan’s closest friend.
My wolf rushes forward with a violence that catches me completely off guard.
Protect her. Save her. She’s ours.
The possessiveness slams into me like a freight train. I’ve never felt anything like this before, this primal need to defend someone I don’t even know. My wolf has always been present, always aware, but never demanding. Never this insistent.
She’s ours, my wolf repeats. Ours. Protect.
Oh, hell.
I don’t have time to process what my wolf is telling me, because those Thornridge operatives are shoving Sera toward their vehicle.
One of them pulls out what looks like a suppressor—the same kind of device they used during the attack on Raegan’s wedding.
The kind designed to cut off a shifter’s connection to their wolf.
I drop the binoculars and reach for the door handle. My wolf is already pushing forward, demanding we shift and tear those men apart for daring to touch what belongs to us. The rational part of my brain—the historian who always thinks three steps ahead—tries to form a plan.
Three trained operatives versus one historian who only fights when it’s absolutely necessary. The odds aren’t great.
But they have her. They have my—
I can’t finish that thought. Can’t work through what my wolf is screaming at me, because if I do, I’ll have to acknowledge what it means. What she means.
One of the Thornridge men has the suppressor positioned near Sera’s neck. Without the ability to shift, she’s defenseless. At their mercy.
I need to move. Need to get to her before they disappear with her into the desert. But charging in without a strategy is suicide, and getting myself killed won’t help anyone.
Think. Use your brain. That’s what you’re good at.
The rock formations provide cover. If I can circle around and approach from their blind side, I might be able to take out at least one of them before they realize I’m there. The element of surprise is the only advantage I have.
Sera kicks one of her captors hard enough that he doubles over. She’s still fighting even though she has to know it’s hopeless. Three against one, and they’ve clearly done this before. Everything about their movements screams professional.
My wolf howls inside my chest. Mate. Save mate. Now.
I’ve spent my entire adult life studying conflicts and analyzing patterns. I know how territorial disputes work, how infiltrations develop, and how power struggles play out across generations. I’ve documented countless battles and read every historical account I could find.
None of it prepared me for this moment.
I throw open the truck door and start running toward the rock formations, praying I’m fast enough to reach her before it’s too late.
My wolf pushes forward, ready to shift the moment we’re close enough to engage.
Every instinct I have screams to protect her, to fight for her, to tear apart anyone who dares harm what’s mine.
The distance between us seems to stretch forever. Fifty yards might as well be fifty miles when every second counts. I can see the operative with the suppressor adjusting settings on the device, preparing to activate it.
Sera thrashes harder, landing a solid kick to someone’s knee. The man curses and backhands her across the face.
Red floods my vision.
Nobody touches her. Nobody hurts her. She’s mine to protect, mine to defend, and these Thornridge bastards are about to learn what happens when they threaten something that’s mine.