Chapter 36 #2
“I’ll be gentle,” Cedric said, his tone so sweet and soft that Fallon wanted to hug him. “I promise. And when we get there, your brother will be the first person you see.”
Tiernan’s grip on Fallon’s arm tightened, then slowly released. He looked at Cedric, assessed him with the too-old eyes of a child who’d been assessing threats since he could walk, and nodded. “Okay.”
Cedric took the boy’s hands, and Fallon stepped back.
Then Cedric closed his eyes, and they were gone.
Fallon stared at the empty space where they’d been and allowed himself a minute to process the emotions inside him.
Rage, first and foremost, for what had been done to Tiernan, to all of them.
Bitter, burning, blazing rage at the Murphys for the endless atrocities they had committed.
But also sadness for the betrayal Tiernan would learn about, for the wounds this would leave in the pack and the clan when everyone heard about what Simon had done.
Oh, Fallon understood, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t furious with Simon for not speaking up sooner.
For months, he’d fed the Murphys information that had put all their lives at risk.
Fallon sighed. It would all have to wait. He had work to do.
The warding took two hours. Fallon and Jermon worked in tandem, moving from prisoner to prisoner.
The containment wards were complex—each one had to be individually calibrated to the prisoner’s specific magical signature, layered with suppression for both shifting and magical abilities.
Jermon’s magic complemented Fallon’s perfectly—where Fallon’s strength was in the architecture of the ward structure, Jermon’s was in the raw power that fueled it.
They started with the three rank-and-file Murphy fighters, men who’d followed orders without question and were now sitting in the dirt paying the price for that obedience. They submitted to the warding quietly, their fight gone, their eyes carrying dull shock.
Colin next. The purple dragon, the magic specialist, the man whose dark magic Fallon had countered during the assault.
Colin’s eyes tracked Fallon’s movements with intensity, one magic user assessing another.
When Fallon’s ward settled over him—clean, powerful, and absolutely impenetrable—something that looked like grudging respect flickered across the man’s face before he could suppress it.
Fallon didn’t need his respect. But he noted it with satisfaction.
Alistair was harder. The commander, the fighter, the man who’d run the Murphy clan’s military operations with brutal efficiency for decades.
He sat with his back straight and his jaw set, radiating defiance from every pore.
When Fallon crouched in front of him to place the ward, Alistair’s lip curled.
“A fucking omega doing an alpha’s work,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt. “How far we’ve fallen.”
Fallon’s hands didn’t waver. His magic flowed steady and sure, mapping Alistair’s signature, calibrating the suppression parameters, building the containment structure layer by layer. “You haven’t fallen. You’ve been brought down. There’s a difference.”
“By wolves and traitors and omegas who forgot their place.”
“By people who remembered theirs.” The ward sealed with a soft pulse of purple light.
“You’re done, Alistair. All of you are done.
And for what it’s worth, you weren’t brought down by an army.
You were brought down by the people you spent centuries saying were worthless.
Might want to sit with that during your time at the castle. ”
He stood and moved on before Alistair could respond because the man’s opinion had stopped mattering the day Fallon had walked out of the Murphy clan and into a life where his worth wasn’t determined by the alphas who’d abused him.
Kerry was last among the Murphys. The strategist sat in silence, his restrained hands resting on his knees. He didn’t taunt. Didn’t sneer. Just watched Fallon work with those cold, intelligent eyes, cataloging everything, filing it away for future use.
“You know it won’t hold,” Kerry said quietly as Fallon placed the ward. “Containment wards degrade over time. You’ll need to reinforce them weekly, possibly more often for the stronger among us.”
“I know. I designed the degradation rate deliberately. It gives us a maintenance schedule that allows for regular welfare checks on the prisoners. Because, unlike your clan, we actually care about the conditions we keep people in.”
Kerry blinked. For one satisfying moment, the strategist had no response.
Jermon appeared at Fallon’s shoulder as they moved toward the basement stairs. “You good?”
“Fine. Tired, but fine.” Fallon rolled his shoulders, working out the stiffness that came from two hours of sustained magical output. “Just Cladhaire and Baoth left.”
Jermon put a hand on his shoulder. “Erwan and I will take care of them.”
“I can do it.”
“I know you can, but this is something we need to do ourselves.”
Fallon could understand that.
He took a moment to rest, simply leaning against the nearest wall and closing his eyes for a moment to recalibrate. After downing an energy bar and a can of Coke, he stepped outside again.
The compound yard was organized now—two rented vans parked near the gate for the prisoners, several cars and trucks arranged for the freed dragons and omegas, blankets, water bottles, and some initial food supplies in every vehicle.
Jermon appeared beside him, looking as drained as Fallon felt. “Wards are holding. All prisoners secured. We’re ready to load.”
“Then let’s load.”
The older Doyle omega, who’d kept Tiernan company, gripped his hand as Fallon helped her into a vehicle. “Where are we going?” she asked, her voice carrying the bewildered fragility of someone who’d been imprisoned so long she’d forgotten what choice felt like.
“Home,” Fallon said. “We’re taking you home.”
Fallon climbed into the passenger seat of the lead freed-prisoner vehicle. He fastened his seatbelt—mundane, absurd, the intersection of modern life and ancient magic that never stopped being surreal—and pulled out his phone. He had two messages from Yitro waiting.
Is it over? Are you safe?
Come home, my love. We’re waiting.
Fallon pressed the phone against his chest and closed his eyes. The exhaustion hit him all at once—magical, physical, emotional, the accumulated toll of channeling a clan’s power, countering dark magic, warding all the prisoners, and holding himself together through all of it.
He thought about Yitro, warm and steady, pacing the cabin with Ainle on his hip. He thought about Duer, quiet and brilliant, worrying in his methodical way. They were waiting for him. They loved him. And he was going home to them.