10. Caius
TEN
CAIUS
The journal is open on Anouk’s workbench when she enters the workroom, afternoon light filtering through windows lined with herbs that have started growing faster since she touched me in Grandmother Sylvana’s forest. I had been at it for an hour—she had been somewhere else in the shop, the low sound of her moving through her routines a quiet counterpoint to my reading.
She takes her place beside me without preamble and leans in.
“What your grandmother said is verified on this page.” She pulls the journal closer, her shoulder brushing mine as she leans forward.
The contact sends a current of warmth down my arm.
“Mathilda found references to Chione in old pack records. The dragon was there when the Severing was performed. She watched it happen.”
“And she’s been waiting for someone to ask about it.”
“Yes.” Anouk’s voice carries a mix of frustration and awe. “All this time. All these generations of lies. And one dragon in the mountains knew the truth and couldn’t share it because no one thought to look.”
“Dragons are patient. More patient than wolves.” I reach across her to turn a page, my arm pressing against hers. She doesn’t move away. “According to Grandmother, Chione considers anything under a thousand years to be a temporary inconvenience.”
“A thousand years of waiting for the right questions.”
“She’s got time.” I find the passage I’m looking for—Mathilda’s notes on the dragon’s location, sketched from her one failed attempt to reach the cave.
“Here. The entrance to Chione’s lair. It’s in pack territory, deep in the mountains.
The path is marked with symbols that respond to claimed pairs. ”
“Claimed pairs.” Anouk’s voice goes careful. “That’s going to be a problem.”
“Is it?”
She looks up at me. Those dark eyes hold mine—measuring, considering, calculating options the way she always does. But underneath the analysis, I catch a flicker of heat she’s stopped trying to hide.
“We’re not claimed.” The words come out rough. “Not technically.”
“No.” I set down the journal, turning to face her fully. “Not technically.”
Silence stretches between us. The herbs on her workbench are expanding at an alarming rate—mint spreading toward me like it’s reaching for prey.
“The coven gathering tonight.” Anouk redirects, her voice deliberately professional. “Cordelia will be there. She’ll be watching for any sign that we’ve found new evidence.”
“Then we don’t give her any signs.” I step back, creating space neither of us wants. “We attend. We observe. We let her think she’s still in control.”
“While we plan our next move.”
“While we plan our next move.” I let my gaze linger on her face—the sharp angles, the silver-streaked hair she’s wearing down tonight instead of her usual severe updo. She looks softer like this. More approachable.
More dangerous.
“I should prepare.” She gathers the journal, tucking it into a locked drawer with the care she applies to dangerous ingredients. “The gathering starts at seven. I’ll need to speak with Elder Vera before then, coordinate our positions.”
“And I’ll brief the Network representatives.” I move toward the door, then pause. “Anouk. Tonight. Whatever happens—”
“I know.” Her voice softens, losing its professional edge. “You’ll be there.”
“Always.”
The promise lands between us, heavy with meaning we’re not ready to unpack. She holds my gaze for a long moment, then nods once—acknowledging, accepting, filing away for later consideration.
I leave before I do anything inadvisable involving her workroom and significantly fewer clothes.
The Elder Council Chamber feels different tonight.
I’ve attended coven gatherings before—political necessity, network diplomacy, the endless bureaucratic dance between witches and shifters.
The room is always the same: high ceilings, weathered stone, a circular table surrounded by seats that have witnessed centuries of decisions.
The enchanted windows show weather that has nothing to do with reality—currently displaying a peaceful sunset despite the actual overcast evening outside.
But tonight, the air crackles with tension I can taste.
The coven’s senior members cluster in their usual factions.
Elder Vera Nightbloom stands near Anouk’s empty seat, her expression thoughtful and watchful.
Elder Jasper Moonwell hovers uncertainly between groups, clearly hoping to avoid commitment to any position.
And Elder Cordelia Ashworth holds court near the refreshment table, her motherly smile firmly in place as she speaks with a cluster of younger witches.
She’s been busy. The gossip currents are obvious even to someone without witch senses—whispered conversations that stop when certain people approach, meaningful glances exchanged across the room, the subtle positioning that precedes political maneuvering.
Cordelia is building support. For what, I’m not entirely certain. But Grandmother’s warnings echo in my mind: she’s been in place for forty years. She knows how to work a crowd.
“You’re glaring.”
Torin appears at my shoulder, his massive frame somehow managing to seem inconspicuous. The bear has a talent for disappearing into backgrounds despite being the largest person in any room.
“I’m observing.”
“Observationally glaring.” He follows my gaze toward Cordelia. “The elder’s been talking to everyone. Making the rounds. Very concerned about ‘recent developments’ and ‘maintaining proper boundaries.’”
“She’s preparing a move.”
“Obviously. The question is when.” Torin shifts his weight, positioning himself to watch multiple angles at once. “Elio sent word. His networks have confirmed movement among Preserver cells in neighboring territories. They’re paying attention to what’s happening in Mistvale.”
“Because of the claimings.”
“Because of the claimings.” Torin leans closer. “Yours included.”
“I haven’t claimed anyone.”
“Are you going to keep orbiting or finally make a move?”
“I’m not discussing this here.”
“You’re not discussing it anywhere, which is part of the problem.” Torin claps my shoulder with a force that would stagger most people. “Grandmother Peach has been appearing with suspicious regularity and excessive desserts.”
“Your point?”
“My point is that everyone in Mistvale seems to know what’s happening between you two except you two.” His smile is gentle despite the directness. “Maybe tonight’s the night you figure it out.”
He drifts away before I reply, heading toward where Aslan is engaged in animated conversation with a group of shifter representatives. The tiger catches my eye and grins, as if my entire personal life is entertainment arranged for his benefit.
I’m going to have words with my second-in-command about appropriate topics for public discussion.
The chamber door opens.
Anouk enters.
Every head in the room turns. Every conversation stutters and resumes at a different pitch. The air itself seems to shift, responding to her with electricity that has nothing to do with magic.
She’s wearing formal robes tonight—deep purple that makes her dark skin glow, cut in lines that emphasize the elegant severity she cultivates. Her hair is still down, softening the effect, making her look both powerful and approachable.
She looks like a coven leader. She looks like a queen.
She looks directly at me.
Our eyes meet across the crowded chamber, and I feel it—the pull that’s been building for days, weeks, years. The wolf inside me recognizes her with fierce certainty. The man recognizes her with desperate hope. Both are finished pretending it doesn’t matter.
She holds my gaze for a heartbeat. Two. Three.
Then she turns and moves toward her seat, every inch the professional leader who definitely was not just having a moment with the wolf alpha across the room.
I take a breath. Force my shoulders to relax. Pretend I don’t notice Torin’s knowing smirk or Aslan’s theatrical eyebrow raise or Rhodes scribbling furiously in his notebook.
This is going to be a very long evening.
The formal business of the gathering passes in a blur of reports and deliberations.
I participate where required—Network security updates, patrol coordination, the usual diplomacy—but most of my attention stays fixed on Anouk.
She navigates the proceedings with flawless skill, addressing concerns, mediating disputes, projecting the competent authority that’s made her an effective leader for so long.
But I notice things the others don’t.
The way her fingers tap restlessly against her thigh when Cordelia speaks. The slight elevation of temperature whenever our eyes meet. The herbs in the decorative arrangements that have grown noticeably since the gathering began, reaching toward her like they’re seeking sun.
Her magic is responding. To the tension, to the politics, to me. She’s working hard to keep it contained, but the cracks are showing.
Elder Vera notices too. She leans close to Anouk during a pause in proceedings, murmuring words I can’t quite catch. Anouk’s expression flickers—surprise, then resignation—before she composes herself again.
Cordelia is watching the exchange. Her motherly smile doesn’t waver.
The moment I’ve been dreading arrives.
“Before we conclude.” Cordelia rises from her seat. “There is a matter of coven business that must be addressed. A concern that several members have brought to my attention.”
Anouk’s expression remains neutral. “The floor is yours, Elder.”
“Thank you, Coven Leader.” Cordelia’s smile widens, warm and maternal and completely false. “It has come to my attention that you have been conducting certain aspects of the current investigation in… unusual ways.”
“If you have concerns about my methods, I’m happy to discuss them.”
“My concerns go beyond methods.” Cordelia pauses, letting silence build. Every eye in the room is fixed on her now. “They extend to your judgment. To your objectivity. To whether you can continue to lead this coven effectively when you have become so… entangled with outside influences.”
The word drops into the silence like a stone.