Chapter 48 — Ethan
The Great Hall blazes with torchlight, flames leaping in iron sconces along stone walls draped with ceremonial banners. Crescent Pack sigils alternate with Shaman symbols: moon phases intertwined with spiraling runes and stars that shimmer when the firelight catches them.
I’ve seen some impressive rooms in my life — granted, mostly in movies — but this place hits different when you’re actually sitting here. It’s the kind of room designed to remind the guests of honor that they’re important, and doing a hell of a job of it.
From my seat in the front row, wedged between Thea and Lady Gemma, I have a clear sightline to the raised platform at the far end. Rhiannon stands at attention at its base, flanked by Conan on her right and Jayme on her left. Akila and Branson hold the opposite end of the dais.
All five of them are in polished formal armor, looking like they could walk straight onto the set of some epic medieval war film. Except they’re real, and every single one of them could snap me in half without breaking a sweat. Fun thought. Glad I’m on their side.
The hall is packed. Every Crescent Pack member who could attend has crammed themselves onto the rows of wooden benches stretching toward the back.
Twenty-five Shaman from Stasio’s clan sit clustered near the front, their pale robes in stark contrast against the darker furs and leathers surrounding them.
My eyes drift back to Rhiannon, because of course they do. Her armor catches the torchlight, polished to a mirror shine, and the formal cut of it traces every line of her with military precision. The firelight plays across her dark hair, her posture carved from stone and radiating authority.
You look beautiful. I slip the words into her mind.
Her shoulders pull tight for half a heartbeat before loosening again. Her head angles in my direction. Color rises along her throat, catching the firelight despite the distance.
Pay attention to the ceremony.
I am. You’re part of the ceremony.
You’re impossible.
I know. That’s why you love me.
I shoot her my widest grin. She rolls her eyes and responds with a slow shake of her head, but the corner of her mouth curves upward before she turns her attention forward again.
On the dais, Xander approaches a large ornate table that juts out nearly half its width.
It’s carved from dark mahogany embossed with interlocking wolf head sigils and every phase of the moon circling the edges in an endless loop.
The thick legs end in clawed feet that grip the stone floor like they’ve grown from it.
The carved lunar phases catch the torchlight, each one polished to a depth that speaks of decades of careful hands.
Stasio stands beside Xander, Haron’s hand steady at his elbow. The Elder moves with deliberate care, his body still rebuilding its strength, but his hazel eyes burn with a purpose.
“Today marks a new era.” Xander’s voice carries through the hall, pitched to reach every corner without strain.
“For generations, the Lycans of the Crescent Pack and the Shaman of Hima Mountain have regarded each other with suspicion and fear. Even violence.” He pauses, his silver-blue gaze cutting across the assembled crowd. “That ends now.”
A scribe appears bearing a scroll of thick parchment, unrolling it across the table’s gleaming surface. The treaty. Weeks of negotiation have been condensed into flowing script and binding promises. I catch myself holding my breath.
Xander and Stasio face each other, their right fists over their hearts.
“By the moon and stars, by the Goddess and gods,” they speak in unison, their voices resonating through the stone walls, “I pledge my people to this covenant. Let peace bind us. Let trust guide us. Let betrayal find no harbor between our kind.”
Xander accepts a quill, dips it in ink, and signs with a flourish.
He offers the quill to Stasio, whose hand moves with confidence, his name taking shape in flowing script beneath Xander’s.
The scribe retrieves the quill. Xander extends his hand. Both leaders clasp forearms, their grip firm, sealing the oath they’ve sworn.
Applause erupts, hesitant at first from both sides, then building as everyone rises and the reality of what this means fills the hall like air rushing back into starved lungs.
Peace. Documented, legally binding, signed-on-the-dotted-line peace, between two peoples who’ve been killing each other for generations.
And I’m sitting here in this secret, parallel world to witness it all.
It feels like a lifetime ago that I was just the dumb kid from Creek Falls who used to scrape burnt eggs off a diner griddle.
You did it! I send the bright and unguarded words to Rhiannon, half expecting her to snap at me for breaking her focus.
Rhiannon keeps her gaze forward, maintaining her composure, but her smile breaks through, and the warmth of her unmistakable pride washes through me.
We did it, Truth Seer.
That hits me harder than I can handle.
She isn’t just being humble by saying “the pack did it,” or, “it was a team effort.” She said we did it.
She wants me to know that I’m not just an observer, but someone who deserves to take pride in this too.
That my watchful eyes, my quick mind, and my stubborn human instincts brought something to a world full of supernatural, superior beings that they never knew they needed.
That they couldn’t have done this without me.
My throat tightens. I grip the fabric of my pants against my thigh, anchoring myself.
I’m not expendable. I never was. The human who thought he couldn’t make a difference for anyone helped build all this.
Stasio raises his hand, and the applause fades. He scans the guards positioned throughout the Great Hall until his gaze lands on Conan, Jayme, and Rhiannon.
“Sir Jayme of the Crescent Pack.” Stasio’s words reverberate throughout every corner of the chamber. “Please step forward.”
Jayme freezes beside Rhiannon on the dais.
Rhiannon’s hand drifts to her sword hilt. It’s subtle — automatic — the kind of movement most people would miss. But I catch it. I catch everything about her.
Jayme doesn’t move. His whole body stiffens, his green eyes darting to Rhiannon for guidance.
Neither of them knows what the Shaman have planned for him. Neither do any of us, for that matter.
Conan nudges Jayme forward with an elbow.
His eyes flick to Rhiannon once more. She gives him the faintest nod of assent.
If they try anything, I’ve got you.
Her blade-sharp words reach us both.
Jayme moves up to the dais with the wariness of a wolf expecting a trap. His red hair, freshly washed and free of Blackroot dye, blazes like autumn fire.
Haron steps out from behind the table, something glinting in her palm.
“Sir Jayme,” she says. Tears gather in her eyes as she stops before him. “Before both our peoples, I must speak of what was done to you, and my part in it.”
Jayme’s expression flutters as he braces himself for harm and humiliation, even now.
“My brother violated your mind. He stole your will and turned you into a weapon against your own pack.” She steadies herself, lifting her chin. “And I helped him. I knew of his schemes. I crafted the talisman that found you. I did nothing to stop him.”
Her voice falters, yet she forces herself to continue.
“I told myself that you were different. That what you were born as made it acceptable.” Her face crumples, color draining from her bronzed skin.
“I was wrong. You are not a beast to be controlled. You are a man, a warrior who has fought harder for his place in this world than I ever had to fight for mine. I don’t come before you to ask for forgiveness.
I have no right to that. I come to offer a token of my remorse, if you’ll accept it. ”
She extends her hand, revealing the pendant in her palm.
“This charm was enchanted by my father specifically for you. It will protect you from mind magic, now and forever.” Her dark eyes meet his, raw with remorse. “No one will ever take your will from you again.”
Jayme’s eyes narrow as he looks at the charm. His emotions war across his face in quick succession: suspicion, disbelief, and a fragile light beneath it all that looks almost like hope.
“I—” His words fracture. He swallows, tries again. “I accept.”
Haron places the pendant in his open hand.
Jayme stares at it resting on his flat palm. The crystal resembles the one Haron let me borrow, but this one is perfectly clear. The moment it touches his skin, crimson light pulses through its faceted surface, as if it knows exactly whose hand it’s in now.
I glance at Branson on the other side of the dais. His posture finally eases. His eyes glisten, but he blinks it away before anyone else notices.
Xander steps forward, placing a hand on Jayme’s shoulder. “Jayme, you were a victim, not a criminal. Any charges against you are formally pardoned.” His gaze shifts to Branson, standing at attention near the back. “You and your brother are welcome members of this pack. Now and always.”
The hall erupts again, louder this time. Conan whoops beside Rhiannon, then winces as the sudden motion tugs at his injured side.
Xander faces the crowd, arms spread wide, eyes blazing with relief. “Now, my brothers and sisters, we feast!”
The Great Hall transforms in seconds. Side doors swing open and servants pour in carrying platters stacked with glistening roasted venison, whole golden chickens, thick cuts of lamb still sizzling from the spit.
Baskets of fresh bread follow, the crusty loaves trailing steam and the warm scent of buttery grain softening the heavier scents of meat and smoke.
Long tables are filled with bowls of roasted root vegetables, pitchers of dark wine and honeyed mead, wheels of sharp cheese carved into wedges.