The summons comes before dawn.
It isn't delivered by a messenger or a guard—it arrives through the bond, sharp and deliberate, like a blade pressed just hard enough to draw blood.
Caelan wakes already standing.
Lyra feels it immediately. The sudden tightening. The cold resolve threading through his unrest.
"They're calling you," she says quietly from across the archive room where she never truly slept.
Caelan nods once. "They're calling us."
The council chamber smells like old power and older lies.
Elders sit in a semicircle of stone seats, faces carved into masks of authority. Every sigil of law and dominance is lit. This is not a discussion.
It's a judgment.
Lyra steps inside beside Caelan, spine straight, chin lifted. She feels the pack watching from beyond the doors—listening, waiting.
Maeric speaks first.
"You should not exist," he says flatly.
Lyra smiles without humor. "Yet here I am."
"You were executed under sacred law," another elder snaps. "Your return is a violation of balance."
Caelan's wolf snarls low.
"She was murdered to protect your control," Caelan says coldly. "Don't dress it as balance."
The chamber stirs.
Maeric leans forward. "You carried out the sentence."
"Yes," Caelan replies. "And I will carry the consequences."
Lyra turns to look at him sharply.
"That includes defying us?" Maeric asks.
Caelan doesn't hesitate. "If that's what it takes."
A pause. Calculated. Dangerous.
Then Maeric smiles.
"Very well," he says. "Then let us speak of consequences."
The air thickens.
"You will submit to a binding," Maeric continues. "Both of you. A council seal that suppresses the mate bond until we determine whether her existence is a threat."
Lyra's breath stutters.
Suppress the bond?
Caelan steps forward instantly. "No."
"It is not a request," Maeric snaps. "Without it, she will be declared an abomination. Hunted."
The word hits like a gunshot.
Lyra feels Caelan's rage spike—violent, immediate. His power rolls outward, rattling the chamber walls.
"Touch her," he growls, "and I burn this council to the ground."
Several elders recoil.
Maeric's gaze sharpens. "You prove our point, Alpha. You are compromised."
Lyra feels the bond tighten—not possessive now, but protective. Terrified.
She steps forward before Caelan can lose control.
"I'll do it," she says.
Caelan whips toward her. "No."
"If it keeps them from killing me," she says quietly. "And from using me to break you—yes."
Maeric watches them carefully. "Wise. The bond will be sealed temporarily. Painfully. It will prevent… incidents."
Lyra meets his gaze. "You don't get to enjoy this."
"Oh," he says softly. "I already am."
The ritual is fast.
Too fast.
Symbols flare to life around them, ancient magic slamming into Lyra's chest like a vice. The bond screams—raw, agonized, tearing through both of them.
Caelan roars.
He drops to one knee, claws tearing into stone as pain rips through him, white-hot and merciless. The bond stretches, thins, locks.
Lyra cries out as the connection dulls—not gone, but muted, strangled. Like breathing through water.
When it's over, silence crashes down.
Lyra sways.
Caelan catches her without thinking.
The elders stiffen but do not stop him.
"Until we decide otherwise," Maeric says coldly, "you will keep your distance. No touching. No claiming. No defiance."
Lyra looks up at Caelan through the haze.
His eyes burn.
"I'm not done fighting them," he whispers.
"I know," she replies softly. "Just don't fight me too."
They are escorted out under watch.
Outside, the pack feels the change immediately—the bond's wild edge dulled, the air less volatile.
But beneath it…
Something dangerous coils tighter.
The council believes they've contained the problem.
They're wrong.
Because suppression doesn't erase a bond.
It starves it.
And starving something feral only teaches it how to bite deeper.