POV: Anthony
The war council was a disaster before it started.
Anthony stood at the edge of the gathering, arms crossed, jaw tight, watching the pack tear itself apart with words. Goran argued for fortification. Kael pushed for guerrilla strikes. Lyra—who had no business being in a war council except that she'd made herself indispensable—suggested sending a delegation to neighboring packs for aid.
No one mentioned the obvious. No one said what everyone was thinking.
We're going to lose.
The Shadowpine had numbers. They had war wolves. They had a leader who didn't care how many of his own died, as long as he won. And the pack... the pack was still divided, still bleeding, still nursing wounds that went deeper than flesh.
Isaac sat at the center of it all, his face pale, his eyes hollow. He looked like a man drowning in responsibilities he'd never asked for. Anthony felt a flicker of something—pity? Recognition?—and crushed it.
He's the Alpha. Let him figure it out.
But even as he thought it, he knew that wasn't fair. Isaac hadn't asked for this any more than Anthony had. The moon had chosen. The rest of them were just living with the consequences.
"Anthony."
He looked up. Isaac was watching him, an unreadable expression on his face.
"You haven't spoken. What do you think?"
The room went quiet. Every eye turned to him—the spurned heir, the monster, the brother who'd started this war by stealing the enemy's daughter. Anthony felt the weight of their judgment like a physical thing.
He could have stayed silent. Could have let Isaac flounder. Could have watched the pack burn and told himself it was what they deserved.
But then he thought of Sylva. The way she'd looked at him when Roric delivered her father's message. The way her hand had felt in his.
Traitors die last. So you can watch.
"I think," he said slowly, "that we're asking the wrong question."
Goran's eyebrow rose. "What's the right question?"
Anthony moved into the center of the circle, ignoring the whispers, the wary glances. He stood facing his brother—not as a challenger, but as something else. Something he didn't have a name for.
"The question isn't how we fight them. It's why." He met Isaac's eyes. "We're not fighting for territory. We're not fighting for pride. We're fighting because a man who doesn't value his own daughter's life decided he wants what we have. That's not a war. That's a tantrum."
Murmurs rippled through the council. Anthony pressed on.
"Roric came here with a message. Surrender Sylva, get a month. He thinks we're desperate enough to consider it." He paused, letting the silence stretch. "He's wrong."
"How do you know?" Lyra's voice was sharp. "You've known her for days. She's the enemy's daughter. Why does she matter more than the rest of us?"
The question hung in the air like a blade. Anthony felt every eye on him, felt the weight of what he was about to say.
"Because she killed her own kin to save my life. Because she looked at me like I was a person when everyone else saw a monster. Because..." He swallowed hard. "Because when I'm with her, I don't feel like I've lost everything. I feel like I might actually deserve to win something."
Silence. Absolute, suffocating silence.
Then Isaac stood.
"You love her."
It wasn't a question. Anthony stared at his brother, the words impossible to form. Love? Was that what this was? This burning, aching, terrifying thing that made him want to burn the world and build it anew?
"I don't know," he said honestly. "But I know I won't surrender her. Not for a month. Not for anything."
Isaac studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Then we fight."
Goran stepped forward. " Isaac—"
"We fight." Isaac's voice was firm and steady—the voice of an Alpha. "Not for territory. Not for pride. For each other. For the pack. For a woman who proved her loyalty with blood. " He looked at Anthony. "For my brother."
Anthony's chest tightened. Brother. Not an enemy. Not a rival. Brother.
The council erupted into chaos—arguments, plans, counter-plans. Anthony barely heard any of it. He was staring at Isaac, at the brother he'd hated for so long, and feeling something crack open inside him.
Isaac caught his eye. Smiled—a tired, worn smile, but genuine.
"Don't get used to it," he said quietly. "We'll go back to hating each other after we survive."
Anthony almost laughed. Almost.
"Deal."
He found her at the stream, washing the dust from her arms, her back to the compound. She didn't turn when he approached, but he knew she heard him.
"Your council went well?"
"Depends on your definition." He settled on a rock nearby, watching the water flow past. "We're fighting."
Sylva's hands stilled. "Because of me."
"Because of a lot of things." He picked up a stone and turned it over in his fingers. "But yeah. Partly."
She was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, "You should surrender me. It would buy you time."
"I know."
"It's the smart move."
"I know."
"It's what my father expects."
"I know."
She finally turned, her gold eyes meeting his. "Then why don't you?"
Anthony set down the stone. Stood. Moved toward her until they were close enough to touch.
"Because I'm tired of doing what's smart," he said. "I'm tired of losing. I'm tired of watching everything I care about burn." He reached out, slowly, giving her time to pull away. She didn't. His hand cupped her face, gentle and reverent. "You're the first thing in years that made me want to fight for something instead of against it. I'm not giving that up. Not for a month. Not for anything."
Sylva's eyes glistened. A single tear traced down her cheek, catching on his thumb.
"You're a fool," she whispered.
"I know."
"A beautiful, impossible fool."
"I've been called worse."
She laughed—a wet, broken sound—and then she kissed him.
It wasn't like the first time. That had been desperation, fury, a collision of broken things. This was slow. Tender. A question and an answer all at once. Her hands fisted in his shirt. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, holding her like something precious.
When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, breathing ragged, Sylva smiled.
"If we die tomorrow," she said, "I want you to know—"
"We're not dying tomorrow." Anthony's voice was rough. "We're surviving. Both of us. Together."
"And after?"
"After, we figure it out." He kissed her forehead, her nose, and the corner of her mouth. "Together."
Sylva leaned into him, her head on his chest, her arms around his waist.
"Together," she repeated.
The stream flowed past, indifferent to the war, the curses, and the impossible love blooming on its banks.
But for the first time in years, Anthony felt like the world might not be completely broken.
And that was enough.