Less than an hour after the discovery, his two most trusted advisors arrived. Gareth, the Beta, entered with his usual solid, pragmatic demeanor, though his eyes betrayed his tension. Myra followed, her face serene but her energy vibrating with coiled power. Amelia stood beside Kian, her hand resting protectively on his arm, a steady anchor in the sudden storm.
“Explain, King,” Gareth said, bypassing pleasantries. He had seen Kian transition from calm to controlled fury too many times to waste a second.
Kian pushed the ring and the note across the desk. Gareth read the note first, his massive hand closing into a tight fist as he processed the message. Myra, leaning over his shoulder, took the sight of the ring—the ivy motif—and instantly recoiled, a low, guttural sound escaping her lips.
“A private package, delivered overnight, bypassing every perimeter defense, and left in a public pile of gifts,” Kian stated, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “It was highly targeted. It implies either someone inside the walls or someone with magic strong enough to cloak their passing completely. This isn't just a threat; it's a statement of capability.”
“The timing is deliberate,” Myra observed, her voice barely above a whisper. “On the heels of the greatest display of Pack unity. They want to show you that even in your victory, you are fundamentally exposed.”
Gareth ran a hand over his heavily furred jaw. “Logistics. We had multiple layers of security. The gate guards were tripled due to Lyra’s presence. The courtyard was shielded, but only against kinetic intrusion, not magical. I should have considered—”
“Stop,” Kian cut in sharply. “Self-recrimination serves nothing now. We need the source. Who delivered it? Where did they come from? When did they touch it?” He pushed the evidence toward Myra. “Myra, the only way to track something so deliberately hidden is through magic. I need you to channel the scent. I need a face, a direction, a name, anything.”
Myra stepped up to the desk, her focus shifting. She looked at the ring, then at the note, her witch sight attempting to peer past the mundane materials into the energetic residue left by the sender.
“The sender touched the ring recently, within the last twenty-four hours,” Myra murmured, her eyes distant. “The object itself is clean, wiped of all previous human scent. The note has a single, brief contact signature, masked by a complex shielding spell. It’s professional. High-grade masking, Alpha King.”
“Can you break it?” Kian demanded, his voice edged with impatience. He paced the small study, feeling the familiar, caged energy of the Wolf building beneath his skin. The waiting was agony. Every second was an advantage for the ghost who knew his mother’s ring.
“I can try to pierce the shielding,” Myra said, turning to Amelia. “Luna, I need a conduit. Something clean, elemental. A drop of blood, if you can spare it, or a lock of hair.”
Amelia didn’t hesitate. She quickly pulled a single, long strand of her silver-streaked hair—Kian's favorite—and placed it on the desk next to the ring. Myra immediately retrieved a small wooden bowl from her cloak, placing the hair inside and adding a sprinkle of crushed, dried leaves that smelled faintly of sage and ozone.
Myra closed her eyes, her hands hovering over the bowl, the note, and the ring. The room temperature seemed to drop, and a faint, electric hum began to fill the air. She began to chant, the words ancient and guttural, belonging to a language Kian had never heard outside of her rituals.
Myra’s voice deepened, resonating with a power that shook the air in the small room. The focus of the channeling was to rip through the magical barrier the sender had placed on the note, following the physical touch back to the source.
The chant began as a low, continuous drone, establishing the connection to the deep earth energies.
“Oka rúnar, hlaupa vísar,” Myra intoned, the words foreign but the intent perfectly clear. I seek the runes, the runners of guidance.
A faint, blue light began to emanate from the dried leaves in the bowl, illuminating her face. Myra’s focus became absolute, her body rigid with the effort of projection.
“Styria auga, sýni merki,” she commanded. I command the eyes, show me the marks.
She reached out, her fingers extended, tracing the path of the unseen signature on the note. Her breathing grew shallow and rapid, the pace of her chant accelerating. The blue light intensified, creating dancing shadows across the concerned faces of Kian and Amelia.
Myra shifted the focus, pressing the silver ring to her forehead, attempting to connect with the deep memory of the object itself. The ring had seen the sender, and now she demanded the ring yield its sight.
“Hverr var maðr? Hverr snerta?” Who was the man? Who touched it?
She repeated the last line, the interrogation turning into a magical drill, an insistent, rhythmic demand against the wall of the masking spell. The air in the study thickened, pushing against Kian and Gareth. The hum became a high-pitched whine.
“Ég krefst sársauka! Ég krefst sannleika! Brjóta!” I demand the pain! I demand the truth! Break!
For a terrifying, heart-stopping moment, the energy in the room surged. The blue light flared into a blinding, white flash, and Kian saw a momentary flicker in Myra’s eyes—a brief, terrifying glimpse of something else, something that was not their study. It was cold, dark, and utterly devoid of life.
Then, with a sound like shattering glass, the light collapsed.
Myra staggered back, gasping, sweat plastering her braids to her temples. She was visibly drained, leaning heavily on the desk, her breath ragged. The herbs in the bowl were reduced to ash.
Kian was instantly beside her, supporting her arm. “What did you see? Did you get through?”
Myra shook her head slowly, regaining her focus. The effort had clearly cost her dearly.
“I pierced the first layer of the spell, Alpha King,” she whispered, her voice husky. “I saw… nothing. Not because it was faint, but because it was shielded by a powerful void. It was an anti-magic barrier, woven to absorb all attempts at tracking. It felt cold, ancient, and highly intelligent.”
She shuddered, pulling her hand away from the desk. “The source is masked, Kian. Completely. They knew we would attempt this, and they took steps to ensure the touch left no discernible trail. This is not the work of a rogue agent or a simple mercenary. This is the work of a hidden faction, possibly one that employs powerful, dedicated counter-mages.”
Gareth slammed his fist on the desk, the sound echoing in the silence. “A hidden enemy within the territory, and they can nullify witch magic? What are they?”
“More importantly, what do they want?” Amelia asked, her voice calm but penetrating. “They didn't kill you with a poisoned gift or a bomb. They gave you a question. They wanted to start the hunt.”
“They want me distracted,” Kian concluded, his voice low and dangerous. “They want me chasing a ghost, sacrificing my political stability and my peace for answers. They want the Alpha King to go rogue.”
He looked at Gareth. “Find the courier. Start with every visitor who was on the grounds after 9 p.m., regardless of status. I don’t care if it was Lyra’s personal guard, check them. Every pack member who helped clear the tables. This courier is either a ghost or one of us.”
Then he turned to Myra, his gaze intense. “And you, Myra. This ring is the key. Tell me everything you know about this pattern. Who in the North could possess, or even recognize, this Ivy Band?”
Myra nodded, regaining her strength. “I will search the ancient texts immediately, Alpha King. They may have masked the scent, but symbols always leave a truth behind.”
Kian picked up the small, black box, placing the ring and the note back inside. The cost of yesterday’s happiness had been delivered. It was the reopening of an ancient, festering wound, and Kian knew, with chilling certainty, that the peace he had just fought so hard to build was now contingent on hunting down the enemy hiding in the shadows. Could be the killer of his parents are back, and they were playing a lethal, personal game. Or. someone really wanted me to know the killer!