POV: Thalia
Peace is the most exhausting thing I have ever managed, and nobody warns you about that part.
The morning briefing starts early in the main hall. Fourteen wolves sit around the oak table with tablets open and coffee cooling.
I move through the agenda with the precision of a Luna who stopped managing crises and started managing calm.
"Eastern wing is ahead of schedule." Garrett taps his screen, pulling up the latest update.
"How far ahead?" I glance at the projected timeline on the shared display across the table.
"Structural work wrapped Friday." He scrolls through photos of the reinforced framing.
"Good — prioritize residential over admin." I mark the change on my tablet without breaking stride.
"Families first, offices second?" Garrett lifts his pen, waiting for my confirmation to proceed.
"Three years in temporary housing is enough." I hold his gaze until he nods and writes it down.
I move to supply routes for the coalition's quarterly summit and catch myself scanning the room.
The tension that lived in every corner of this compound for years is simply absent now. Wolves lean back in their chairs, and someone laughs at a murmured joke near the far wall.
The pack feels different when it is not afraid. The realization arrives quietly, without ceremony.
"Summit provisions need adjusting." I scroll through the logistics file. "Chen confirmed twelve."
"Morrison confirmed fourteen." Orion does not look up from his tablet near the window, voice flat.
I check the original message chain and find Morrison's amendment buried where I skimmed too quickly. My son just corrected my briefing, and he is right.
"Fourteen delegates." I update the record while warmth flickers through my chest. "Good catch."
"It was in the March amendment." He shrugs, already deep in whatever data stream pulls him next.
At twelve, Orion processes information faster than most adults in this room. He delivers corrections with a precision that would sting from anyone who cared less about getting things right.
A burst of noise pulls my attention across the hall. Phoenix stands over two pack members in their twenties, both easily twice her size, grinning like victory is her permanent condition.
"Best two out of three." She slams her elbow on the table with a crack that echoes.
"You already won that." The younger wolf rubs his wrist, wincing with dramatic agony.
"Then three out of five." She flexes her knuckles and settles her arm back into position.
"Nobody wants three out of five with you, Phoenix." The older wolf laughs and pushes his chair back.
"Cowards, both of you." She drops into her seat with a satisfied slouch that looks exactly like her father Kieran on a good day.
The wolves around her laugh, and Phoenix absorbs the admiration. Her Alpha strength is no longer the frightening anomaly that got her expelled from school years ago — this pack has learned to celebrate it.
And Luna — my quiet, perceptive Luna — sits at the edge of the meeting room in a chair she dragged to the far corner. She watches every face with those ancient, knowing eyes.
She does not need to touch anyone. At twelve, her empathic ability reads a room the way Orion reads data — automatically, precisely, without effort.
They are becoming distinct people rather than children to protect. The thought settles heavier than I expect, and my fierce maternal instinct is slowly, painfully transforming into respect.
The briefing wraps. I spend the rest of the morning crossing the compound with a checklist that refuses to shrink.
Eastern wing scaffolding, a revised patrol rotation from Marcus, three supply requisitions for the summit, and a ventilation issue in the barracks that nobody flagged until this morning.
A territorial dispute over a housing unit takes twenty more minutes of careful diplomacy before both families walk away satisfied with the compromise.
Rosalie intercepts me in the corridor outside the kitchens while I review a catering proposal on my screen.
"Drink this before you collapse." She presses a steaming mug into my free hand firmly.
"I have three items left before lunch." I take a grateful sip despite my own protest.
"You look like a woman who forgot how to sit." She falls into step, auburn hair in a messy bun.
"I sat during the briefing." I gesture toward the hall with the mug, defending my minimal record.
"You stood up six times to point at the screen." She gives me a look that tolerates no argument.
"That still counts as attending a seated meeting." I sip the coffee and keep walking anyway.
"No, that counts as pacing with a chair nearby." She bumps my shoulder with deliberate warmth.
"Stillness is a luxury I will schedule later." I scroll to the next item without slowing down.
"When did you last eat a real meal?" Rosalie steps sideways to block my path, arms crossed.
"Toast this morning." I try to sidestep her, but she mirrors the movement with practiced ease.
"While walking to the briefing, right?" She arches one eyebrow, daring me to lie to her face.
I do not argue, because she is not wrong. The compound demands everything, and I give it freely because the alternative — fear, siege mentality, constant bracing for the next attack — was infinitely worse.
Managing peace is exhausting, but it is the kind of exhaustion that comes from building rather than surviving. I will take this over the old weight any day.
The afternoon light slants golden through my office windows when I finally sit down. I am halfway through the summit seating chart when the notification pings.
A boundary alert, flagged unusual. My perimeter team cannot classify the variables and routed it to me with priority flag.
I open the file expecting a lost hiker or a curious human who wandered too close. The gate guard's report is clipped, professional, facts stripped of any editorial commentary.
Two individuals requesting entry at the eastern gate. One adult female, human and one child. No weapons. No hostile posture detected.
My eyes drift to the second paragraph, and the air leaves my lungs before I can brace for the impact.
The woman requested Lysander Fenris by full name. She stated personal acquaintance. Awaiting Luna instructions.
I read it again — human female, child, Lysander by full name — and the pieces connect with the precision of a lock turning inside a door I thought we had sealed shut years ago.
I am already on my feet before the last word registers, my chair rolling backward and my tablet clattering against the desk as I move toward the door.