Night came with a clean, merciless wind that pushed the torches into sharper flares. The caravan of House Therin slept under canvas like a single pale beast. The pack's sentries moved in quiet circles, their boots slow and practiced. The marsh breathed around them in shallow, secret swells, and everything that rustled felt like a possible whisper of danger.
Lira lay on the pallet they'd given her in the guest chamber and watched the moon smear itself across the ceiling. The pebble sat on her chest, warm enough to be a small, steady living thing. She had spent the day drafting terms with the elders and arguing the clauses that would keep the pack from becoming a curiosity. It had been exhausting and small and vital work—the kind that made history look like ink and signatures.
Still, the work of ink did not stop the body's sense of exposure. The pebble's heat thudded against her ribs like a reminder: you are seen.
A soft knock at the door made her sit up. Kellan's silhouette filled the doorway, a presence worn like armor. He stepped inside and closed the door so the sound did not drag the night in with it.
"You shouldn't be alone," he said. His voice was quieter than the guards' calls outside, but it carried enough to make the room feel smaller and safer.
"I'm not afraid of the dark," Lira said, though even to her ears the claim sounded brittle.
"You shouldn't be forced to prove it," Kellan answered, coming to stand by the small window where moonlight slatted through the shutters. "Aric and Rook are at the outer watch, Darren with the elders. Vale took the reed line." He paused. "I have men near the Therin tents. They sleep close to coin like wolves sleep near a marrow-bone—careful and hungry."
She let the words land. "If they come for the pebble, they'll try at night," she said. "They'll move where they think shadows hide intent."
Kellan's jaw set. "Then we will make the shadows our warning. Sleep."
They did not get far into sleep. A runner's soft feet—too careful to be the usual patrol—came to the door and whispered outside. Kellan unlatched it and stepped out into the corridor. He returned with a single phrase that sank like a stone in water: "Someone tried to lift the caravan's latch. No one woke them. The guard on the eastern flank found evidence—cuts, not casual. This was deliberate."
Lira swung her legs over the pallet. Adrenaline cleaned away the drowsiness. She slid the pebble into her palm and felt it pulse, small and insistent. "We should move it," she said. "Not into hiding, but somewhere less obvious."
"Into trust," Kellan corrected. "We move it to the circle stone under watch. Everyone knows the circle's meaning. Theft there would be a provocation."
Aric arrived like a question already answered—hands grimy with the day's labor, cloak pulled tight. He stood long enough to assess and then made the choice that always sat on his shoulders: strategy.
"We will not show fear," he said. "We will show the hunters that what they seek is guarded by people who will break their jaws rather than give it up. We change one thing: Rook takes a bait. He'll make a show at the merchant tents—loud, drunk, visible. They'll move to him and reveal themselves. Vale will be in the reeds to catch anyone who slips away. Kellan and I will hold the guard. You stay at the stone, Lira. Your presence there is a signal that we do not flinch."
Lira's stomach flipped—not from fear, but from the pressure of being a living sign. "If they attack, will you—" she searched for the words.
"We will hold the line," Aric said, voice blunt. "Enough of us will not die tonight."
Rook grinned like a man offered trouble and never looked up. "A show, is it? Fine. I'll sing for coin and make the wolves jealous."
They moved like a machine trained on a single task. Rook went to the market's edge with two of his loudest fellows and a flask. He began to stumble through a performance—the kind made for drunken travelers and bored guards—throwing insults at no one and laughing too loud. The merchant tents flared with attention, and Lira watched the smoke and shadow move like a hand seeing for a weakness.
The first man who slipped out was small and thin, quick in the reeds. He was adept at moving where lines crossed—perfect for a thief who had not expected an organized response. Vale struck like a shadow, sudden and silent. His hand clamped on the man's shoulder; the thief's knife clattered to the ground.
Two other figures, heavier and braver—or more reckless—moved toward the caravan's latch, thinking they would be unseen. Kellan and Aric were waiting. Kellan's first move was a wedge of muscle and steadiness; Aric's second was a quiet calculation. The heavier man lunged, and the world slowed to the business of survival: the scrape of boots, the metallic ringing of a blade against a guard's knife, a grunt.
Lira stood at the circle stone, hands on the rough surface. The mark at her nape warmed and sent a thread of light through the stone—like a pulse finding a mirror. She felt something move behind her ribs: not the wolf's hunger nor a command to fight, but a sharpened clarity. In the hush between scrapes, she heard the breath of the pack, the low counters of men who knew their roles.
The thief Vale held did not struggle much. His eyes, wide and suddenly lucent, found Lira's. For a blink they were not a criminal but a man who had been pushed into work he could not refuse.
"They'll come for coin, and they'll come for proof," the man whispered hoarsely when Vale leaned close.
"Who sent you?" Aric demanded, voice like a blade.
The man spat blood and then answered with a name Lira did not recognize—House Therin itself, a broker inside their caravan who offered work to desperate men. "Gold and something they call leasing of scent," he muttered. "They pay quick. They pay enough to buy debt away."
Rook had the thief's companion at his boot and was cursing elegant imprecations. Darren's voice rose, legal and furious, demanding names and warrants. The pack pressed around them, sturdy and furious like a wall.
Aric found a scrap of paper on one man—a note with a seal. He scanned it and then folded the paper into his hand like a man who had found a needle in hay. His eyes flicked to Vale and then to the Therin quarter. "A broker," he said. "Inside their camp. Someone is harvesting small things for profit."
Vale did not smile. "They would prefer anonymous hands," he said. "But even anonymous hands leave a thread."
Kellan's hand was at Lira's waist then, not to pull but to steady. "We need to speak to Matren," he said. "Now. Force's presence is a provocation. If Matren truly seeks legal trade, he will want anything like this stopped."
They took the captured men into the hearth and bound them to a post so they could not flee. The pack gathered—elders, hunters, and the curious. Matren came out of his tent with servants close and a smile practiced for crisis. The smile cracked when he saw men forced in his quarter.
"This is intolerable," Matren said with a voice that tried to be offended on principle. "Our security has been breached. We will not have our good name besmirched by thieves."
Aric's face was a hard thing. "These men were working for your camp," he said. "We found the note. We found evidence. Who in your caravan hires thieves to take body parts and sell them as samples?"
Matren's smooth veneer wavered an inch. "No one in my caravan would stoop to theft. We buy research from legitimate partners. Perhaps—" He paused, jaculating a small, disbelieving laugh—"Perhaps you have swallowed a local rumor."
Kellan did not bother with euphemism. "We have evidence," he said. "We will search your tents. If someone in your service is buying parts of people—bones, hair, blood—then House Therin is not a charity and you will pay."
There was a long, dangerous pause. Men shifted; guards stood a degree more alert. The caravan's servants paled like candle wax. Matren's hand brushed his collar as a man who checks his own armor for weakness.
Finally, Matren inclined his head. "Very well. We will cooperate with a search. We value our reputation. We do not traffic in… barbaric trade." His mouth made the words sound as if he found the very idea distasteful.
Vale watched him through the slits of his eyes and said nothing. He already knew that masks slip when the right hand twists them.
They searched. Tents went upside down. A chest spilled paper and trinkets, but nothing immediately condemnatory. The broker—hidden in scent and shadow—was a clever man. He had the advantage of the night and the ease of a caravan that expects to be seen for its goods, not judged for its deals.
At dawn, when the torches were smoke-stubbed and the marsh showed the wet veins of its paths, Aric found a small ledger hidden beneath a false bottom in a merchant's crate. The ledger listed names, sums, and a crude shorthand for "samples" with ticks. It was not signed, but the script matched the broker's notes.
Matren's face went white. "I do not keep those ledgers," he said too quickly. "I am not—"
Rook spat. "Then someone in your employ keeps them. You will find out who."
Matren swallowed and then bowed, a little too low. "We will find the man. We will make him answer for this."
Kellan's eyes met Lira's. "This is not over," he said. "They are smart. They will try another way."
Lira curled her fingers around the pebble until the warmth bled into her palm. The ledger had confirmed what she feared—wealth could move like water, and where it pooled people could drown. But it had also done something else: it had given them a line. A place to pull.
She stood by the doorway of the caravan as the dawn blushed the marsh. Vale emerged from the reeds, water beading along his cloak, and for a heartbeat he and Lira were two dark things caught in the same light.
"They will not stop," he said simply.
"We will not let them take what we are," Lira answered. Her voice was not loud, but it rang like a decision. The pebble throbbed against the wood of her palm as if in agreement.
From the far reed-line a horn sounded—this time a long, deliberate note that was not like the hunters' quick calls. It was older, and threaded with ranks. Men looked up. The High Alpha's shoulders tightened. The board had shifted again. New players were moving.
Lira looked at the men around her—Aric, Kellan, Rook, Darren, Vale—and felt a fragile thing bloom: not safety, but a plan. They would fight theft with law, cunning with cunning, and the market with a better map. The world was coming, and it would not be quiet.
She slipped the pebble back into her pocket and set her jaw. "Then we answer," she said. "We answer on our terms."