Chapter 17The Puppeteer's Strings

Rowan held the journal out like a shield.

"Read it yourself, Lyra. Elara was Aldric's spy. Her blood is in the Emberbond. That's how we break it without—"

"I know."

Lyra's voice cut through the night like a blade. She didn't move. Didn't blink. The pack behind her stood motionless, waiting.

"I've known for fifteen years."

Rowan's arm dropped. The journal hung loose in her fingers. "What?"

"Elara came to me the night before the ritual." Lyra stepped forward, boots crunching on broken stone. "Told me everything. Aldric's threats. Her fear. The way he'd cornered her after the last Gathering, showed her what he'd do to Darian if she didn't cooperate."

Darian made a sound low in his throat. "She told you, and you did nothing?"

"I told her to play along." Lyra's face remained stone. "To feed Aldric false information. To buy us time to move the pack's treasury, scatter the surviving loyalists. She agreed."

Rowan's mind raced. "Then why did my mother die?"

"Because Elara panicked. Aldric changed the schedule. She had no way to warn us." Lyra's eyes flickered—the first crack in her composure. "Your mother walked into that clearing thinking she'd face a challenge. Instead, she faced an execution squad."

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Rowan's hands trembled. "You could have told me."

"When? Before you'd shifted for the first time? Before you understood what the Emberbond meant?" Lyra took another step. "I needed you focused. Hungry. The truth would have made you hesitate. Made you question whether revenge was even justified."

"It's not your choice to make."

"It *is*." Lyra's voice hardened. "I've kept the Ashen Pack alive in shadows for fifteen years. I've bled for its remnants. I've buried friends. And I will not watch you throw yourself at Aldric's throat without preparation."

"So you lied."

"I guided."

The pack shifted. Amber eyes gleamed. Rowan felt the Emberbond pulse beneath her ribs, felt Darian's pain through the connection like a second heartbeat.

"You're surrounded, Rowan." Lyra spread her hands. "Come with me. Let us perform the counter-ritual. Rule beside me. The Ashen Pack needs its heir."

"And Darian?"

Lyra's expression didn't change. "His mother's blood is the key. Once we extract it, he'll serve his purpose."

Darian went rigid beside her.

Rowan's stomach turned. "Extract?"

"The counter-ritual requires the betrayer's bloodline to be present. Willing or otherwise." Lyra's voice dropped. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

The Emberbond flared.

Rowan felt it this time—not just heat, but movement. Something sliding through the mortar between stones, through the cracks in the pavement beneath her feet. The bond was *breathing*, tasting the ruins around them.

She didn't question it. She pushed.

Heat erupted from the ground between them and Lyra. Stone cracked. Dust billowed. The pack recoiled, shields raised.

"Run!" Rowan grabbed Darian's arm and pulled.

They plunged into the ruins.

---

The city was a corpse of itself.

Collapsed archways. Streets split by roots and time. Every shadow could hide a hunter, every alcove a trap.

Rowan's lungs burned. Darian stumbled beside her, his breath ragged. Blood soaked through the bandage on his side, dark against the gray of his shirt.

"Left," he gasped.

She followed his nod toward a half-collapsed building with an iron door hanging crooked on its hinges. They ducked inside.

The floor was slick with dust. Moonlight streamed through holes in the roof, painting silver patterns on the stone. Rowan pulled Darian deeper, past fallen beams, past a staircase that led nowhere—

*Footsteps.*

Multiple sets. Closing fast.

Darian's hand found a grate in the floor. He yanked. It didn't move.

Rowan dropped beside him, fingers finding the rusted edges. The Emberbond pulsed. The metal *screamed* as it tore free, hinges snapping like dry bones.

She dropped into darkness, Darian following. The grate clanged shut above them as the first hunters entered the building.

They landed in water.

Cold. Stagnant. Reaching her knees.

The sewer stretched ahead, a tunnel of black brick and silence. Rowan pulled Darian forward, his weight heavy against her shoulder.

"Your mother," she whispered. "Did she ever mention a sanctuary?"

Darian's laugh was wet. "She mentioned a lot of things. Thought they were stories."

"Tell me anyway."

He sagged against the wall, sliding down until the water lapped at his chest. "The Deadlands. She said there was a heartstone there. Something old. Something that could amplify blood rituals."

Rowan knelt beside him, hands finding his wound. The bandage was soaked through. She pressed down, and he hissed.

"The Deadlands are cursed."

"Everything's cursed, Rowan." His eyes found hers in the dark. "The diary said the heartstone could break any bond. Even the Emberbond. Even without my mother."

She tore a strip from her shirt, wrapped it tight around his waist. "That's why Lyra wants you alive."

"That's why we need to get there first."

Above them, footsteps thundered. Voices called orders. A howl split the night—but it wasn't Lyra's pack.

It was deeper. Wilder. *Foreign.*

Darian's face went pale. "That's not her."

"Then who—"

A second howl answered. Closer.

The neutral pack. The elder's son.

Rowan pulled Darian to his feet. He swayed, caught himself on her shoulder.

"You can't keep this pace."

"I will."

The Emberbond flared again, and this time Rowan felt it—the curse tightening, coiling around her heart like a serpent.

*Four days.*

She dragged Darian into the darkness.

Behind them, the grate groaned.

Something was coming through.