Chapter 6The Blood Price

Dawn bled through the canvas of Lys's tent, painting everything in shades of rust and amber. Soren stood at the entrance, Thorne at his left, Calla at his right. The three of them facing a woman who looked at Soren like she wanted to peel his skin off.

Lys didn't offer them seats. She sat behind a field desk cluttered with maps and half-empty cups, her fingers tracing the edge of a copper pendant—a wolf's head, cracked down the middle. The kind of pendant Kael used to wear.

"You've got nerve," she said, not looking up. "Walking into my camp after what you did."

"I traded names to save my pack," Soren said. "I won't apologize for it."

"No. You'll just stand there and pretend you're not the reason Merrick's bones are still rotting in that ditch."

Thorne shifted beside him, a low growl in his throat. "We don't have time for old wounds, Lys."

"Old wounds are the only kind that matter." She finally raised her eyes. "You want Kael's location. I want proof you're not still the Council's dog."

Soren felt Calla tense next to him. He kept his voice flat. "What kind of proof?"

"A kill." Lys tossed a folded piece of paper across the desk. It landed at Soren's feet. "There's a Council informant embedded in the Moon-den. Name's Ren. Fox-shifter. He's been feeding names to the Purge teams for months. Bring me his head, and I'll tell you where they're keeping the old scientist."

Soren bent and picked up the paper. A rough sketch of a face, nervous eyes, a narrow jaw. "And if I refuse?"

"Then you leave my camp, and I make sure every Shadow between here and the Iron Throne knows Soren the Schemer is back in play." She smiled, thin and cold. "They'll find you before the sun sets."

Calla stepped forward. "There has to be another way—"

"There isn't." Lys's hand tightened on the cracked pendant. "You want the man who helped create the Blood Origin? You pay for him in blood."

Soren folded the paper and tucked it into his belt. "I'll do it."

Thorne's growl deepened. "Soren—"

"I said I'll do it."

Lys studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "You have until midnight. After that, the deal's off."

---

The Moon-den sat at the edge of the Hinterlands, a hollowed-out hill where the three moons' light couldn't reach. Torches lined the dirt walls, casting long shadows that swallowed faces and made every whisper sound like a conspiracy.

Soren moved through the crowd, his soul-scent gone, his presence a void that made other shifters glance away. He'd learned to use it. To slip between them like smoke.

Ren sat at a corner table, nursing a cup of cheap wine. His ears twitched at every sound, his fingers drumming against the wood. A man waiting for something. Or someone.

Soren slid into the seat across from him.

Ren's eyes went wide. "I don't know you."

"You know Lys." Soren kept his hands visible on the table. "She sent me."

"What? No, I—I'm just a trader. I don't—"

"Stop." Soren leaned forward. "I know what you are. And I know you're scared."

Ren's throat bobbed. "Please. I have a family. A daughter. She's—"

"I'm not here to kill you."

The words came out before Soren could stop them. He'd planned the lie, the blade, the quick exit. But sitting here, watching this fox-shifter tremble, he saw the Weave's cracks flicker at the edges of his vision. Lines of truth and deception spiderwebbing around Ren's chest.

They glowed steady. Bright.

*He's telling the truth.*

Ren blinked. "What?"

"I said I'm not here to kill you." Soren lowered his voice. "But I need you to tell me why you're really feeding names to the Council."

Ren's face went pale. "I don't—"

"The truth, Ren. Before I change my mind."

A long silence. The tavern's noise pressed in around them—laughter, clinking cups, a fiddle playing somewhere in the back. Ren's hands shook as he set down his wine.

"There's a faction," he whispered. "Inside the Council. People who want to end the Blood Origin. They've been working for years to dismantle it from within."

Soren's blood went cold. "And the names you feed them?"

"Are false. Dead ends. I send them names of Shadows who've already fled, so the Purge teams waste time chasing ghosts." Ren's eyes met his. "I'm not a spy. I'm a shield."

The Weave's cracks pulsed. Steady. True.

Soren sat back. The plan he'd made in his head—the quick kill, the false corpse, the map—suddenly felt like a child's game.

"If I let you live," he said slowly, "Lys will hunt me."

"Lys doesn't know about the faction. No one does. We've kept it buried for years." Ren reached into his coat, slow and deliberate, and pulled out a folded piece of leather. "This is where they're keeping Kael. The real location, not the one Lys has."

Soren took it. The leather was warm, worn soft from handling. A map, marked with landmarks he recognized. A prison beneath an old fortress, two days' ride east.

"Why give me this?"

"Because if you're willing to spare a stranger's life for a chance at the truth," Ren said, "then maybe you're the one who can actually end this."

---

The campfire crackled low, casting shifting shadows across Thorne's scarred face. Calla sat beside him, her knees drawn up, her eyes fixed on the flames.

Soren dropped the map onto the ground between them.

"I didn't kill him."

Thorne's jaw tightened. "Then we have a problem."

"We have a lead." Soren pointed at the map. "Kael's real location. And a new ally inside the Council."

"An ally you can't trust."

"An ally I *can* trust." Soren met Thorne's gaze. "I saw the Weave's cracks. He was telling the truth."

Thorne was quiet for a long moment. Then he picked up the map, studying it by firelight. "This is good. If it's accurate."

"It is."

"And Lys?"

"Will find out eventually. But by then, we'll have Kael."

Calla finally spoke, her voice rough. "You should have told me before you left."

Soren turned to her. "There wasn't time."

"There's always time." She stood, her hands clenched at her sides. "I'm not a child, Soren. I'm not someone you protect by keeping in the dark."

"I wasn't—"

"You were." Her eyes glistened in the firelight. "You went to that den ready to kill a man. And you didn't even think to bring me. You just left."

The accusation hit harder than any blade. Soren opened his mouth to respond, but a crash from the edge of the camp stopped him.

A Shadow scout stumbled into the firelight, blood streaming down his arm. "The Purge," he gasped. "They've started. The Council—they're burning the villages. The first ones are already gone."

Calla's face went white. "Which villages?"

The scout's eyes found hers. "All of them. But they started with your father's pack, Calla. They knew it was his journal. They wanted to make an example."

The silence that followed was absolute. Soren could hear the fire, the scout's ragged breathing, the distant howl of a wolf somewhere in the dark.

Calla turned to him, her voice barely a whisper. "We have to go back."

"We can't." The words tasted like ash. "Kael is the only way to stop this."

"My father's pack is *burning*, Soren."

"And if we don't stop the Blood Origin, every pack will burn." He stepped toward her, reaching for her hand. "I know it hurts. But we have to choose the war, not the battle."

She pulled away, her eyes hard. "You don't get to decide what I choose."

"Someone has to."

The fire popped. The scout collapsed, and Thorne moved to tend to him. But Soren and Calla stayed locked in their battle, neither willing to break.

Finally, Calla turned away. "We find Kael. We do it fast. And then we burn the Council to the ground."

It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't even agreement.

But it was enough.

Soren picked up the map, the leather warm in his hands. Two days east. Two days to reach a man who might hold the key to ending this war.

And somewhere behind them, the first flames of the Great Purge lit the horizon.