They had ninety minutes left before Tiressia started making arrests.

  Ninety minutes to decide whether to run, fight, hide, or somehow do all three at once. Ninety minutes before being in the quarantine zone changed from "civilian evacuation" to "criminal trespass." Ninety minutes before they became fugitives in fact as well as practice.

  And they were spending those minutes arguing.

  The tension had been building since Lyris left, since they'd watched that village sink beneath undulating earth and rising water, since Camerise had woken with blood streaking her golden skin and prophecy trembling on her lips. Now it finally erupted.

  "We can't break Tiressian law," Brayden said for the third time, pacing the confined space of the ruined barn. Three steps one direction, three steps back, forced to turn constantly by the collapsed walls. "I know we don't like it. I know it feels wrong. I know every instinct is screaming that this is unjust. But they have a signed treaty with the Avarian Crown. They have legal authority here, whether we agree with the methods they used to obtain it or not. If we defy them openly, if we break their laws in ways that can be documented and prosecuted, we're not heroes—we're criminals. And criminals can't save anyone from inside a Tiressian prison cell."

  "Legal authority," Kaelis spat the words like they tasted of poison. Wind was gathering instinctively around her clenched fists, making papers flutter and dust swirl in small eddies. "They coerced that treaty. You know they did. Probably threatened trade sanctions or withdrew merchant protections or conducted 'military exercises' right on the Avarian border until the Crown had no choice but to capitulate. The Crown didn't consent freely—they surrendered under duress. There's a massive difference."

  "Not to a judge there isn't." Brayden stopped pacing, met her eyes directly. His hand was on his sword hilt—not threatening, just a habitual gesture when stressed. "Not to the law. Not to the legal system we're asking to eventually protect us from prosecution. Intent doesn't matter in court. Motivation doesn't matter. Process doesn't matter. What matters is whether we can prove coercion in a Tiressian court, under Tiressian rules, with Tiressian judges interpreting Tiressian law. And we can't. We have no evidence beyond suspicion and gut feeling. No witnesses who'll testify. No documents showing threats. Nothing that would hold up in any legal proceeding."

  "So we accept it? Just roll over?" Kaelis was on her feet now, unable to sit still while her homeland's ships joined a blockade against their own people. "Let them experiment on a failing Seal because they have the right paperwork? Let them turn a cosmic catastrophe into a political opportunity while people drown?"

  "I said we can't break the law directly." Brayden's voice was strained, the frustration of someone who knew the right way to do something but also knew it wouldn't work in time. "Can't storm checkpoints or attack patrols or openly defy their occupation. That path ends with us in chains or dead, and neither outcome helps anyone. But we can work within the system. Find allies in the Avarian government who oppose the treaty. Build a coalition of nobles who see Tiressia's overreach for what it is. Pressure the Crown to revoke their consent. Get the occupation declared illegitimate through proper legal channels."

  "That will take months," Varden said, not looking up from his methodical cleaning of his hammer. The repetitive scrape of cloth on metal provided a steady counterpoint to the rising voices. "Probably years if Tiressia fights it with their full legal apparatus. Which they will, because they've invested significant resources in this operation. They have political capital riding on success here. By the time any legal challenge works its way through the courts and appeals and counter-appeals, the Seal will have failed catastrophically and half the coast will be underwater. Your solution is correct in principle but worthless in practice."

  "Then what do you suggest?" Brayden demanded, and genuine frustration bled into his voice. "What's your perfect solution that's both legal and fast and actually achievable?"

  "More research." Varden finally looked up, set down his hammer carefully. "We don't understand the Seals well enough. Don't understand Wells corruption thoroughly enough. Don't understand the fundamental mechanisms that are failing or why they're failing or what can actually repair them. We've been reacting to crises—running from one emergency to the next, improvising desperate solutions, barely surviving each encounter through luck and determination. That's not sustainable. We need to go back to first principles. Study the foundational work. Find out exactly what the Seals are, how they were originally constructed, what's causing them to degrade after millennia of stability, and what can actually fix them instead of just delaying the inevitable."

  "Study," Kaelis said flatly, and the single word carried volumes of scorn. "You want to study. You want to sit in a library reading ancient texts while people die. While villages sink. While the world breaks around us."

  "I want to understand what we're fighting before we throw ourselves at it again," Varden countered, and his voice carried the weight of decades of experience watching people die from inadequate preparation. "Because acting without understanding is precisely how we make things worse instead of better. Acting without knowledge is what nearly got Tyrian killed in that cave when he tried to resonate with something he didn't comprehend. Acting without comprehension is what caused Camerise to nearly lose her mind to Dreamfall when the rupture hit. We've been lucky so far—surviving through a combination of skill, determination, and sheer dumb luck. But luck runs out. It always runs out eventually. Better to slow down now, learn what we're actually dealing with, then intervene with precision and understanding instead of desperation and hope."

  "There isn't time for precision," Kaelis insisted, her hands shaking—not from fear but from the effort of holding herself still when every instinct screamed to act, to move, to do something instead of sitting here talking. "Camerise gave us a timeline. Weeks before the Seal breaks completely. Maybe less if Tiressia does something catastrophically stupid with their experiments—which they absolutely will, because that's what empires do when they think they can control forces beyond their comprehension. We don't have months for research. We barely have days."

  "Then we use those days wisely instead of wasting them on plans that cannot possibly succeed," Varden shot back. "Acting without understanding isn't bravery, Kaelis. It's foolishness. And I'm done watching people I care about nearly die because we rushed headlong into situations we didn't comprehend."

  "People are dying right now," Bram said quietly.

  Everyone turned to look at him. He'd been silent through the entire argument, sitting in the corner with his medical bag open across his knees, organizing and reorganizing supplies with hands that hadn't stopped shaking since they'd watched that village sink. Bandages, herbs, sutures, poultices—all neatly arranged, then rearranged, then arranged again in different configurations. A coping mechanism. Something to do with his hands while the world fell apart around him.

  "That village," he continued, still not looking up from his supplies. His voice was quiet but it carried in the sudden silence. "The one that sank while we stood here and watched, too far away to help. How many people do you think escaped? How many got inland before the ground started undulating? How many are still trapped under corrupted earth right now, drowning in water that shouldn't exist, suffocating in soil that forgot how to be solid? How many children? How many families who'd lived there for generations, whose ancestors built those homes stone by stone?"

  His voice cracked on the last word.

  "We couldn't have helped them," Varden said, not unkindly. His tone was gentle, understanding, but also firm—the voice of someone who'd learned to accept limitations through hard experience. "We were three miles away. By the time we'd have arrived, the village was already gone. We would have accomplished nothing except putting ourselves in danger from the same Wells distortion."

  "I know." Bram's hands stilled on his supplies, fingers white-knuckled on a roll of bandages. "I know we couldn't have saved them. I understand that intellectually. I understand that we were too far, too late, too few. But there are going to be more. More villages sinking. More towns disintegrating. More people trapped between a breaking Seal and a Tiressian blockade that cares more about jurisdiction and control than actually rescuing anyone. And we're sitting here arguing about legal process and research methodology and proper procedure when we should be running."

  The word hung in the air like a confession. Like an admission of weakness.

  Like truth.

  "Running," Calven repeated. His voice was soft, dangerous, like the moment before thunder breaks and lightning splits the sky. "You want to run."

  He'd been silent through most of the argument, sitting against the far wall with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed, breathing slow and measured like he was meditating or praying or trying to hold something dangerous inside himself through sheer force of will. But now his eyes opened, and they had that faint white tinge around the irises that meant the proto-Varkuun was close to the surface, prowling just beneath his skin.

  "I want to survive," Bram said, and there was desperation in his voice now. He was nineteen years old, a field medic trained to save lives not throw them away, and he'd watched more people die in the past week than most people saw in a lifetime. His voice was steady but his hands weren't, trembling as he clutched that roll of bandages like it was the only solid thing in a world that had gone liquid and unstable. "I want us to live long enough to actually make a difference instead of throwing ourselves into situations we can't control, against forces we can't possibly fight, with consequences we can't predict or prevent. Is that so wrong? Is wanting to survive suddenly a character flaw? Is self-preservation now something to be ashamed of?"

  "Yes." Calven stood up slowly, and the proto-Varkuun shadow around him flickered like fire in wind—visible for those who knew how to look for it, nearly solid now, almost physical enough to touch. The temperature in the barn seemed to drop. "Yes, it is wrong. Because people are dying and you want to run. Villages are sinking beneath corrupted earth and you want to run. Children are drowning in water that shouldn't exist and you want to run. The world is breaking apart at the seams and all you can think about is saving your own skin."

  "That's not what I meant—" Bram started, but Calven cut him off.

  "Isn't it?" Calven took a step forward. Everyone tensed. Brayden's hand went to his sword. Kaelis shifted her weight, ready to move. "Because it sounds exactly like cowardice to me. Sounds like someone finding an elegant excuse to abandon people who need help."

  "Calven, stop," Tyrian said, moving to intervene, but Calven's eyes flashed white and Tyrian froze.

  "No. I'm done being gentle. Done pretending this is okay." Calven's voice was rising now, vibrating with something that wasn't entirely human anymore. "We knew what we signed up for when we took this job. We knew there would be danger. We knew some of us might die. We knew the odds were stacked against us and the stakes were impossibly high. But we chose to do this anyway because it was right. Because someone had to stand between the world and the breaking. Because if we don't, who will? And now, now when it gets truly hard, when the danger becomes real instead of theoretical, when death stops being an abstract possibility and becomes a tangible certainty—now he wants to abandon it all?"

  "That's not fair," Brayden said, stepping physically between Calven and Bram. His hand was on his sword hilt now, not threatening but ready. "He's saying we should survive long enough to complete the mission. Regroup, reassess, come back stronger. There's a difference between strategic retreat and cowardice."

  "Is there?" Calven laughed, and the sound had an edge to it that made Tyrian's echo-sensitivity spike with warning. "Because it looks exactly the same from where I'm standing. It looks like cowardice dressed up as pragmatism. It looks like everyone in this room finding elegant, intellectual, philosophically defensible reasons to give up when the real reason is that they're scared."

  "Of course we're scared," Kaelis snapped. "We'd be idiots not to be scared. The Seal is breaking, an empire is occupying our homeland, people are dying, and we have no idea how to fix any of it. Fear is the rational response."

  "And your solution to fear?" Calven demanded. "What, storm the blockade? Attack Tiressian soldiers with swords and wind magic? Get killed in some glorious last stand that accomplishes absolutely nothing except making us feel brave for thirty seconds before we die?"

  "At least it's something." Calven's voice dropped back down, but somehow that was worse—quiet and cold and utterly certain. "At least I'm willing to act instead of debating while people drown. At least I'm willing to risk everything instead of hiding behind legal theory or academic caution or survival instinct while the world burns."

  "Behind that thing growing inside you, you mean?" Varden stood, and despite being shorter than Calven by nearly a foot, despite having gray in his beard and decades of experience telling him this was dangerous, he seemed to fill more space than he should. "The proto-Varkuun. The ancestral predator that's slowly taking over your body and mind. The thing that's making you aggressive, pushing you toward violence, clouding your judgment with instincts that aren't yours. That thing is driving this conversation, Calven. Not you. Not your reason or your wisdom or your experience as captain. That thing wants to fight, wants to attack, wants blood and action and violence because that's all it knows. And if you can't recognize that, if you can't separate your thoughts from its instincts, then you're already more gone than you realize."

  The barn went absolutely silent.

  Tyrian could hear his own heartbeat. Could hear Camerise's ragged breathing. Could hear the wind outside and the distant rumble of thunder that had nothing to do with actual weather.

  Calven stared at Varden, and for a moment Tyrian thought he might actually attack. Thought the proto-Varkuun might surge forward and this argument might end in blood.

  But then Calven's shoulders sagged.

  "You think I don't know that?" His voice dropped to a whisper, but somehow it carried more weight than all his shouting had. It was the voice of someone confessing something terrible. "You think I can't feel it every single second of every single day? Feel the thing inside me getting stronger, getting hungrier, getting harder and harder to control? Feel myself becoming something I'm not, losing pieces of who I was, watching my own thoughts get twisted and colored by instincts that don't belong to me?"

  He looked at each of them in turn, and his eyes were haunted. Desperately, soul-crushingly haunted.

  "I know exactly what's happening to me. I know I'm losing. I know that every time I use it—every time I tap into that power to save someone or survive something or accomplish something impossible—I'm feeding it. Strengthening it. Letting it sink its claws deeper into my mind and body and soul. And I know that eventually, probably soon, probably in the next few months if we're being honest, there won't be enough of Calven Whitefang left to matter. The Varkuun will win. It will consume what's left of me. And whoever I am right now, whoever is standing here talking to you, will be gone."

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  He turned away, staring at the barn wall like he could see through it to something far away.

  "But until that happens," he continued, voice breaking, "until the day comes when I wake up and there's nothing left of me to wake up, I'm going to use this curse to protect people. To fight against whatever's trying to break the world. To stand between civilians and Wells corruption and death. Because if I'm going to lose myself anyway, if this transformation is inevitable and there's nothing I can do to stop it or slow it or change the outcome, then at least let it be for something that matters. At least let me use this power for good before it uses me up completely."

  Camerise made a small, broken sound—half sob, half gasp. She'd seen it. Seen his death in her Dreamfall vision. Seen him dying alone under a wolf-star while the proto-Varkuun consumed what was left of his humanity.

  "Calven," Tyrian said gently, stepping forward, wanting desperately to comfort him somehow. "You're not losing. You're still here. Still you. Still the man who leads us—"

  "Stop." The word came out flat, dead, empty of hope. "Please stop trying to make me feel better about something that doesn't have a happy ending. I don't need comfort right now. I don't need reassurance or encouragement or optimistic platitudes about how we'll find a way to fix this. What I need is to know that when I'm gone, when the Varkuun finally wins and erases what's left of Calven Whitefang from existence, it will have mattered. That I used this power for something good before it used me up. That I protected people. That I saved lives. That I stood for something worth standing for."

  "It matters," Tyrian said, and his voice was thick with emotion he couldn't quite name. "You matter. Everything you've done matters. And we're not giving up on you. We're going to find a way—"

  "You might not have a choice."

  The words hung in the air like a death sentence.

  Like prophecy.

  Like truth that couldn't be argued with or reasoned away or made better through hope and determination.

  And suddenly the argument about what to do next seemed very, very small.

  "Stop."

  Tyrian's voice cut through everything. Not loud—he didn't shout or raise his voice or try to overpower the argument with volume. But it was absolute. It was the voice of someone who had made a decision and would not be moved from it.

  Everyone turned to look at him.

  He stood there, this nineteen-year-old noble who'd dropped out of academy and run away from his family's expectations, and for the first time since joining the White Fang he looked like he belonged in command. Not because he was the strongest or the smartest or the most experienced. But because he was the only one willing to step into the void left by everyone else's fear and exhaustion and trauma.

  "All of you," he continued, and his voice was steady even though his hands were shaking. "Stop tearing each other apart. Stop finding reasons why every solution won't work. Stop using fear as an excuse to attack the people standing beside you."

  "Tyrian—" Brayden started, but Tyrian held up a hand.

  "No. Let me finish." He looked at each of them in turn. "This isn't helping. None of this is helping. We're supposed to be a team. A family. The White Fang doesn't abandon its own, and we don't turn on each other when things get hard. But that's exactly what we're doing right now. We're scared and exhausted and traumatized, and we've all hit our individual breaking points, and instead of supporting each other we're looking for someone to blame."

  "I'm not blaming anyone," Calven said, but his voice lacked conviction.

  "You are." Tyrian met his eyes directly, and he didn't look away. "You're angry at the world for putting you in an impossible situation. Angry at the proto-Varkuun for consuming you. Angry at yourself for not being able to fix what's breaking. And you're taking all that anger and aiming it at Bram because he's the easiest target. Because he's young and scared and doesn't hide it well."

  Calven looked away.

  "But Bram isn't a coward," Tyrian continued. "Varden isn't hiding from reality. Brayden isn't weak. Kaelis isn't reckless. And you're not a monster, no matter how much the proto-Varkuun makes you feel like one. We're all just trying to survive long enough to solve this. Trying to find a path forward when every option seems impossible."

  He straightened, projecting confidence he didn't entirely feel. His father had taught him this—how to stand like you know what you're doing even when you're terrified. How to speak like your decisions are final even when you're improvising desperately.

  "So here's what we're going to do."

  His voice left no room for argument.

  "We do not abandon the Seal. That's not negotiable. That was never negotiable. We came here to stop Wells corruption from spreading across Avaria, and that mission doesn't change just because an empire showed up with a treaty and warships. The work is still the work. The stakes are still the stakes. We don't walk away."

  Calven nodded slowly, and some of the tension drained from his shoulders.

  "But we also don't throw ourselves at a navy blockade in some dramatic last stand. That's not bravery—that's waste. We're too valuable to lose in pointless confrontations that accomplish nothing except making us feel heroic for thirty seconds before we die. Our deaths have to mean something if they happen. They have to actually advance the mission."

  Brayden nodded, and Tyrian could see relief in his eyes.

  "And we don't have time for lengthy research projects or legal challenges that take months to resolve. Camerise gave us a timeline. Weeks, maybe a month before the Seal breaks completely. We work within that constraint. We accept that we're operating with incomplete information and we do the best we can anyway."

  "So what do we do?" Kaelis asked, and for the first time in the argument her voice wasn't sharp with anger. Just curious. Waiting for direction.

  "We regroup." Tyrian started pacing, thinking aloud, the way his academy professors had taught him to process complex problems. "We gather what information we can. We find out what Tiressia is actually planning—not what we assume they're planning, but what they're actually doing. And then we counter it. Sabotage it. Stop them from breaking the Seal completely while we search for a real solution."

  "How do we gather information when we're fugitives?" Varden asked. But it was a genuine question, not a challenge.

  "We use the evacuation," Tyrian said, the plan crystallizing in his mind as he spoke. "Refugee convoys. Chaos. Thousands of people moving through checkpoints with minimal documentation. Guards overwhelmed by sheer volume. The perfect cover for people who need to disappear into the crowd."

  "We split up," Brayden said slowly, following the logic. "Move separately through different refugee groups. Different convoys. Different checkpoints."

  "Exactly. We leave our weapons behind. Our gear. Anything that marks us as the White Fang. We become refugees fleeing disaster. Scared civilians who just want to get away from the coast. Once we're through the checkpoints, once we're closer to the Seal—then we become ourselves again."

  "And do what when we reach it?" Calven asked. His voice was quiet now, the rage burned out. "When we're standing in front of the Second Seal and Tiressian soldiers are conducting experiments we don't understand?"

  Tyrian didn't have a complete answer to that. Didn't have a detailed plan or a elegant solution. But he had direction, and right now direction was enough.

  "Camerise said Tiressia will try to weaponize it. That attempt will break the Seal completely. So we stop them. Sabotage their research. Prevent their experiments. Buy time to find the real solution, whatever that turns out to be."

  It wasn't a great plan. It had massive holes and required luck and skill and favorable circumstances. But it was a plan. It gave them a path forward instead of standing here arguing about whose fear was most justified.

  "I'm in," Kaelis said immediately, wind settling around her as she found her center again.

  "As am I," Varden rumbled. "It's not perfect, but it's workable. Better than anything else we've discussed."

  "You know I am," Brayden said. "Always."

  Bram hesitated, fingers still clutching those bandages. Then he nodded. "I'm terrified. Absolutely terrified. But I'm in. I'd rather be terrified and useful than terrified and alone."

  Everyone looked at Calven.

  He was silent, the proto-Varkuun shadow flickering like guttering flame around his shoulders and hands. His fists were clenched so tight that his claws—barely visible extensions of fingernails that shouldn't be quite that sharp—drew blood from his own palms.

  "This is your first real command," he said to Tyrian after a long, weighted silence. "Your first time stepping up and actually telling us what to do instead of asking or suggesting. You realize that?"

  "I realize."

  "And if it goes wrong? If we get caught, if someone dies, if the Seal breaks anyway—that's on you. That's the weight you carry."

  "I know."

  Calven studied him. Then, slowly, the tension drained. "Good. Because leadership isn't about being right. It's about being willing to be wrong and live with the consequences. And you just proved you understand that."

  He walked toward the doorway. "I need air. Need to clear my head."

  He left without another word.

  Tyrian started to follow, but Camerise caught his arm.

  "Let him go," she whispered. "He needs space. Needs to wrestle with his instincts without an audience."

  "He's not stable. What if he transforms out there?"

  "Then Kaelis will bring him back." Camerise nodded toward where Kaelis was already slipping out, silent, following at a distance. "She's the only one he won't see coming. Fast enough to catch him if he runs. And annoying enough that he'll focus on her instead of whatever's eating at him."

  Despite everything, Tyrian smiled. "You planned that."

  "I suggested it. Kaelis volunteered before I finished." Camerise's grip tightened. "You did well. Making a decision. Taking command. That was leadership."

  "It felt like stumbling in the dark."

  "That's what leadership is," Brayden said. "Making choices with incomplete information. You'll get better. But that was a good start."

  "A good start would be having an actual plan."

  "We'll workshop it," Varden said, already pulling out maps. "We have sixty minutes. Let's use them."

  They spent the hour planning. Routes through the quarantine zone. Refugee camps to blend into. Checkpoints to avoid. Where to cache weapons. Signals for communication. Fallback positions.

  It was professional. Precise.

  But there was tension underneath. The argument hadn't ended, just been postponed.

  Bram was quiet, stung by Calven's words. Brayden kept glancing toward the door. Varden was focused but skeptical. And Camerise looked worse with each passing minute, the psychic trauma not healing.

  They were holding together through willpower alone.

  Thirty minutes before the deadline, Kaelis returned alone.

  "Where's Calven?" Tyrian asked.

  "Half a mile north. Sitting on a rock. Staring at nothing." Kaelis' energy was subdued. "I tried talking. He told me to go away. I tried joking. Nothing. I tried annoying him—usually that works—but he just sat there. Like he'd gone somewhere inside his head and locked the door."

  "Is he transforming?"

  "No. That's worse. He's too controlled. Too still. Like he's using every ounce of willpower to not move, not speak, not act. Like if he relaxes for even a second, something terrible will happen."

  "We need to bring him back."

  "I don't think he's coming." Kaelis said quietly. "Not tonight. Maybe not ever. Something broke when we had to retreat. When he realized being strong and brave isn't enough to fix what's breaking."

  "He's the captain," Bram said.

  "The White Fang doesn't exist right now," Varden interrupted. "We're just seven people trying not to get arrested. Calven doesn't need to be captain for that."

  The words were harsh. True, but harsh.

  "I'll go," Tyrian said.

  "No." Camerise's voice was weak but firm. "He doesn't need you right now. He needs time. Needs to work through what's happening without someone watching. Dragging him back against his will—that's how you lose him permanently."

  Tyrian wanted to argue. But looking at her expression, he knew she was right.

  Sometimes the only way to help was to let them go.

  Twenty minutes before the deadline, they gathered their things.

  Not much. Basic supplies. Hidden weapons that could pass as tools. Enough to survive, not enough to mark them as mercenaries.

  The White Fang's gear they cached in a hidden location, buried and marked with subtle signs only they would recognize.

  It felt like giving up. Like admitting defeat. But it was necessary.

  "The plan," Tyrian said. "We split into pairs. Move separately through different refugee convoys. Meet at the old lighthouse three miles south of where the Seal ruptured. Forty-eight hours from now."

  "Timeline?" Brayden asked.

  "If someone doesn't show..." Tyrian didn't finish.

  "Pairs," Varden said. "I'll go with Bram. He needs someone who speaks formal Tiressian."

  "I'll pair with Brayden," Kaelis said. "Military bearing plus wind magic makes good cover."

  That left Tyrian and Camerise.

  "I can barely walk," Camerise said. "Maybe I should stay—"

  "No." Tyrian's voice left no room for argument. "We stay together. You're too valuable. And if Dreamfall starts bleeding again, I need to be there."

  She nodded.

  "What about Calven?" Bram asked quietly.

  Silence.

  "He knows the plan," Tyrian said finally. "He knows where we're going. He'll either meet us there or..."

  Or he won't.

  "We move in ten minutes. Say your goodbyes. Check your gear. And remember—for the next two days, we are not the White Fang. We are refugees. Act scared. Act lost. Act like people who have no plan except survival."

  "Won't be hard," Bram muttered. "That's exactly what we are."

  They dispersed, and Tyrian found himself alone, looking north toward where Calven sat in darkness.

  He wanted to go to him. Wanted to help, to fix whatever was breaking.

  But Camerise was right. Sometimes helping meant leaving someone alone.

  "Tyrian." Varden approached. "That plan you outlined. Good tactical thinking. But you didn't address the core problem."

  "Which is?"

  "What we do when we reach the Seal. How we stop Tiressia. How we stabilize something we barely understand." Varden's voice was low. "You bought us time and direction. But you don't actually have a solution, do you?"

  Tyrian met his eyes. "No. I don't."

  "Then why—"

  "Because standing still wasn't working. Because everyone needed to feel like we were moving forward, even if the path isn't clear." Tyrian's hands clenched. "Because sometimes leadership is making people believe there's hope even when you're not sure there is."

  Varden studied him. Then, slowly, he smiled. "You're going to make a good lord someday, Blackwood. Better than your father. Because you understand leadership isn't about having answers. It's about making people trust that answers can be found."

  He walked away, leaving Tyrian alone with his doubts.

  Five minutes before the deadline, they began leaving in pairs. Varden and Bram first. Then Kaelis and Brayden.

  Tyrian and Camerise would leave last, heading east along a merchant road.

  Three different routes. Three different cover stories. Three chances to get through before patrols started arresting people.

  "Ready?" Tyrian asked Camerise.

  She nodded, leaning on him heavily.

  They were halfway to the doorway when Tyrian felt it.

  A Wells ripple. Subtle but distinct. Coming from the north. From where Calven had been sitting.

  His echo-sensitivity focused automatically, trying to parse the pattern.

  And then he realized.

  The ripple wasn't from the Seal. It was coming from Calven himself.

  Proto-Varkuun resonance, spiking hard. Not transformation—not yet. But close.

  Something had happened. Something had pushed him to the edge.

  "Calven," Tyrian whispered.

  The word hung in the air like a prayer.

  Or a curse.

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  Calven just confessed he's losing himself to the proto-Varkuun. Every use feeds it. Every transformation brings him closer to the end. And he's choosing to burn himself out protecting people rather than running from what's inevitable.

  Now he's walked into the wilderness alone. And Tyrian can feel the proto-Varkuun resonance spiking.

  Next: "Wolf in the Wilds" - What happened to Calven in the darkness.

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