Page 94 of Full Moon
Chapter 41
Easton
The desire tolevel the shifter council and the magic school burns within me like an inferno begging to be released—a relentless urge to leave nothing but ash and rubble in my wake, to watch centuries of corruption crumble to cinders at my feet.
The phoenix inside me fights for control, its fiery spirit raging hotter than it has in decades. It wants to torch the world, to seek retribution for every horror inflicted upon our mate, every year of isolation and abuse and lies she was forced to endure. The flames lick at the edges of my consciousness, demanding release, and I can barely restrain the creature that shares my soul.
A large hand lands on my shoulder, grounding me in the present with the weight of an anchor. Torben's presence is solid and reassuring beside me, his honey-amber gaze reflecting the golden hue of his Kodiak as his own beast rises in response to my barely contained fury.
"We all want to wage war on Feray's behalf," he says, his voice calm yet carrying an intensity that surprises me. "But we need to be smart about this. We could destroy all of society if we're not careful—bring the entire supernatural world crashing downaround innocent people who had nothing to do with what was done to her." His words catch me off guard. It's unusual for a berserker breed to show such concern for the repercussions of their rage—they're known for destruction, not restraint. But Torben has always been more than his nature, more than the beast that lurks beneath his gentle exterior.
"He's right," Diaval chimes in from across the room, cradling a trembling Feray in his arms like she's made of spun glass. The sight of her—so shaken and fragile when she's normally a force of nature—ignites a fresh wave of protective fury within me that makes my fingers spark with heat. "We must plan the strikes with efficiency," Diaval continues, his dragon's eyes flickering beneath his human gaze. "Precision, not chaos. We hit the right targets, remove the rot at its source, and leave the foundation intact for rebuilding."
Feray pulls away from Diaval's embrace and steps out onto the balcony, her shoulders tight with tension that hasn't eased since her revelation. I watch her as she leans over the stone railing, her mind clearly miles away—perhaps decades away, trapped in memories of a childhood that makes more terrible sense now than it ever did before. The sight of her, lost in thought and burdened by what she has endured, fuels my fury until it takes every ounce of my nine hundred years of self-control to keep from exploding.
"The fact they tortured her to this point," I say, my voice thick with barely contained rage, "makes me want to raze them from existence. Every council member who knew. Every mage who drew her blood. Every witch who whispered cruelties in her ear while knowing exactly what she was and what they were doing to her."
Every fiber of my being burns with desire for vengeance, yet beneath it all lies a deep sorrow for what was done to the woman I love—for the childhood she should have had, for the parents she should have known, for the identity she should have claimed from her first breath.
I glance back at Feray, hoping she can find some solace in the clear sky stretching endlessly above the mountains, and I steel myself for the battles that lie ahead. I must be the calm in the storm. Even when every instinct screams at me to burn it all down.
"Diaval?" Feray's voice sounds so fragile as she steps back into the room, like delicate crystal about to shatter at the slightest pressure. Her eyes search the space until they land on him, carrying a vulnerability that makes my chest tighten with the desperate need to protect her.
"Yes, my eternal?" Diaval responds with a tenderness that surprises me even now, months into witnessing their bond. He moves swiftly to her side and takes both of her hands in his, his ancient eyes reflecting a depth of emotion that I didn't know he was capable of expressing. It's amazing, seeing this emotionally available version of Diaval. The cold, calculating dragon who terrorized kingdoms for sport has peeled away layers of himself to reveal a heart full of devotion that would move mountains for the woman before him.
"I know it's cold up here, but can we go for a flight?" Her brows furrow slightly, a worried look crossing her face as if she's afraid she's asking too much of him—as if anything could ever be too much when it comes to her. "There are sheep to the north you can feed on."
"Of course, my love." His voice is steady and reassuring as he presses a gentle kiss to her temple, erasing her concerns with that simple gesture of affection. He leads her out of the room, their hands still entwined, ready to take to the skies where the wind can wash away some of the pain clinging to her soul. Watching them go, I feel a pang of something that might be envy and something that is definitely admiration—for their connection, for the bond that seems unbreakable despite every challenge the world throws at them. Then I turn my attention back to the work that must be done.
"See what your people can dig up on the mage council," I instruct Khal, watching as he nods without hesitation, his thumbs already flying over his phone with swift efficiency. His expression is focused and determined, the playful basilisk replaced by the ruthless information broker who has built an empire on secrets.
"What do you need me to do?" Torben asks, crossing his massive arms over his chest, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that says he's ready to move mountains if that's what our mate requires.
"How many sleuths are in Briarvale or the surrounding villages?" I tilt my head, studying him, trying to calculate the resources we might be able to call upon.
He strokes his beard thoughtfully, pacing the length of the library with heavy footfalls that make the floorboards creak. I can almost hear the gears turning in his head when he suddenly stops, one hand still buried in his beard. "At least twelve large sleuths, five more smaller ones, and at least six or seven bachelor groups." He leans against the table, watching me curiously. "Why? What are you thinking?"
"If I know our mate—and I do—she may summon the might of her mates' species when the time comes for war." I glance back at the ancient tomes scattered across the table, their yellowed pages whispering secrets about the mages and their abominations. "I'm concerned about Khal's and Diaval's people, to be honest. Between Myra and that uncle of Khal's who nearly killed Feray with his 'test,' they could stand with us or against us." The thought of what we might face if the basilisks or dragons side with the councils sends a shiver down my spine despite the fire that burns eternally in my veins.
"How many wolves does Feray have control of?" Torben's voice snaps me out of my calculations, pulling me back to the immediate concerns.
"Close to a thousand across both packs. Out of those, probably about six to seven hundred able to fight from up here—the rest are too young, too old, or needed to protect the vulnerable." I meet Torben's gaze, sensing his concern mirroring my own. "I don't know how deep her connection to all the packs truly runs. She won't talk about it—I think it overwhelms her sometimes, feeling that many lives pulsing through the bond."
The weight of our responsibility presses heavily on my shoulders as I look out the windows behind him, watching the distant shapes of Diaval's dragon and Feray's wolf silhouette against the sunset. His roar echoes through the air, shaking snow from nearby rooftops—a reminder of the power we must harness to face the battles ahead. A reminder that we are not alone.
I watchas the sun sets, casting a warm glow over the library that turns the ancient books to gold, when the door opens and Feray and Diaval return. She looks more relaxed than when she left, her usual tension softened around the edges, her shoulders no longer drawn up around her ears like armor. There's a flush to her cheeks that wasn't there before, and her hair is windswept in a way that speaks of hours spent soaring through the sky.
That sneaky bastard,I think to myself, a chuckle escaping my lips despite my attempts to contain it. I know all too well what tricks Diaval is capable of when it comes to distracting our mate from her troubles—tricks I might have used myself if I'd thought of them first.
Feray surprises me by crossing the room and snuggling in close against my side, her warmth seeping into me like sunshine. She sighs deeply, her breath a soft whisper against my skin, and I feel something in my chest unknot that I didn't realize had been tied so tight.
"I'm okay," she murmurs, her voice carrying a gentle reassurance that I needed more than I want to admit. "No need to burn it all down. Yet." She kisses my cheek and squeezes me tightly, her presence grounding me in the moment in a way nothing else can.
"It's always an option?" I tease, pressing a kiss to her temple and breathing in the familiar scent of her hair—winter roses and something wild, now mingled with the crisp mountain air and the lingering warmth of dragonfire.
She pulls back slightly, her ice-blue eyes meeting mine with a fierce determination that makes my heart race. "I know," she says, "but I'd rather paint the town vermillion so that others learn their crap will not be tolerated." There's a growl in her voice, low and dangerous, and I feel her skin turning ice-cold beneath my touch—so cold it almost burns, like pressing my palm to a frozen lake. My phoenix stirs within me, taking notice of the change in our mate with keen interest. Fire and ice. A lethal combination indeed.
"How long has your skin turned cold when you focus on your wolf?" I ask, kissing her temple again as I study the frost that seems to form beneath her skin. My voice is low, filled with curiosity and wonder at this woman who continues to reveal new facets of her power.
