Page 105 of Nikolay

“Ironwood is wealthy,” I said. “Politically careful. Sage Lynch does nothing without strategy. If he is asking ancient covens for something obscure, it is not because he wishes to renovate a ballroom or improve his library.”

“That much was evident,” Father murmured.

Then he rose.

There were moments when my father’s age became visible not in weakness but in gravity. The room itself seemed to alter around him, the old books and carved wood and dim gray light arranging themselves into something sterner. His eyes darkened from their usual pale blue toward the color of deep winter ice over black water.

“If the oldest covens are involved,” he said, each word clipped clean, “it cannot mean anything good.”

Devon withdrew her hand from my arm and moved instinctively to his side. He set one hand over hers without looking away from me.

“Sage Lynch is in the market for something,” Father tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “And men like him do not search old vaults and older women unless they believe the prize will justify the stain of acquiring it.”

The bond gave another sick pull through me, enough to blur the edge of my vision for half a beat. I saw Father note it. Saw Devon’s mouth tighten.

“We need to know what.”

Father inclined his head once.

“Yes,” his look was serious. “We do.”

The knock came so quickly on the heels of Father’s words that it felt less like an interruption than confirmation, as if the house itself had heard what we feared and sent an answer up the corridor before any of us had finished breathing.

Amelia entered without waiting to be called twice, which was warning enough by itself.

She looked pale beneath her freckles, all her usual restless energy drawn tight into hard purpose. Her copper hair had been pulled back so severely it sharpened the fine bones of her face, and she held a leather folio against her chest with both hands as though what lay inside might try to bite if not properly restrained.

“I’m sorry to barge in.” She did not sound sorry in the least. Her green eyes cut to me once, then to my father. “But this could not wait.”

Father made a single motion with his hand. Proceed.

Amelia crossed to the desk and did exactly that.

“My sources confirmed what Ironwood has been shopping for,” she said. “Sage Lynch has been seeking an ancient ritual capable of breaking an existing mate bond and forcing a new one in its place.”

The room fell still.

Not quiet. Still. As if sound itself had recoiled.

I did not feel myself straighten. I only knew that one moment I had been bent over the desk and the next I stood at my full height with my hand curled into the wood hard enough to leave marks in it.

Father’s face did not alter. That was always the most terrifying thing about him. The world could be ending, and his expression would suggest only that he had begun to make a list.

“Does such a ritual exist?” he asked.

Amelia set the folio on the desk, opened it, and withdrew several photocopies so aged in appearance that even reproduced on modern paper they seemed brittle. The images showed cramped archaic script in dark slanting lines, lunar diagrams ringed with symbols, circles within circles annotated in a hand old enough to predate every nation currently standing on the map.

“I would have said no yesterday,” Amelia replied. “Or rather, I would have said not in any form anyone sane would attempt. But yes. It existed. It was outlawed centuries ago, buried under wolf religious language and coven euphemisms, and most modern packs treat it as apocrypha.”

She spread the pages across the desk between us. One diagram showed a central figure in a ritual circle, lines extending outward like snapped spokes toward two opposing sigils. Another marked phases of the moon in sequence, with one darkened entirely.

“The Rite of the Severed Path,” she said.

Even the name made my skin crawl.

Amelia braced two fingers on one page and began translating from the old script with the crisp efficiency of someone who knew panic helped no one.

“Ancient wolf lore held that the Goddess marked every wolf with a spiritual trail leading to their intended mate. Most of the texts around it are devotional nonsense, poetry dressed as doctrine. But buried in that doctrine are references to wolves whose path had been ‘corrupted’ by outside magic.” Her mouth flattened. “Vampire influence is specifically listed in several versions. So are witchcraft, demonic taint, and blood oath interference.”