Mabel still filed and every fee was paid before they even left the council building. She darted between lines, filled out forms, acquired permits, and secured the necessary licenses with the speed and precision of a bureaucratic genius. At one point, she had three different clerks working at once.

  Pixie skittered after her, claws clicking on the stone. “Why are we still here? Ethan’s gone! What’s the point of all this paper junk?”

  Buster’s ears flicked, his growl low. “She’s covering him. If every fee is paid, every law checked, then they’ve got nothing to hold him on. No fines, no charges, no leash to yank.”

  Moose wasn’t listening. He paced like a caged beast, claws scraping ruts into the stone floor. His sides heaved, breath harsh, eyes fixed on the doors Ethan had been dragged through. His thoughts bled ragged through the bond, more howl than words. “He’s gone. He’s gone. We can’t let him be gone. He needs us. I need him.” His panic crashed into the others like a wave until even Amelia whimpered in response, pressing tighter against Lyra’s boots. Lyra crouched, stroking her fur, murmuring soft words as Amelia trembled against her.

  Pixie was worse. She ricocheted off walls, tail lashing, nails clicking, her thoughts sharp and wild.

  WE SHOULD BREAK HIM OUT! I CAN CHEW THE LOCKS! BITE THEIR ANKLES! I’LL BURN THIS WHOLE PLACE DOWN IF I HAVE TO!

  Her chaos flooded the bond, jagged and relentless. Buster flinched at the sheer force of it, then hunched in bitter silence.

  Aldric’s rumble cut through, steady as stone. “Buster’s right. Mabel’s making sure Ethan’s clean on paper. Once he is, they’ll have no hold to keep him.”

  Lyra hadn’t spoken beyond calming Amelia. She had a premonition, sharp and cold in her chest. If she did nothing, Ethan would be gone forever—and the Pack would follow him, bloodied and in chains. The futures opened before her like a line of falling dominoes, each one crashing toward disaster.

  She stood rigid, eyes faintly glowing with a foxfire sheen as she reached for the power that defined her class. She was Fortune’s Hand, chosen of luck itself, and she pulled hard at the weave of probability. Threads of possible outcomes tangled around her, slipping through her grasp like water. She forced them into place, tugging until they held.

  That was when the guards moved in. “Out,” one barked, not bothering to hide his contempt. Two more stepped forward, corralling the Pack toward the doors.

  Moose braced, teeth bared, panic boiling over—but in the futures Lyra saw, his lunge ended with a blade in his side. She yanked at the threads, and a guard behind him stumbled as his boot caught on a loose stone. The spear haft meant for Moose’s ribs clattered wide.

  Pixie darted at a guard’s leg, ready to snap. In one thread she sank her teeth into armor and was beaten bloody for it. Lyra’s hand shot out, catching Pixie’s scruff an instant before Gwenna’s grip failed. The terrier thrashed, but the thread of disaster snapped away.

  Buster’s growl rose, heavy with the promise of violence. In the visions, he leapt and was pinned under shields. Lyra tore at the weave, words spilling sharp through the bond at the exact moment his muscles bunched. “He’ll need you when he’s back. You know he will.” The only words that would stop him landed true, and his weight sagged.

  Another guard shoved forward, spear rising high, but his grip slipped as the leather strap on his gauntlet snapped—frayed just enough to unravel under strain. The weapon wobbled uselessly. He cursed, distracted, buying the Pack another breath.

  Amelia whimpered, legs kicking as though she might bolt straight into a wall of shields. Lyra scooped her up before the cub could move, tucking her against her chest and shielding her from the press of boots and armor.

  Every breath was a fight, every tug at the threads another domino pulled out of the line before it could fall. Lyra’s vision swam with possibilities crashing and collapsing, and she forced them into a single outcome: the Pack battered, shoved, humiliated—but not caged.

  The soldiers drove them out through the great doors and into the street. The heavy wood slammed shut behind them, leaving the Pack scattered, but free.

  Lyra swayed where she stood, breath ragged, vision swimming. A thin line of blood traced from her nose, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand. Every muscle trembled, her mana pool scraped nearly dry. She had bent probability until the world cracked, pulled out enough dominoes to stop the collapse—and the backlash left her hollow.

  She had kept them from chains. But it had nearly broken her to do it.

  By the time they reached the Guildhall, Aldric looked ready to snap, but he pushed them straight to his office. He shut the door and pulled the curtains, cutting off the city outside. The Pack sprawled across rugs and benches in tense silence, still buzzing with panic and fury. Mabel finally joined them, arms full of signed scrolls and ledgers, her face grim. She set the papers on Aldric’s desk with a sharp thump, but even she didn’t try to talk yet. Gwenna leaned against the door, arms folded, eyes fixed on the Pack as if daring them to bolt again.

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  Lyra sank against the wall, Amelia still clutched tight, her hands trembling. The faint glow had faded from her eyes, leaving them glassy and exhausted. A smear of blood streaked across her knuckles where she’d wiped her nose.

  Mabel noticed first. She moved briskly to Aldric’s desk, yanked open the lower drawer, and pulled out a glass vial capped in bronze. “Mana potion,” she said simply, pressing it into Lyra’s hand.

  Lyra hesitated. “I pushed too hard.”

  “You think?” Buster muttered, but the edge in his voice was more worry than sarcasm.

  “Drink,” Mabel insisted, softer this time. “Carefully. One sip. That’s all you need right now.”

  Aldric gave a short nod, confirming it. “There’s a reason I keep those locked up. Too much, too fast, and the backlash will drop you harder than exhaustion ever could.”

  Lyra unstoppered the vial, took the smallest pull, and grimaced as the liquid burned down her throat. Warmth spread through her core, dulling the tremors in her hands, though her limbs still ached with emptiness. She leaned her head back against the wall, eyes closing. “Better,” she whispered. “But it’s not coming easy.”

  Amelia nuzzled against her chest, finally still.

  The office settled into a heavy silence, broken only by a low, unsteady sound. It took a moment for everyone to realize it came from Moose. He lay on the rug near the door, his massive body curled tight, a faint whining rumble slipping out of his chest. The sound was raw, unguarded, the noise of a guardian who had lost the one thing he couldn’t protect.

  Pixie twitched beside him, ears flat, tail lashing with restless fury. “We can’t just sit here! We have to get him back. NOW. Before they do something worse!”

  Buster’s voice was gravel, low and bitter. “And how, exactly? Kick in the Lord’s door? Bite our way through the city guard?” He shifted, uncomfortable. “We don’t even know where they took him.”

  Lyra cradled Amelia and shook her head, still pale despite the potion. “The futures won’t settle. Every thread I reach for slips away. He’s alive, but beyond that… it’s fog.”

  Mabel folded her hands atop the stack of ledgers, her jaw tight. “That’s the problem. We don’t know where he is, and we don’t know how long we have before Merrow makes a move we can’t undo. We need information first.”

  Aldric exhaled sharply, pacing the length of the office. “The council chamber won’t tell us anything. Not with him holding the reins. We’ll have to look elsewhere.”

  Pixie bounded to her feet, claws scrabbling against the floor. “So where do we start? Tell me where, and I’ll run there right now!”

  But no one answered. The silence stretched, filled with Moose’s low, broken whine and the heavy weight of not knowing.

  Mabel finally broke the silence, her voice crisp. “There are laws. Even here. People can’t just be taken and held without charge. Not legally. Not even by Merrow.” She tapped the pile of stamped papers on Aldric’s desk. “That’s why I filed everything. Every fee, every permit, every line of law. On paper, Ethan is clean. He hasn’t broken a single statute. That gives us leverage.”

  Pixie bared her teeth. “Leverage? He’s GONE. What good is paperwork if he’s rotting in some cell?”

  “More good than you think,” Aldric rumbled. “The Guild has sway. The council may bow to Merrow’s presence, but the law binds even him. If we press the right channels, he can’t ignore us without making enemies he doesn’t want.”

  Gwenna crossed her arms. “It won’t be fast. He’s counting on anger clouding our judgment, pushing us into rash choices. If we stay measured—if we make the Guild work for him—then the city’s own system will squeeze him.”

  Moose let out another low whine, and Amelia shifted miserably in Lyra’s arms. Pixie’s claws clicked against the floor, restless energy threatening to boil over.

  “So what do we do?” Buster growled.

  Mabel’s eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “We wait for the ink to dry. Then we start pulling on threads—Guild channels, council allies, maybe even the Academy. Justice here moves slow, but it moves. And once we start it rolling, not even Lord Merrow can stop it outright.”

  The arguments circled, but in the end there was nothing more to be done that night. Aldric stayed behind in the Guildhall, already drafting the first petitions. Mabel gathered up her ledgers and promised she’d return at first light with whatever news she could pry loose.

  Gwenna took charge of the Pack, her bow slung over one shoulder and a hand resting near the quiver at her hip. Two Guild guards fell into step behind them as she walked them back through the streets toward Lantern Row.

  Moose trudged at her side, head low, a constant whine under his breath. Pixie zigzagged along the cobblestones, snapping at shadows and muttering through the bond about jailbreaks and tunnels. Buster walked stiffly, tail rigid, saying nothing. Lyra carried Amelia against her chest, the cub’s tiny body still trembling. Her own steps wavered, exhaustion pulling at her shoulders, but she kept moving.

  The guards glanced at the Pack more than once, but none of them said a word. They just kept formation, shepherding the battered group through the night streets until the familiar glow of the Silver Thorn Inn came into view.

  Mason was there at the door, his crystalline hands folded, eyes glowing faintly in the lanternlight. He hadn’t moved from his station, still standing guard over the Silverthorn family just as Ethan had ordered. The sight hit the Pack like a weight—he was waiting for his master’s return, and Ethan wasn’t with them. So he continued his watch.

  Inside, Mara and Jorrin were waiting. The questions came fast, but Gwenna gave them the short version—Ethan taken by the City Lord, the Pack shaken but free, Aldric and Mabel working through the Guild. Mara’s face tightened, Jorrin swore under his breath, but there was little else to do that night.

  The Pack barely made it upstairs before they collapsed. Moose curled near the door, Pixie fell in a tangle of fur and frustration, Buster dropped onto a rug with a groan, and Amelia pressed close against Lyra until both were asleep. Exhaustion dragged them under before the lanterns were even dimmed.

  Mason did not follow. He began a slow, steady patrol around the inn, eyes glowing softly as he scanned each shadow and doorway. Ethan’s order had been simple: guard the inn. But to Mason, the inn was more than walls and doors. It was the Silverthorn family who lived within it. It was the Pack who had fought beside him. It was everyone Ethan had chosen to protect.

  So Mason expanded the command. Guard the inn. Guard the family. Guard the Pack.

  His vigil was for all of them now.