Calder hangs in his grip, weight slack, head lolling with each step as Scar hauls him forward. The fox shifter prospect’s eyes are dull, half-lidded, and unfocused, pain dragging him somewhere far away. Blood seeps through his leather cut in slow, steady pulses, soaking deep enough to stain Scar’s arm. A faint shimmer of fox-fire clings to Calder’s knuckles, a weak blue flicker that struggles to hold before fading entirely.
My jaw tightens as I take it in.
“Iron bullets,” Scar growls, dragging Calder across the threshold and into the light. “Hunter scum tagged him near the western perimeter. They didn’t even try to be subtle. They’re pushing, Prez. Testing how far they can go.”
I let out a low growl, which rumbles through the clubhouse and bounces off the walls.
Iron.
The word settles in my chest like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. Iron doesn’t just wound, it eats through magic, strips flesh and power down to nothing, leaving rot and ruin behind if it isn’t dealt with fast.
Whoever fired those rounds knewexactlywhat they were doing, and they knew whose land they were standing on when they pulled the damn trigger.
My feet move fast, long strides carrying me into the main club room as Scar drags Calder farther inside. The space shifts around us in moments, the calm it held an hour ago stripped away and replaced by purpose and tension. My men gatherwithout instruction, drawn in by instinct and allegiance, eyes sharp, bodies strung tight, waiting to see how this plays out.
Scar lowers Calder onto the long oak table with a care that belies his reputation, hands steady despite the violence he’s barely holding back. One of our club girls, Ivy, drops to her knees beside them, her bark-textured hands shifting as she reaches for her tree-nymph power, skin caught between wood and flesh as green light blooms from her palms.
The air changes with it. The sharp bite of winter gives way to the scent of growth and sap, fresh and alive, as if spring is pushing up through frozen ground. Ivy’s magic presses into Calder’s wounds, life answering damage, even as iron resists.
“I need him still,” she murmurs, her voice distant, layered with the deep resonance of ancient forests. Her autumn-colored hair spills forward, shielding her face as she works. “The iron is fighting me. It’s trying to bury itself deeper.”
Of course it fucking is.
Iron always takes what it can.
“Then burn it out,” another club girl, Ash’s voice cuts in from behind me, sharp with impatience. I glance back to find the phoenix pacing the length of the room, unable to stay contained, flame bleeding from her, whether she wills it or not. Fire ripples across her shoulders, licking along the edges of her leather vest before dissolving into smoke, her ember-bright eyes fixed on the table. “I can—”
“You’ll kill him.” Ivy doesn’t lift her gaze when she snaps the words, power flaring as her hands hover closer to Calder’s body. “Fire and iron together will tear him apart. I have to draw it out slow. Convince the metal it doesn’t belong here.”
Silence settles over the room.
Every pair of eyes shifts to me.
This ismyclub.
Myterritory.
And someone has decided to bleed on it.
Our last club girl, Luna, appears at Calder’s other side, moving with that fluid grace only selkies possess. Her sealskin coat, the pelt she guards more fiercely than her own life, whispers against the floor as she kneels. She takes Calder’s hand in both of hers, her large, dark eyes shimmering with unshed tears as she begins to sing. The melody is wordless, haunting, pulling at something deep in my chest even through the numbness. Calder’s ragged breathing evens out slightly, some of the tension bleeding from his frame.
“Good girl,” Ivy breathes out, shooting Luna a grateful glance before returning her attention to the wounds. “Keep him calm. I’m almost through to the first bullet.”
I force myself to look away from the way Calder’s fox-fire keeps trying and failing to manifest, from the stark reminder that we are not as untouchable as we pretend to be. My gaze finds the crystal dome in the center of the club room instead.
The flame inside pulses, a weak, pathetic flutter of red and gold that barely illuminates the crystal prison containing it.
My flame.
Or what’s left of it.
Once, centuries ago, it burned bright enough to turn night into day, hot enough to melt stone. Now it barely manages to stay lit, slowly dying just like the dragon who created it.
‘Contentment,’the witch said when she cursed me. When the flame dies completely, so do I unless I find true contentment first.
I tear my eyes away before the emptiness swallows me whole.
“Report.” The word leaves my mouth in a harsh bellow, and the air answers it.