Chapter 143
**ALARIC**
They move like moths around a candle—frenetic, earnest, convinced that motion equals safety. From the ridge above their valley, I watch the community’s rhythm unfold: patrols circling in predictable loops, lights shifting from window to window, conversations carrying faintly on the wind. They think this is vigilance. But vigilance without imagination is nothing more than ritual.
Predictability is its own form of beauty. So is faith when it’s blind. And these people—Adam, Austin, the girl, their allies—have placed their faith in walls and bonds, in each other, as though loyalty were armor. I find it almost comforting. It makes them simple to outthink.
The news of the twins reached me as wind carries the scent of blood to a predator. Slow at first, then undeniable. Two small hearts beating in defiance of natural law. Two names whispered with pride as though names could protect them. I remember smiling then, not with cruelty, but with the sharpened curiosity that comes only when inevitability reveals itself. Nature has stumbled. That has always been the most interesting problem.
Lucien comes to me in the late hours, as he always does, bringing silence before words. He is older than most of my confidants, scarred by battles long forgotten by the werewolves who now strut like kings. He does not speak until the fire is burning right and the map is unrolled between us.
“They named them Matteo and Leon,” he says at last. His voice rolls the syllables as though he is tasting something foreign.
“Names matter less than patterns,” I reply, tracing a finger across the edge of the valley drawn on the parchment. “But stories cling to names. And stories are how empires rise—or fall.”
Lucien studies me. “You find this amusing.”
“Not amusing. Inevitable. You see, children are hope incarnate. Hope blinds even the sharpest warriors. They will fight less rationally now. Desperation makes men sloppy.”
He spreads the map wider, marking patrol routes, ward placements, weaknesses in the weave of their defenses. “Adam plans carefully. He is no fool.”
“Good,” I murmur. “Let him plan. Planning creates patterns. Patterns can be read. And patterns can be broken.”
“And the bait?” he presses.
“A visible weakness. A patrol delayed, a ward flickering, a message left where it should not be. They will think it fortune. Fortune is the sweetest of lies.”
Lucien tilts his head. “And the trap?”
“The trap,” I say softly, “is belief. When they convince themselves they’ve outsmarted me, when they step eagerly into the opening they think is theirs—that is when the jaws close.”
We sit in silence for a moment, the fire crackling. I can see him weighing my words, always searching for the sliver of doubt that might betray hesitation. He will not find it.
“They will expect force,” I continue. “So we will give them choice instead. The illusion of parley. A promise of surrender—perhaps even from me. That will intoxicate them more than blood.”
“And if they refuse?”
“Then extraction. The mother will come willingly, if only for her children. She will think it self-sacrifice. It is, in truth, surrender.”
Lucien frowns slightly. “Why would she believe you?”
“Because I will make it seem simpler than death. Mothers measure everything against the lives of their children. She will take any risk if I convince her it spares them.”
I do not tell him the truth—the part that even I have trouble shaping into words. Aria intrigues me. She is luminous where others are dim, reckless where others are cautious, and somehow she has already bent the loyalties of men who should know better. Adam. Austin. Even Alex, poor fool, who mistook his fascination for friendship. That is why I never trusted him. Fondness is a flaw. His death was not punishment; it was inevitability.
“She is dangerous,” I say instead. “Unpredictable. That is why she must be contained.”
Lucien nods. He does not question further. He has learned that my fascinations are never random.
“Send the scouts,” I order. “Quiet hands, whispers of a meeting. Let rumors flutter where they can be overheard. Meanwhile, prepare our contingent. If she walks into my hands, we keep her and the children. Not for mercy—because they are the key.”
He inclines his head and withdraws, leaving me with the fire and the map.
When he is gone, I pace the parapets alone. The stars above burn like watchful eyes, but they reveal nothing. I imagine her, though: the girl cradling her sons, humming songs to soothe them. Fragile, fleeting, unbearably human. She thinks me a monster. Perhaps she is right. But monsters keep promises, too. The most dangerous bargains always taste of mercy.
They believe themselves several steps ahead of me. They believe they are clever. That is the sweetest lie of all. I will let them plan their perfect little trap. I will even applaud the craftsmanship. And when the curtain falls, they will discover the stage was mine all along.
And if—for one heartbeat—Aria surprises me? Then I will allow it. I will savor it.
Then I will continue
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