Page 7 of Roaring Spell

I stop walking.

They stop too, looking up at me with earnest expectation. Like I have secret wisdom hidden behind my stoic exterior. Like being old—thirty-two feels ancient to them, apparently—means I’ve figured anything out.

I’ve been alone for six years. Haven’t felt the mate pull once. Every matchmaker in three territories has tried and failed. Grandmother Peach looked at me once, sighed, and muttered about patience before wandering off to meddle with someone else’s destiny.

“I’ll let you know.”

They don’t catch the irony. Just nod solemnly, like I’ve imparted wisdom.

“Thanks, Elder.” Finn claps Derek on the shoulder. “See? He’s thinking about it deeply. That’s wisdom.”

“Very deep.” Derek nods gravely. “You can tell because he takes his time answering.”

“Exactly. That’s how you know someone’s really considered a question.”

They bound off toward the training grounds, full of the certainty that answers exist and adults have them. That one day they’ll feel the pull and everything will make sense and they’ll live happily ever after in matching cabins with mates who understand them perfectly.

I watch them go. Feel the familiar weight of loneliness settle between my shoulders.

Wisdom.

If only.

The melancholy takes hold. Part of me thinks I should do something about it—run through the forest, spar with someone, find a problem and fix it.

I’d been telling myself that for so long, it has stopped feeling like wisdom.

The Protection Network meets in the Stone Circle at The Den—a private back room with literal stone chairs arranged in a ring. The chairs are uncomfortable by design. Keeps meetings short.

The massive fireplace in the main room roars as I pass through, heat washing over me in waves. Shifters of various types lounge at tables, nursing drinks strong enough to actually affect our metabolisms. A wolf pack occupies one corner, all controlled energy and watchful eyes. Two panther females play darts near the back, their laughter sharp and knowing.

The Den is neutral ground. Part bar, part community center, part crisis management hub. Disagreements happen here, but they stay here. That’s the rule.

I nod to the bartender—a massive grizzly named Bruno who’s been running this place for forty years—and head for the Stone Circle.

The back room is quieter. The stones absorb sound, which is the point. What’s discussed here doesn’t leave here.

I arrive early, as always. Third from the door, back to the wall, line of sight to both exits. The stone is cold through my jeans. Good.

Caius Sternwolf enters next. Wolf, Pack Alpha, eight years heading the Network. He nods at me. I nod back. That’s the entirety of our friendship.

Rhodes Blackthorn prowls in behind him, lion-proud, already pulling out his notebook. The man documents everything. He once filed a formal report about a door hinge.

Elio Frostheart arrives next, silent as shadow, sliding into his chair with the particular smirk of someone who already knows how this meeting ends. Panthers.

Veren Tahann is already there, technically, in the sense that no one ever actually sees him arrive. He’s simply present, one boot propped on the stone table, methodically working his way through what looks like Rhodes’s confiscated snack drawer.

Aslan isn’t here yet. Unusual. As of two months ago, he’s claimed by a witch.

The magical world is still figuring out what that means.

“Where’s Aslan?” Rhodes flips through his files without looking up. “We have an agenda.”

“Newly mated.” Elio’s smirk deepens. “Give him a moment. He’s probably still untangling himself from his witch.”

“That’s inappropriate.”

“That’s accurate.”