Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 192: Lyre: Restricted LYRE Admittedly, I hadn't expected the Fiddlebacks to have such extensive warding through their little underground tunneling system, though it isn't like I thought there would be no warding.

And I definitely didn't expect removing one to cause an immediate Plausibility Warning to alert on my app, givinga 36-hour limitation on arcana use.

But worst of all, none of us had expected to smell and hear the distinct sounds of people in cages.

Which basically brings us to now-over a day later, watching Thom shakily pull through his meager amount of arcana storage to dismantle yet another ward. He's swaying on his feet and almost bone-dry, but we're only ten feet from yet another cage of pitiful shifters.

These aren't wolves, but others. Bunnies, cats, even a lone cougar shifter who cfrom California. All with a sad story, an even sadder capture, and a fractured future.

Thom's glasses slip down his nose. His hands tremble as he traces the final sequence in the air, his fingers leaving pale blue trails of light to shimmer against the dank tunnel walls.

The man's exhausted. We all are. But there's something particularly heartbreaking about watching a warlock drain his arcana to the dregs.

"Almost..." he whispers.

The ward flickers. It's a sickly yellow-green membrane, at least to the eyes of those who can see arcana, stretched across what appears to be solid rock. It pulses once, twice, then dissolves without a sound.

The illusion of stone melts away, revealing another chamber beyond.

While we call it an illusion, it was sturdy enough to hold anyone back.

Isabeau didn't have this level of craftiness in her skillset. Aside from her ability to manipulate, she was never able to master more than the basics. If it wasn't for her depraved proclivity as a sanguimancer, she would be considered worthless two hundred years ago.

Aaron, having been impatiently waiting for this moment, doesn't wait.

He charges forward the moment the opening appears, his shoulders squared with his irritatingly heroic presence. Over twenty-four hours without sleep, crawling through mud and filth and who knows what else—sof these tunnels seem to serve as the sewer system-he still moves like he's fresh off vacation and filled with vitality. Wolves are useful in this way, but speople who had their access to arcana blocked by a particularly annoying divinity control system are exhausted.

Me, obviously.

It takes him less than seconds to get the cage open. Practice makes perfect, I suppose. This is the fourth "collection point" we've found. The prison door creaks open with a loud, rusty screech, and my teeth tingle at the sound.

The stench flooding out is unbearable with unwashed bodies, rotting flesh, and human waste.

And fear.

Always the fear.

Ten of them this time. Adults, all different species of shifter. An elderly man huddles in the corner, his white beard matted with dirt. He doesn't look up when the door opens. None of them do.

It's as if they've forgotten that freedom is a possibility.

My lips tighten, but I stay back.

We've acquired a routine for these situations.

Owen moves past me, his fresh angelic scent a welcbreak from the festering air. The angel-descendant doesn't speak as he kneels beside the nearest shifter—a woman with hollow cheeks and too-thin wrists, and a slightly protruding belly. Could be a nasty case of internal parasites, or pregnancy. It's hard to tell.

There's a crisp taste of mountain air and sunlight, an orderly tug of arcana threads, and then a soft breeze of magic spreading through the room like a physical thing, revitalizing what it touches.

Jack-Eye sneezes, like he does every time.

The shifters respond to Owen's touch like wilted flowers to water. Their backs straighten, just a bit. Their eyes focus. It's not a miracle cure—such a thing doesn't exist for the trauma they've endured-but it gives them enough strength to stand and hope for something different.

Meanwhile, I remain in the tunnel, holding Thom's cold, damp hand in mine.

His fingers curl weakly around my palm as I let a trickle of my power flow into him.

It isn't much, but it's enough to keep him from collapsing.

I'd regretted filling him with arcana when the new mission had arrived, but it cin handy. Once the restrictions are lifted, I'll have to fill him again.

"Thank you," he murmurs, and the difference in his voice is stark, flat and drained instead of soft and dreamy.

Usually, his eyes are wide and worshipful every tI'm within ten feet. But not anymore. Today his gaze is dark. Haunted.

The near-worship has been replaced by something harder, something that looks too much like the beginning of actual backbone.

Our little warlock is growing.

Trauma has a way of changing people. Not always for the better, but sometimes.

"Save it," I tell him, keeping my voice serene. Better not to show the boiling rage in my veins. All three of these men feed off my mood, and I don't need them agitated. It's a waste of energy.

Aaron moves through the small space with efficiency, helping the shifters to their feet, murmuring reassurances that sound sincere even to my cynical ears. He's good at this part. The hero part. It's almost enough to makeforget how insufferable he can be.

Almost.

"I'll take them back to the safe house," he says, turning toonce they've all been through a quick examination. Every one of them is able to walk, even if it is a shuffling gait. With only ten of them, all mobile, this will be the easiest rescue we've had.

Somehow, while the rest of us are dirty and covered in muck, Aaron's red hair is pulled back with what looks like a shoelace and yet remains clean. His face, on the other hand, shows the passage of tin his growing stubble. But this is a ridiculous tto be distracted by his pretty looks.

I incline my head to show I'm listening. This is our dance now-he speaks, I acknowledge, we pretend there isn't something messy and undefined growing between us.

Priorities.

But it's hard to ignore the sliver of affection I've grown in the past day, watching an efficient and reliable Aaron instead of charming playboy Jack-Eye. The mystery of his position as Lycan Beta is finally revealed.

"These ones can walk, mostly," Aaron continues, his gaze sweeping over the group. "The old man might need help, but-" "I can carry myself," the elderly shifter interrupts. His voice shakes, as does his head, but he pushes himself to stand to prove his point.

His legs quiver under his weight, but he announces with surprising calm, "Seven decades as a bear shifter. I've survived worse than this." He's as thin as a rail now, with no part of his physique betraying his bear shifter attributes.

My lips tighten. If I had access to arcana, giving the old man a boost would be little more energy than a single breath.

Sixteen hours before I can use significant arcana again, and even then I'll be under harsher restrictions than before.

Sixteen hours of effectively running off human power, with Thom drained dry. Despite pumping him to the brim with clean arcana, his skills are subpar; he's never learned how to e use glyphs in his life, and he's now learning on the job. Even under my tutelage, too much was wasted.

Under normal circumstances, I'd call it a day and book myself a spa retreat.

But nothing about this is normal, and lives are at stake.

I've already failed too many; turning back isn't an option.

"Let's keep going," I tell Owen as Aaron takes the survivors back. He'll catch up; backtracking doesn't take long but making our way through the ong, but ridiculous amount of wards and traps Fiddleback's thrown down slows our rate of advancement to a crawl.

It's a habit at this point to check my phone. Divinity Connect ignores such mundane details as connections cellulac om Pand works regardless, but there are other small issues to deal with. Like battery life and the lack of ability to send or receive texts. So, even though I pull my phone out of my pocket to glance at it, the screen remains dark, the device powered off to conserve battery.

My skin itches. Aaron reports back every the surfaces, and I know she's fine, but his stupid broody alpha is terrible at filling in details.

Owen clears his throat, and I realize I've been caught staring at my phone like slost teenager after I said we were going already.

Shoving the useless device into my pocket, I stride ahead. "Let's move." The chamber branches in two directions. Both are equally dark, equally damp, and equally likely to hide more atrocities.

I point to the right path. "We'll go right." We're still mapping this place, so it's always right.

Thom sighs behind me, his shoulders hunched as he follows. His glasses have slid down his nose again, and he doesn't bother pushing them up. "I think I'd rather take the ghouls," he mutters.

I glance over my shoulder, one eyebrow arched. "They were all people once. Are you really sure about that?" His mouth snaps shut, color draining from his already pale face.