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, giving me a 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 came from 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—some of 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 some people who had their access to arcana blocked by a particularly annoying divinity control system are exhausted.

Me, obviously.

seconds to get the cage open. Practice makes perfect, I suppose. This is the fourth "collection point" we’ve found. The prison door creaks

stench flooding out is unbearable with unwashed bodies,

And fear.

Always the fear.

corner, his white

they’ve forgotten that freedom is

tighten, but

routine for

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

of mountain air and sunlight, an orderly tug of arcana threads, and then a soft breeze of magic spreading through the room

sneezes, like he does

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

I remain in the tunnel, holding Thom’s cold, damp hand

around my palm as I let a trickle

much, but it’s enough to keep him from

arrived, but it came in handy. Once the restrictions are

he murmurs, and the difference in his voice is stark, flat and

within ten feet. But not anymore. Today

something that looks too much like the beginning

warlock is

of changing people. Not always for the better,

the boiling rage in my veins. All three of these men feed off my mood, and I don’t need them agitated.

to my cynical ears. He’s

Almost.

to the safe house," he says, turning to me once they’ve all been through a quick examination. Every one of them is able to

muck, Aaron’s red hair is pulled back with what looks like a shoelace and yet remains clean. His face, on the other

ridiculous time to be distracted by his pretty

is our dance now—he speaks, I acknowledge, we pretend there isn’t something

Priorities.

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

sweeping over the group. "The old man might

His voice shakes, as does his head, but he