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.

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,

stench flooding out is unbearable with

And fear.

Always the fear.

of them this time. Adults, all different species of shifter. An elderly man huddles in the corner, his white beard matted

if they’ve forgotten that freedom is

tighten, but

acquired a routine for

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

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

he

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

remain in the tunnel, holding Thom’s

as I let a

but it’s enough

new mission had arrived, but it came in

and the difference in his voice is stark, flat and

worshipful every time I’m within

harder, something that looks too much like the

warlock is

changing people. Not always for the better, but

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

sincere even to my cynical ears. He’s good at this part. The hero part. It’s almost enough

Almost.

Every one of them is able to

red hair is pulled back with what looks like a shoelace and yet remains clean. His face, on the other hand, shows

is a ridiculous time to be distracted by

incline my head to show I’m listening. This is our dance now—he speaks,

Priorities.

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

Aaron continues, his gaze sweeping

shakes, as does his head, but