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.

perfect, I suppose. This is the fourth "collection point" we’ve found. The prison

is unbearable with unwashed bodies, rotting flesh,

And fear.

Always the fear.

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

if they’ve forgotten

lips tighten, but I

routine for

fresh angelic scent a welcome break 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

arcana threads, and then a soft

sneezes, like he does

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

tunnel, holding Thom’s cold, damp

I let a trickle of

but it’s enough to keep him from

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

the difference in his voice is

time I’m within ten feet. But not anymore. Today his gaze is dark.

by something harder, something that looks too much like the

little warlock is

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

tell him, keeping my voice serene. Better not to show the boiling rage in my veins. All three

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

Almost.

of them is able to walk, even if it is a shuffling gait. With only ten of them,

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,

to be distracted by

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

Priorities.

watching an efficient and reliable Aaron instead of

sweeping over the group. "The old man might need

myself," the elderly shifter interrupts. His voice shakes, as does