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.

to get the cage open. Practice makes perfect, I suppose. This is the fourth "collection

with unwashed bodies, rotting

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

as if they’ve forgotten that freedom is

but

a routine for

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

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

sneezes, like he does

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

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

I let a trickle

it’s enough to

had arrived, but it came in handy. Once the restrictions are lifted, I’ll have to

and the difference in his voice is stark, flat

his eyes are wide and worshipful every time I’m within ten feet. But

been replaced by something harder, something that looks too much like the

little warlock

of changing people. Not always for

veins. All three of these men feed off my

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

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 walk, even if it is

back with what looks like a shoelace and yet remains clean. His face, on the other hand, shows the passage of time in his growing

ridiculous time to be distracted by his

head to show I’m listening. This is our dance now—he speaks, I acknowledge, we pretend there isn’t something messy

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 as Lycan Beta is

walk, mostly," Aaron continues, his gaze sweeping over the group. "The old man might

interrupts. His voice shakes, as does his head, but he pushes himself to stand to prove his