Celesse didn't sleep after the threadwalk. She sat at the desk, sketching the anchor locations from memory onto a piece of parchment borrowed from the room's small supply. Five points scattered across what she assumed was the Fenrial Crescent—though translating dreamscape geography to waking-world locations would require Dacian's help.
When the knock came at dawn, she was ready. Exhausted but ready.
One of the wolf guards opened the door. "The King requests your presence. Breakfast in the null-zone."
Not a request. A command.
Celesse gathered her notes and followed the guard through the palace's twisting corridors. The morning shift was changing—wolf guards in damp cloaks returning from night patrol, human servants carrying trays of bread and smoked fish toward the kitchens. The scent of pine pitch and wet fur was already familiar, though no less unsettling.
The null-zone door stood open. Inside, Dacian sat at a small table near the hearth, already eating. He looked worse than yesterday—deeper shadows under his eyes, his left hand wrapped in linen bandages, the tremors visible even at rest.
"Sit," he said without looking up.
Celesse obeyed, taking the chair across from him. Bread, cheese, dried fruit, and weak ale waited on the table. Her stomach growled despite everything.
"You didn't sleep," Dacian observed.
"Neither did you."
"I don't sleep much anymore." He set down his knife. "The hex makes rest... difficult."
She wanted to ask what that meant—nightmares, pain, involuntary shifts—but his expression warned against prying. Instead, she spread her sketched map on the table between them.
"I went back into your dreamscape last night," she said. "Carefully. I didn't touch anything."
His eyes flicked to the parchment. "And?"
"The hex has five anchors. Not one. Five distinct points scattered across the Crescent." She pointed to each mark on her sketch. "I can't translate dreamscape to waking geography on my own. But you might recognize the patterns."
Dacian pulled the parchment closer, studying it with an intensity that made his jaw tighten. After a long moment, he swore under his breath.
"You're certain? Five?"
"I counted three times."
"That's not—" He stopped himself, fist clenching on the table. "That's not what I expected."
"Why not?" Celesse leaned forward. "You cast this hex, didn't you? You should know how many anchors it has."
The silence stretched too long. She saw him weighing his words, deciding what to reveal.
"Yes," he finally said. "I cast it. Twenty years ago, during... a difficult time. But I only created four anchors. Not five."
"Then someone added another." The implication settled over them like frost. "Someone who knows hex-craft well enough to integrate a new anchor into an existing structure without you noticing."
Dacian's eyes flickered gold. "That shouldn't be possible. The hex is keyed to my blood. Only I should be able to modify it."
"Unless someone got access to your blood. Or found a way to mimic the original casting." Celesse tapped the fifth anchor on her sketch. "This one is different from the others. It's pulsing with active magic. Someone's feeding power into it right now."
"Show me."
She traced the location with her finger. "Here. Based on the dreamscape positioning, I'd guess it's on one of the outer islands. Somewhere remote."
Dacian stood abruptly and moved to the map on the wall—the detailed cartography of the Fenrial Crescent. He compared her sketch to the actual geography, his bandaged hand hovering over the islands.
"The Ashen Hollows," he said quietly. "That's where you're seeing the fifth anchor. Volcanic glass beaches, ash-forests. It's..." His voice tightened. "It's where my mate was killed."
The weight of that revelation filled the null-zone. Celesse watched him stare at the map, saw the old grief flicker across his face.
"Someone planted an anchor at the site of her death," she said. "Why?"
"To keep me away. To ensure I never go back there." Dacian's hand curled into a fist. "It's been forbidden territory for twenty years. Royal edict. No one enters without permission, and I've never granted permission."
"But someone went anyway."
"Yes." He turned back to her. "Someone who knew about the hex, about my mate, about where she died. Someone who's been planning this for a long time."
Before Celesse could respond, rapid footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. The door burst open—Renna, still fastening her oath-scribe robes, her face pale.
"Council session," she said breathlessly. "Emergency. Chancellor Vorin called it an hour ago. You need to come now."
Dacian's expression went carefully blank. "On what grounds?"
"Reports of your illness reached the human court. A servant saw your partial shift three nights ago, during the anchor excavation." Renna's hands twisted in her robes. "Vorin is calling for proof of fitness to rule."
"Of course he is." Dacian moved toward the door. "How many councilors?"
"Full assembly. Both human and wolf representatives."
Which meant Marin Grayclaw would be there. The alpha whose scent Celesse had detected near the fifth anchor.
"I'm coming with you," she said, standing.
Dacian shook his head. "Council sessions are restricted—"
"I'm life-bound to you. If you collapse in there, I collapse. They'll see that regardless." Celesse met his gaze. "And I need to see the council. I need to observe them."
To see if any of them smelled like ash and burnt sage. To confirm whether Marin was the one hunting the anchors.
Dacian considered this, then nodded. "Gallery only. You don't speak unless addressed. Clear?"
"Clear."
They moved through the palace at speed, Renna leading the way. The council chamber was in the palace's heart—a large circular room with a domed ceiling painted with stars. The architecture here was deliberately balanced: neither amplifying nor dampening sound, creating neutral acoustic space where both wolves and humans could speak on equal terms.
The council table formed a ring in the chamber's center. Representatives sat in assigned positions—human officials on one side, wolf pack leaders on the other, with the King's throne at the northern point to arbitrate between them.
The gallery where Celesse was directed was a raised walkway that circled the chamber, allowing observers to watch without interfering. She climbed the stairs and found a position where she could see the entire assembly.
Dacian took his throne. The tremor in his hand was visible even from a distance, and she saw several councilors notice it.
Chancellor Vorin stood immediately—a thin man in his fifties, wearing the formal gray robes of human court office. His face was lined with what looked like permanent disapproval.
"Your Majesty," he said, voice carrying across the chamber. "Thank you for joining us on such short notice."
"You called an emergency session, Chancellor. I'm here." Dacian's tone was level. "State your concern."
"Concerns. Plural." Vorin gestured to the human representatives around him. "Reports have reached us that you've been... unwell. That your condition has worsened. That you've been seen losing control during shifts."
"Rumors," Dacian said. "Nothing more."
"Are they?" Vorin produced a parchment. "I have sworn testimony from a palace servant who witnessed your partial shift three nights ago in the eastern courtyard. He describes violent loss of control, aggression toward unarmed staff, and intervention by your enforcer using silver restraints."
The chamber erupted in whispers. Dacian's jaw tightened, but he didn't deny it.
"The incident was contained," he said. "No one was harmed."
"But control was lost." Vorin's voice sharpened. "Under the Fenrial Accords, the King must maintain dominion over both his human and wolf aspects. Loss of control violates the terms of your unified rule."
"One incident doesn't constitute—"
"How many incidents will it take?" Vorin spread his hands. "Your Majesty, no one questions your service to the realm. You've given seventeen years of stability. But if your condition is deteriorating, the responsible action is to step aside before tragedy occurs."
From the wolf side of the council, a voice rumbled out. "The Chancellor speaks as if the King is already unfit. That's premature."
Celesse leaned forward, focusing on the speaker. He was tall and scarred, with gray-streaked black hair worn in warrior braids. Amber eyes watched Vorin with barely concealed contempt.
Marin Grayclaw. She recognized him from Thane's description. And even from the gallery, even through the neutral acoustics, she caught the faint scent: ash and burnt sage.
It was him. The one at the fifth anchor.
"I speak from concern for the realm," Vorin countered. "If the King is ill, he should receive treatment. But he cannot rule while compromised."
"And what do you propose?" Marin asked, his tone deceptively mild. "A regency? Human oversight of wolf territories? That violates the Accords as much as any loss of control."
"I propose a temporary solution." Vorin looked around the chamber. "The King continues to rule in matters of policy and law. But daily governance passes to a council regent until he recovers. Three months should be sufficient to assess his condition."
Three months. Ninety days. Exactly the timeline of the hex.
Celesse's hands tightened on the gallery railing. This wasn't coincidence. Vorin knew about the hex, or at least suspected it.
Dacian stood. The movement drew every eye, and Celesse felt the shift in the room's energy. Even weakened, even trembling, he commanded presence.
"I appreciate the Chancellor's concern," he said, voice carrying across the chamber. "But I decline the proposal. I'm fit to rule. The incidents you describe are isolated. They don't represent ongoing deterioration."
"Can you prove that?" Vorin pressed.
"I don't need to prove fitness. You need to prove unfitness." Dacian's eyes flickered gold—deliberately, Celesse realized. A show of control. "I am Wolf King by right of challenge and conquest. I united these territories when they were at war. I've maintained peace for seventeen years. One partial shift doesn't erase that."
"But it raises questions," Marin said, standing. "Questions the wolf packs are asking as well. If the King is struggling with his wolf, we need to know why. Is it illness? Curse? Age?"
The question hung in the air. Marin's amber eyes met Dacian's across the chamber, and Celesse saw the challenge there. Saw the trap.
If Dacian admitted to the hex, he'd have to explain why he cast it. That he'd violated pack law by chaining his own wolf. That he'd ruled under that violation for twenty years.
It would be grounds for immediate removal. Possibly execution.
If he denied it, the suspicions would fester. The council would restrict his authority. Vorin would get his regency through attrition.
Either way, Marin won.
"My health is not the council's concern," Dacian said carefully. "If it becomes a matter of public safety, I will address it. Until then, I ask for trust."
"Trust is earned," Vorin replied. "And recent events have strained it."
"Then let me earn it back." Dacian's hand trembled, and he pressed it flat against the throne's arm. "Give me thirty days. If my condition worsens, I'll revisit the regency proposal. If it improves—or remains stable—the matter is closed."
Vorin and Marin exchanged glances. Some silent communication passed between them, and Celesse's stomach dropped.
They were working together. Human and wolf, united against Dacian. The ash-and-sage scent wasn't just Marin's—it was their conspiracy.
"Thirty days," Vorin agreed. "But with conditions. You must name an heir. If something happens before your condition improves, the succession must be clear."
"I have no heir to name."
"Then you have thirty days to find one." Marin's voice carried warning. "Or the council will choose for you."
The chamber erupted in argument—human representatives debating succession law, wolf councilors growling about pack rights. Dacian remained standing, his expression carved from stone.
But Celesse, watching from the gallery, saw the moment his control slipped. His hand trembled harder. His eyes flickered gold and stayed gold. His shoulders tensed as if suppressing pain.
And through the bond, she felt it. The hex tightening. The anchor-magic responding to stress, to challenge, to threat.
Dacian gripped the throne harder, and she saw his knuckles go white. Saw his jaw clench. Saw him fighting to hold human form while his wolf surged beneath.
He was going to shift. Here. In front of the entire council.
Celesse didn't think. She just moved.
She descended the gallery stairs at a run, ignoring the guards who called after her. She crossed the chamber floor—every councilor turning to stare—and stopped at the base of Dacian's throne.
"Your Majesty," she said, loud enough for the chamber to hear. "The threadwalker's assessment is complete. You're needed in the null-zone immediately."
It was a lie. A transparent, desperate lie. But it gave him an excuse to leave.
Dacian looked down at her, and she saw the gratitude flicker across his face before he locked it down.
"The council will excuse me," he said, his voice strained. "We'll reconvene tomorrow to discuss the heir declaration."
He descended the throne and moved toward the exit. Celesse walked beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. Close enough that the bond between them thrummed with shared urgency.
They made it to the corridor before his control broke. Dacian staggered, catching himself against the wall. His eyes blazed pure gold, and his breathing came in harsh gasps.
"Not here," Celesse said, grabbing his arm. "Hold on. Just a little further."
They stumbled through the palace together, past startled servants and concerned guards. Made it to the null-zone and slammed the door shut.
Dacian collapsed against it, sliding down to sit on the floor. His whole body shook with suppressed shift, and Celesse felt it through the bond—her bones aching, her vision flickering between human and something other.
"Breathe," she said, kneeling beside him. "Focus on staying human. Focus on—"
"Can't." The word came out half-growl. "Anchors. Each one we touch—makes it harder—"
"We haven't touched any yet. We just mapped them."
"Doesn't matter." His hand clawed at his chest, right over his heart. "Someone else is—interfering—fifth anchor—"
He convulsed, and Celesse caught him before he pitched forward. Through the bond, she felt the hex constricting, felt the rust-red threads tightening around something vital inside him.
"They're accelerating it," she whispered. "Whoever's at the fifth anchor. They're feeding power in to make the hex collapse faster."
Dacian's eyes met hers—still gold, still wild, but clear enough to understand.
"Marin," he managed. "Scent?"
"Ash and burnt sage. I smelled it on him in the council chamber. He's the one hunting the anchors."
"Then we have—" He gasped as another wave of pain hit. "—less than ninety days. Much less."
Celesse held him, feeling the second heartbeat in her chest race in time with his. Feeling the hex tighten around them both like a closing fist.
They weren't just racing against time anymore.
They were racing against someone who had every reason to see them fail—and all the power necessary to make sure they did.
As Celesse helped Dacian to his feet, she caught a scent drifting through the null-zone's door: ash and burnt sage, faint but unmistakable.
Someone had been listening.
And now they knew that Celesse and Dacian had figured out the conspiracy.
The hunt had just become a war.