# Chapter 15: The Wolf

I woke in the chair with my neck at an angle that promised consequences.

The room hadn't changed much since I'd closed my eyes. Devod's breathing, steady and shallow. The tanner moving around downstairs — boots on floorboards, the scrape of something heavy being dragged across stone. Mere at the bedside, mortar in her left hand, pestle in her right, grinding something that smelled like wet iron and pine bark. She'd reorganised the small table again. The stoppered bottles were in a different order than last night — three on the left now, two on the right, the binding salts moved to the front. Working infrastructure, optimised twice.

I straightened my neck. It made a sound like a walnut being stepped on.

"You should have gone home," Mere said, without looking up.

"Probably."

"There's bread in your bag. I put it there before we left yesterday."

I checked the bag. There was bread. She'd wrapped it in a cloth with a sprig of something aromatic pressed against the crust — a preservation trick from Thresholds. The bread was still soft. I ate it watching the room lighten through the single window, the grey of pre-dawn giving way to the grey of early morning. Late winter in Drenwick didn't so much have a sunrise as a gradual reduction in darkness.

The bracelet sat warm against my wrist. Seventy percent. I'd checked three times since waking, which was twice more than useful. The number wasn't going to change by wanting it to — the passive charge thread was dead, confirmed dead, and checking again wouldn't resurrect it. But the noise kept circling back, prodding the absence the way your tongue finds a missing tooth.

Mere applied a fresh compound to Devod's left wrist — the binding salts she'd used to stop the drain echo earlier. Maintenance dose. She checked the colour against the skin, held it for ten seconds, wiped, reapplied. Clinical, precise, completely absorbed. She'd been doing this for — I counted back — thirty-some hours with breaks measured in minutes. Past exhaustion into something steadier. The same focused energy she brought to everything she decided mattered.

Devod's eyes opened.

Not the half-tracking from yesterday — the unfocused drift that had followed Mere's hand across his field of vision like a man watching something move behind frosted glass. This was different. His eyes found the ceiling, held it, then moved to Mere. Focused. Present. The pupils contracted against the morning light and stayed contracted, which meant the autonomic systems were back online, which meant—

"Mere." His voice sounded like gravel being poured into a dry bucket. He swallowed. "How long?"

Two words. One question. It cost him visibly — the effort of pulling language from wherever it had been hiding for two days and pushing it through a throat that had forgotten the shapes.

Mere's hands stopped for exactly one second. I watched the pause happen — the mortar held mid-rotation, the pestle frozen, everything still. One second. Then she set both down, placed her palm flat against his forehead the way she'd done forty times since I'd been watching, and said: "Two days. Rest."

Same voice. Same clinical authority she'd used on me after the crystal drain in the tenement — the voice that wasn't asking. Devod's eyes moved to argue, found whatever they found in her expression, and closed. His breathing shifted to a deeper register within thirty seconds.

(*The same pattern. Not situational — structural. She managed me this way. She manages him this way. The voice, the single instruction, the flat palm. Mere doesn't have a caregiving mode. She has a protocol.*)

I ate the last of the bread and said nothing. Some moments don't need a third voice.

* * *

The knock came mid-morning.

Mere set down the binding salts without hurrying, wiped her hands on the cloth she kept folded at her hip, and crossed the small room in four steps. She opened the door, and her expression didn't change.

"Brennan," she said. "He's awake. Briefly."

The man in the doorway was large enough to make the frame look like a suggestion. Broad through the shoulders, thick through the forearms, a build that came from decades of work requiring the strength of a dockworker moving three boxes at a time. Mid-to-late fifties, grey threading through dark hair that he wore short enough to be practical. His face had the topography of someone who'd spent most of his life outdoors — deep lines around the eyes, weathered skin, a nose that had been broken at least twice and reset for function, not aesthetics.

He moved into the room the way experienced people move through unfamiliar spaces — a half-second scan of the corners, the window, the door's swing radius, the placement of furniture relative to exits. Not paranoid. Habitual. The scan completed before his second step, and then he was just a man visiting a friend.

(*Combat-trained. Corner check as reflex. Entry protocol in the muscle memory of a delivery driver's friend. And Mere knew his name.*)

"Wolf," he said.

He was looking at Devod. The word landed soft, almost gentle — but it was the first word he chose, and first words are data.

Devod's eyes opened again. Slower this time, consciousness dragging against whatever rest Mere's protocol had pushed him into. But when he found the source of the voice, his face did something I'd never seen it do. It cycled several expressions, thoughts visible, the internal processor running with the display on. For one moment, everything stilled. Recognition. Not of a name or a face. Of a context.

"You got old," Devod said. His voice was still gravel, but there was a shape underneath it that sounded like warmth.

"And you look like someone fed you through a mangle." Brennan pulled the room's only other chair — a wooden thing with a creak that protested his weight — to the bedside. He sat with the ease of a man who knew the geometry of bedsides. Close enough to be present, far enough not to crowd. "Word came through the network that you were down. Took me two days to get here from the northern contracts."

"You didn't have to—"

"Shut up, Wolf."

Devod shut up. He smiled while doing it, which was a particular skill.

I was standing in the corner by the window. Brennan hadn't acknowledged me — not rudely, just with the focused priorities of a man who'd come to see one person and would deal with the rest of the room when that was handled. Mere was already back at the bedside table, reorganising compounds. Her non-reaction to Brennan's arrival was absolute. No surprise, no explanation directed my way, no awareness that the presence of a man who called Devod "Wolf" and moved like a combat veteran might warrant context for the person in the corner who'd been operating on a model of Devod that apparently had significant gaps.

"Brennan visited a few days after I was born," Mere said, addressing her mortar. "He's been to Drenwick three or four times since to visit. It never came up."

It never came up. Four words delivered with the complete sincerity of someone who genuinely didn't understand why it might have.

"You're the Locksmith," Brennan said, turning to me for the first time. Not a question. His handshake was the kind that communicated without performing. Firm, brief, released cleanly. "Wolf's mentioned you. Mostly good."

(*The Locksmith. Not "Phelan." Not "Mere's partner." The Locksmith — guild alias, guild nomenclature. Mere doesn't use that name. Devod doesn't use that name. Whoever briefed Brennan had guild-level operational context and connected it to Devod's situation. Either the guild feeds into Brennan's network, or the network feeds into the guild, or they're the same infrastructure wearing different faces. Brennan doesn't read as guild — but I don't know every member, and the ones I don't know are the ones designed not to be known. Doesn't resolve. Filed.*)

"Mostly?"

"He said you think too much." Brennan glanced at Devod, who was watching the exchange with the tired contentment of a man too weak to participate and too alert to sleep. "I told him that was rich, coming from the man who had ten ideas for every problem and nine of them would get you killed."

"The tenth worked," Devod said.

"The tenth always works." Brennan leaned back. The chair protested again. "Eventually."

There was a rhythm between them that didn't need warming up — two people who'd survived the same things and processed it into shorthand. Brennan spoke to Devod the way Leon spoke to me: equal to equal, history doing the heavy lifting that words couldn't.

"Tell him the Vethek Pass story," Devod said. His voice was fading at the edges, the gravel getting looser, but his eyes were sharp. "He should hear it."

"You always want me to tell that one."

"Because you tell it better than I lived it."

Brennan laughed — a real one, from the chest, the kind that filled a room. Then he looked at me, assessed whether I wanted the story or was tolerating the visit, apparently decided I was at least curious, and settled into the telling with the practiced ease of a man who'd told it many times.

"This was — what, twenty-three years ago? Twenty-four? Frontier clearance in the eastern ranges. Vethek Pass. We'd been contracted to clear a route through territory that the cartographers had optimistically marked as 'intermittently hostile,' which in Pathfinder terminology means 'everything in that valley wants you dead and some of it is creative about it.'"

(*Pathfinder.*)

The word slotted into place with the quiet precision of a key entering a lock. Pathfinder. Elite guild-contracted frontier clearance. The unit that went into territory where most recruits died and built something liveable out of what survived.

"We hit a bottleneck three days in. Canyon narrows, bad sightlines, worse footing. Devod was running point — not because anyone appointed him, because everyone else had stopped having ideas on a safe approach and he hadn't."

Brennan's voice had shifted into storytelling register — still warm, but with structure underneath. He'd told this at reunions, at campfires, probably at funerals.

"Idea one: send a two-man scout team up the ridge to get eyes on whatever was waiting in the narrows. Scout team got up there fine. Started a rockslide on the way down. Nearly buried our forward supplies. Devod's face when the second pack caught fire—" Brennan shook his head. "Priceless. Absolutely priceless."

"It was the first pack," Devod said quietly. "The second one was idea two."

"Right, right. Idea two — earthwork barricade across the canyon mouth, establish a defensible position, hold and assess. Good in theory. Devod picked the one section of canyon wall that had a water seep behind it. Barricade lasted about four minutes before the whole thing slid sideways and we lost half our forward position."

"Idea three." Brennan paused. "We don't talk about idea three."

"We could—" Devod started.

"We don't talk about idea three, Wolf."

Something passed between them — a shared memory bad enough to be funny and bad enough not to tell. Devod conceded with a half-smile that used more energy than he had.

"Idea four." Brennan's voice changed. Still warm, but the laughter left it. "Devod split us. Main force stays visible at the canyon mouth — noise, movement, an obvious presence that says 'here we are, come get us.' While they're watching that, Devod takes five of us up a goat track on the southern ridge. A goat track, mind you. Not a path. Not a route. A line on the rock where goats had occasionally decided the view was worth the fall."

He leaned forward.

"We came down on their flank from above. No warning, no approach noise, just five Pathfinders dropping into close quarters from a direction nobody was watching." Brennan looked at Devod — at the thin, drained man in the bed who couldn't lift his own hand for more than a few seconds. "And Devod was first down. Not directing from the ridge. First boots on the ground, leading the charge into the fight. Forearm strikes, staff strikes to the head, terrain control, using every rock and slope and angle. The kind of fighting where you're the tip of the spear because if you're not, the spear doesn't move. He cleared a path through that bottleneck in minutes, and the rest of us followed him through like water through a breach."

(*Forearm strikes. Terrain control. The mine — the way he navigated by paces and chisel marks and structural memory. Not delivery-driver instinct. Pathfinder terrain assessment. The walking stick. Positioned between Mere and the flanking dog. Not adapted for fighting. Adapted FROM fighting. Forearm, then collarbone. On the Compact hired hand at the Floundrys. Precision disabling. Textbook technique, not muscle memory from loading wagons.*)

(*Ten ideas. Not flawed logic. Survival methodology. Pathfinders operate where most recruits die. You generate solutions until one works because the alternative is everyone dies.*)

(*Everything I'd been filing as civilian instinct was elite military competence wearing civilian clothes. The signals were all there — the forearm, the collarbone, the mine-cart — I just kept assigning them to the wrong column. Wrong frame. Not wrong data.*)

"That's why we called him the Wolf," Brennan said. "Wolves are pack animals. The alpha doesn't run from the threat — he runs toward it. Puts himself between the pack and whatever's coming. That's what Devod did. Every time. Every mission. Always has an idea that'll save your life." He rested his hand on the bedframe, close to Devod's shoulder without touching it.

The room was quiet. Devod's eyes were closed — not sleeping, just conserving. Brennan watching him with unguarded affection — the kind you earn by burying enough friends to stop hiding what's left.

And Mere — Mere was arranging compounds. Same tempo, same precision, same complete absorption in the task at hand. Not reacting. Not because she was suppressing anything. Because she'd known. She'd always known. Brennan had visited when she was born, had been a presence in her childhood before the ultimatum severed everything. Devod's Pathfinder service wasn't a revelation to her. It was a fact about her father, no different from his delivery routes or his preference for windfall apples.

Her complete indifference was the final confirmation. I was the last one catching up.

"You said he was drained," Brennan said to me. The storytelling warmth hadn't left his voice, but something harder had joined it. "By a crystal?"

"Yes."

"And the man who pointed that crystal at him?"

"Cass Rykhard. Operating out of Thorngate."

Brennan nodded once. Not the nod of someone receiving new information — the nod of someone filing a target. "Wolf chose to slow down. Left the service, took the delivery work, built a quiet life. Because his daughter needed a father more than the Pathfinders needed another body." His eyes were on Devod. "Someone decided to hurt him for it."

"That's not quite—"

"It's close enough." He looked at me. "When you go after this man — and you will — there's someone you should talk to. Aldric Vane. Runs a small outfit in the warehouse district, east side, near the old grain exchange. Logistics, security, work that needs people who know terrain and don't ask questions they don't need answered. Tell him the Wolf sent you. He'll listen."

I filed the name. Aldric Vane. Warehouse district, east side. The Wolf sent you.

(*Brennan's "network." Aldric Vane. Senior positions, scattered across guilds. Former Pathfinders, still connected. Brennan is the visible one. How many more? And who fed him guild nomenclature — someone with a foot in both worlds, or someone who built one of them?*)

"He's tiring," Mere said. Not a suggestion.

Brennan stood. He leaned down and gripped Devod's shoulder — the same quick, decisive contact as his handshake. Devod's eyes opened for it. A conversation happened that didn't need me or Mere or words.

"Get better, Wolf," Brennan said. "I'll be in Drenwick for a few more days."

Devod's hand came up — slowly, shaking with the effort — and gripped Brennan's forearm. Held it for two seconds. Let go. It was the most physical effort I'd seen him make since regaining consciousness, and he spent it on that.

Brennan straightened. Nodded to me. Nodded to Mere. Walked out of the room and down the stairs, and the floorboards marked his departure with the same protesting creaks the tanner's daily movements produced, except louder.

* * *

The room resettled.

Devod was asleep — real sleep, not the half-conscious drift of the past two days. Mere continued her work with the steady rhythm of someone who'd found her pace and intended to keep it. The tanner was moving crates downstairs. The single window let in the pale grey light of a winter afternoon that couldn't commit to being bright.

I looked at the bracelet. Seventy percent.

Same number since the manual charge in the courtyard two days ago. The crystal drain in the tenement hadn't just depleted it. It had burned the inlet. The stone could hold charge, but it couldn't gather it. Like a well with the pump ripped out — the water table was still there, but nothing was drawing from it.

Seventy percent against Kae and the crystal. The jacket from Carter would absorb maybe twenty percent of an incoming magical strike — the ore studs doing their work across the contact surfaces. That was ninety percent coverage total, assuming the numbers stacked linearly, which they probably didn't. Real numbers were always worse than theoretical numbers. That was practically a natural law.

(*Not enough. Close to enough, and "close to enough" is a specific category of insufficient.*)

The plan — whatever shape it took, whatever we produced when we sat down to build it — would end with me within arm's reach of that crystal. There was no version of this that worked from a distance. Flaw Sight needed proximity. The plan, whatever it turned out to be, needed contact. And contact meant the crystal could reach back.

I pushed the charging thread deliberately. Not the exploratory first push from the courtyard — when Leon and I had primed the channel and poured fifty to seventy in minutes. That had been fast because the stone was half-empty and hungry, drinking everything I gave it. But the upper range was different. The stone resisted more the fuller it got, each percentage point harder to seat than the last — like forcing water into a barrel that was already pressurised. And two days of maintaining the background thread had thinned my reserves. I could feel the difference. The same push that had been a pour in the courtyard was a steady stream now, and the stone was accepting it in measured sips rather than gulps.

The stone's colour shifted — amber deepening toward that warmer amber-red, the change visible but gradual. Eighty percent by evening if I kept at it. Ninety by morning. One hundred was a question of how much I could afford to spend before we sat down to plan.

Mere glanced at me once. Saw what I was doing. Returned to her work without comment. She understood preparation the way she understood everything — by recognising its architecture without needing it explained.

I sat in the corner of a room above a tanner's shop on Millford Street, feeding charge into a bracelet that needed more than I could give it in a day, in a room where a former Pathfinder slept off injuries from a weapon that was still out there, tended by a woman who'd known the truth about her father since before she could read and had never thought to mention it because it was simply a fact about the world, like the weather or the price of binding salts.

Tomorrow we'd build the plan. Mere's herbal research, my Flaw Sight data, whatever Devod could contribute from the bed, and now a name in the warehouse district that the Wolf had given us.

But tonight — or this afternoon, or whatever the pale wash outside the window was calling itself — I charged the bracelet and listened to Devod breathe and watched Mere work, and the quiet in the room was the kind that comes before something starts.

Not the quiet of waiting. Not the quiet of knowing.

The quiet of getting ready.
