Chapter 3: The Alpha's Offer
The hut, built for one, strained at its seams. The Parfyn pack stood in the snow-dusted clearing, their forms dim outlines in the predawn gloom, but their presence was a tangible pressure against the walls. Inside, the firelight wrestled with the cold draft from the ruined doorway, painting the newcomers in flickering relief.
Cregan didn’t move from his place by the cot. He was a study in contrasts: naked, wounded, kneeling, yet emanating an absolute, unshakeable authority. He kept his back to his pack, his entire focus on the woman lying before him. The world had narrowed to this small space, to her pale face, to the decision that now hung between them like a blade.
Lysaria’s gaze flitted from his intense blue eyes to the concerned, watchful faces of Jace and Elara over his shoulder. Her ribs throbbed in time with her heartbeat. This was too much. The solitude of years, shattered in one night, now replaced by a crowded, breathing intensity she didn’t know how to navigate.
“Cregan,” Jace said quietly, his voice cutting through the thick silence. “You’re bleeding again. And you’re… underdressed for a council.”
A faint, almost imperceptible tension left Cregan’s shoulders at the familiar, pragmatic tone. He gave a slight nod, but still didn’t turn. “Elara. My pack from the saddle.”
Elara moved without a word, slipping back outside and returning a moment later with a bundle of dark, durable clothing and a heavy wool cloak. She handed them to him, her eyes never leaving Lysaria. It was a look that inventoried threats, assessed weaknesses.
Cregan stood, pulling on trousers and a linen shirt with a stiff, careful motion that betrayed the pain in his shoulder. The simple act of dressing in the crowded, intimate space felt profoundly strange. He was re-assuming a mantle, right here in her home.
“Jace, secure the perimeter. Two scouts on the tree line, far enough out to hear a child sneezing. The rest, make yourselves useful. Salvage the door. Check for tracks we missed.” His orders were soft, but they carried. The pack dissolved into motion, their efficiency a quiet blur. The sounds of work began outside—wood scraping, low voices, the crunch of purposeful steps.
Suddenly, the hut felt emptier, though it was still full. It was just Cregan, Elara lingering by the hearth with crossed arms, and Lysaria on her cot.
Cregan dragged the room’s lone stool over and sat, his knees almost touching the bed frame. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling between them. The posture was open, weary. Not that of an Alpha making a pronouncement, but of a man presenting a fragile truth.
“They will be back,” he began, his voice low. “Soren’s pride is broken. That’s when men get truly dangerous. They’ll bring the entire village, or they’ll bring hired swords who don’t care about superstition, only coin.” He looked at the shattered doorframe. “This isn’t a fortress. It’s a home. It can’t withstand a siege.”
Lysaria knew he was right. The cold certainty of it settled in her gut, colder than the winter air. “I’ve survived their whispers for a decade. Their sideways glances. I can—”
“You survived because you were a story to them,” Elara interrupted, her tone not unkind, but brutally factual. She uncrossed her arms and took a single step closer. “The witch in the woods. A thing to frighten children. Now you’re a fact. You harbored a ‘beast.’ You fought them. You used… whatever that powder was.” She gestured to the faint, acrid residue near the doorway. “Stories they can ignore. Facts they have to erase.”
Lysaria met the young woman’s fierce gaze. “So my choices are to run alone, or die here?”
“No.”
Cregan said the word with such finality that both women looked at him. He reached out, his hands stopping just short of touching her face where she lay. He seemed to be holding something delicate, something wild. His calloused hands, the hands that had killed his own kin to save his pack, hovered in the air, framing her face.
“Come with me,” he said. The roughness in his voice was stripped bare now, raw with an emotion that went beyond protection. It was need. “Come with us. To the Pack Hold. Become our healer. Our lore-keeper. Use your skills for a people who will value them, not burn you for them.”
The air vanished from Lysaria’s lungs. The offer hung in the space between his hands, immense and terrifying.
“You have a healer,” she managed to say, her eyes flicking to Elara.
“We have a bone-setter and a midwife,” Cregan corrected gently. “You treated a silver-gash with wintergreen and yarrow. You knew what it was. You have knowledge we’ve lost. You see the world through different eyes.” He paused, his own eyes holding hers, the black and the grey. “And you stood between me and a silver spear. Not many would.”
Elara’s lips pressed into a thin line. She clearly had opinions on that particular act of idiocy, but she held her tongue.
“Your pack…” Lysaria started, the word foreign on her tongue. “They won’t accept an outsider. A human.”
“They’ll accept what I accept,” Cregan said, and it wasn’t arrogance. It was the simple, heavy truth of his position. “And they will come to respect you, because you are worthy of respect. It will not be easy. But you will have a place. A real one. You will have walls that are defended, and food that is shared, and…” He struggled for the words, the practical man reaching for something intangible. “And you will not be alone in the dark when the wind screams.”
The last sentence undid her. It was a direct callback to that first, seismic night, to the unimaginable comfort of his wolf-form’s heat against her back. It wasn’t an appeal to safety, but to the end of loneliness.
Tears, hot and sudden, welled in her eyes. She turned her face slightly into the rough wool of the blanket, ashamed.
Cregan’s hands finally made contact. They were warm, solid. One cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear that escaped. The other rested gently on her uninjured shoulder. “Never again,” he whispered, the promise rough and solemn. “No torch-wielding men. No fear for your life because of what you are. I swear it to you, Lysaria. On my life, and on my pack.”
It was too much. A lifetime of isolation, met with this absolute, unwavering pledge. She couldn’t speak. She just looked at him, her heterochromatic eyes wide, seeing the blond man, the wolf, the Alpha, the lonely creature who’d brought her frozen flowers—all of him, in this one, terrible, wonderful moment.
Elara cleared her throat, the sound like a stone dropping into a still pool. “Alpha. The practicalities. She’s injured. Travel will be hard, especially if we’re followed. And the Hold… there will be questions. Concerns.”
Cregan didn’t remove his hands from Lysaria’s face. He glanced at his advisor. “Then we answer them. We travel slow. We set a defensive pattern. Jace will lead the main pack back at speed to prepare the way. You and I will travel with Lysaria, with Kael and Rhen as rear guard.” His plan was forming even as he spoke, the strategist taking over. “As for the Hold, they will see what I see. In time.”
Elara gave a single, sharp nod. Duty. It overrode personal suspicion. “I’ll inform Jace of the route.”
She turned to leave, but paused at the shattered threshold, looking back. Her gaze swept over the small, herb-filled hut, the witch on the cot, her Alpha kneeling beside her with a tenderness Elara had never witnessed in him. A deep, complicated loyalty warred in her expression. Finally, she spoke, the words directed at Lysaria, measured and clear.
“He is our heart,” Elara said, no room for argument in her tone. “You protect our heart with your life. That is the only ‘concern’ that matters.” With that, she was gone, barking orders outside.
The silence she left behind was different. Softer.
Lysaria let out a shaky breath. “She’s… intense.”
A real smile, small but genuine, touched Cregan’s mouth. “She’s seventeen winters old and carries the weight of the world on her shoulders. She’s also the best tracker I’ve ever known, and would carve out her own heart before betraying the pack.” He finally withdrew his hands, the warmth lingering on her skin. “She’ll be your fiercest defender, once she decides you’re worth defending.”
“And how does she decide that?”
“By watching. As I did.” He stood, wincing only slightly. “We leave in an hour. Can you travel?”
“I’ve walked on broken bones before,” she said, pushing herself up. The pain was a bright, sharp thing in her side, but manageable. “I’ll need my things. My herbs. My books.”
“Take what you can carry. We’ll send a party back later for the rest, when it’s safe.” He moved to help her stand, his hand under her elbow firm and steadying.
For the next hour, the hut was a whirlwind of quiet activity. Lysaria moved with focused purpose, pain a distant second to the surreal reality of packing her life into two oilskin satchels. Her precious dried herbs in labelled pouches. Her few, leather-bound books of lore and remedy. The clay vase, empty now, she wrapped carefully in a cloth.
Jace ducked his head inside, his manner efficient but his eyes kind. “Perimeter’s clean for five miles. Main group is ready to move. We’ll be a noisy diversion heading west. You’ll have a clear, quiet path north.” He looked at Cregan. “I’ll smooth the way at the Hold.”
“Tell them the truth,” Cregan said, pulling on his cloak. “A healer saved my life from a silver wound. We owe her a blood-debt. And she is under my protection. That’s all they need to know for now.”
Jace nodded, understanding the carefully shaded truth. He glanced at Lysaria, offering a brief, reassuring smile. “See you at home, healer.”
Home. The word echoed strangely.
Soon, it was just the four of them: Cregan, Lysaria, Elara, and the hulking, silent Kael who waited outside with two sturdy-looking mountain horses. Lysaria’s hut stood empty, its door a gaping hole, its hearth growing cold. It looked like what it was: a shell, abandoned.
She stood in the clearing, the cold morning air biting her cheeks, her satchels slung across her body. She looked back once.
Cregan came to stand beside her, following her gaze. “It kept you safe for a long time,” he said quietly.
“It was a prison, too,” she realized aloud, the truth of it unlocking as she said it. The loneliness hadn’t been a price for safety; it had been the very walls of the place.
The loneliness hadn’t been a price for safety; it had been the very walls of the place. She turned her back on it, the motion sending a sharp reminder through her ribs. The past was a closed door. Cregan’s hand found the small of her back, a light press that steadied her and guided her toward the waiting horses.
Kael, the broad-shouldered werewolf, nodded a greeting that was almost shy. He held the reins of a sturdy, dun-coloured mare. “She’s steady. Won’t spook.” His voice was a low rumble.
“Thank you, Kael,” Lysaria said, hauling herself into the saddle with a stifled gasp. The horse stood still, a patient island in the cold. Elara was already mounted on a sleek grey, her posture rigid, eyes scanning the tree line. Cregan swung up onto a powerful black stallion with an effortless grace that belied his wounded shoulder.
“North,” he said, the word a quiet command thrown to the wind.
They moved into the cruel forest, but its face changed. The path Cregan chose wasn’t the overgrown track from the village. It was a vein through the territory, known to his kind. The dense pines formed a cathedral ceiling, muting the dawn light to a deep, green gloom. The silence here was different. It was watchful, not empty.
Lysaria’s body protested every jolt and shift. She clenched her jaw, focusing on the rhythm of the mare’s gait, on the solid reality of Cregan riding just ahead. His blond hair was a faint beacon in the shadows. After an hour of painful silence, Elara eased her horse back to ride beside her.
“The pain will make you clumsy. Drink this.” Elara held out a small, wooden flask without looking at her.
Lysaria took it, uncorked it, and sniffed. A bitter, familiar tang. “Willow-bark and poppy. A strong mix.”
“It’s effective. Don’t drink it all unless you want to sleep in the saddle.” Elara’s gaze was still forward, professional. “Can you truly identify a silver wound on sight?”
“The flesh around it turns a specific shade of grey. The smell is different, too. Sour. Metallic.” Lysaria took a small sip; the bitterness spread through her mouth, a promised relief. “My mother’s book had a page on it. I never thought I’d see one.”
Elara finally glanced at her, a flicker of something like respect in her eyes. “What else is in that book?”
“Things that bite. Things that sting. Things that fester in moonlight.” Lysaria handed the flask back. “It’s mostly a record of failures. Herbs that didn’t work. Patients she lost.”
“Hmm.” Elara secured the flask. “An honest text, then. We could use more of those.”
Cregan had dropped back slightly, within earshot. He said nothing, just listened to the exchange, his shoulders relaxing a fraction.
They rode for hours, the forest deepening. The pain draught blurred the edges of the agony into a manageable ache. The world became a tapestry of greys and greens, the crunch of hooves on frozen moss, the cloud of their own breath. Lysaria found herself lulled by the monotony, her head nodding.
“Rest,” Cregan’s voice cut through her haze. He’d called a halt in a small, rocky clearing where a thin stream cut through ice. “Fifteen minutes. Kael.”
Kael melted into the trees to stand watch. Elara dismounted and began checking the horses’ hooves with quick, expert hands. Cregan was at Lysaria’s side before she could attempt the painful dismount. His hands encircled her waist, lifting her down as if she weighed nothing. He set her gently on a flat rock by the stream.
“You’re white as the snow,” he murmured, his hands lingering for a second before he stepped back to give her space.
“It’s just the ribs. The draught helps.” She pulled her cloak tighter, the cold seeping in now that they’d stopped. “How far is the Hold?”
“Three days, at this pace. Two if we pushed, but we won’t.” He crouched by the stream, breaking the ice with his fist and scooping water to his mouth. He offered her his filled waterskin. “The village won’t follow this deep. They’re too scared of these woods. But other things aren’t.”
“Other things?”
“Rival packs on the borders. Rogues. The forest itself.” He said it plainly, a simple list of facts. “This is the reality of my world, Lysaria. It’s not just torch-wielding men. It’s tooth and claw and territory. It’s blood on the snow most winters.”
She watched him, the way he catalogued the clearing’s exits, the way his eyes never truly settled. The weight he carried wasn’t metaphorical. It was in the tension of his neck, the readiness in his crouch. “Why did you come so far south alone? Jace said you were injured and far from your pack.”
A shadow passed over his face. He looked at the water swirling in the stream. “A patrol. A skirmish with the Graymark pack over a trapping line. I took a glancing blow, let a young wolf chase a decoy too far. Got turned around in a blizzard. I was miles out, bleeding, thinking the cold would finish me.” He looked up, his blue eyes pinning her. “Then I smelled woodsmoke. And herbs. And something… quiet.”
Her hut. Her lonely, quiet hut. It had been a beacon.
“You didn’t try to come in that first night.”
“I wasn’t sure what I’d find. A hunter’s cabin. Another rogue.” A faint, self-deprecating smile touched his lips. “Then I saw you through the window. Just a shadow moving, singing to yourself while you ground herbs. You looked… unafraid of the dark. I decided I wouldn’t be a threat to that.”
Elara walked over, handing them each a strip of dried meat and a hard biscuit. “We should move. This place is too open.” Her eyes were on the high rocks surrounding them.
Cregan stood, his body going taut. “What do you hear?”
“Nothing. That’s the problem. The jays went quiet two minutes ago.”
A cold that had nothing to do with the air slid down Lysaria’s spine. Cregan was suddenly beside her, pulling her up by her elbow. “To the horses. Now.”
Kael emerged from the trees, soundless, his expression grim. He held up three fingers, then pointed east.
Three somethings.
They moved as one. Cregan all but lifted Lysaria into the saddle. Elara and Kael had their horses facing a defensive formation, hands with growing claws. The forest held its breath.
A twig snapped. Not an animal’s careless step. A deliberate placement.
From behind a giant, moss-covered fir, a man stepped into the clearing. He was tall, lean, dressed in patched leathers, with a scar that pulled his mouth into a permanent smirk. Two others flanked him, their eyes hungry and assessing. They carried not pitchforks, but teeth and claws. Their smell hit Lysaria a second later—unwashed skin, old blood, a sharp, predatory musk that was similar to Cregan’s pack, but sour, wrong.
Rogues.
“Well, well,” the lead man drawled, his eyes sliding over Cregan’s broad frame, past Elara’s defiant glare, and landing on Lysaria. “Parfyn wolves, playing escort. And what’s this? A little rabbit you found?”
Cregan didn’t speak. He simply shifted his weight, placing himself more squarely between the rogues and Lysaria’s horse. The movement was answer enough.
The rogue’s smirk widened. “Touchy. We’re just passing through. But a toll for safe passage seems fair. The woman’s satchels look interesting. And the woman, too."
The rogue’s words hung in the cold air, a foul stain. Cregan didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The low growl that started in his chest was answer enough, a vibration Lysaria felt in her own bones.
Elara’s sword slid from its scabbard with a soft, lethal hiss. Kael simply cracked his neck, his hands already thickening into powerful, claw-tipped paws.
“Last chance to walk away,” Cregan said, his voice flat and dead.
The lead rogue laughed, a sound like breaking sticks. He charged.
The clearing exploded.
Cregan met the lead rogue’s lunge not with a dodge, but with a brutal, forward slam of his shoulder. Bones crunched. They went down in a whirl of snarls and flying snow. Kael engaged the second, their forms a blur of grey and brown, a sound like wet meat being torn.
The third rogue, quicker than the others, ducked Elara’s whistling sword and bolted straight for Lysaria’s horse.
Time thickened. She saw his yellowed teeth, his eyes fixed on her saddlebags—on her. Her mind went blank, then crystal clear. Her hand dove into the satchel at her hip, fingers closing not around a weapon, but around a prepared pouch. The rogue leapt, claws extended for the horse’s neck.
Lysaria threw the pouch directly into his open, snarling mouth.
He choked, gagging, the fine powder of ground ghostcap pepper and blinding nettles exploding in his throat and eyes. He reeled back, shrieking, clawing at his face. Elara was there. Her sword took his leg out at the knee. He fell, his screams turning to wet, blinded sobs.
She didn’t finish him. She spun, ready for the next.
There wasn’t one. Cregan stood over the lead rogue’s motionless form, his own breathing ragged, a fresh, deep gash weeping red through his shirt on his left bicep. Kael stood panting, the second rogue limp in his grip. The whole violent ballet had taken less than a minute.
Silence rushed back in, punctuated only by the muffled whimpering of the blinded rogue.
Cregan’s eyes found Lysaria first. Alive. Unharmed. He saw the empty pouch in her hand, the rogue writhing in the snow. A fierce, blazing pride cut through the battle-fever in his gaze. He gave her a single, sharp nod.
Then he looked at his bleeding arm, then at the rogue Elara had maimed. His expression shut down, going cold and practical. “Kael.”
Kael understood. He moved to the whimpering rogue. A swift, merciful twist. The silence that followed was absolute.
“They were scouts for a larger band,” Elara said, wiping her blade on the snow. She was already scanning the trees again, her earlier suspicion replaced by a grim professional respect. “He wasn’t lying about passing through. But they would have circled back with others. For her things. For her.” She finally looked at Lysaria. “Ghostcap and nettle?”
“It was meant for moles in the garden,” Lysaria said, her voice thin. Her hands were trembling. The pain in her ribs was a bright, singing knife.
“It works,” Elara conceded. She moved to Cregan, examining the gash on his arm. “Deep. You’ll need stitches.”
“Later.” Cregan tore a strip from his own cloak liner, binding it tightly around the wound. “We move. Now. This noise will draw more than just rogues.” He walked to his stallion, his movements still fluid despite the fresh injury, and mounted. “North. Hard pace. We run until dusk.”
They ran.
The forest became a punishing, grey-green smear. Lysaria clung to the saddle, each step of the mare sending a jolt of white-hot fire through her side. The willow-bark draught was a distant memory. She clenched her teeth until her jaw ached, focusing on the rhythm, on the dark shape of Cregan ahead, on not screaming.
They stopped only when the light failed completely, in the lee of a granite outcrop. Cregan half-carried her from the saddle. Her legs buckled. He caught her, lowering her gently against the rock, his hands careful on her shoulders.
“Elara,” he said, his voice rough.
Elara had a needle and gut thread ready from her own kit. She knelt beside Cregan’s arm, her face a mask of concentration in the dim light of a single, shielded lantern. Lysaria watched through a haze, the skilled, quick movements of Elara’s hands. It was a familiar ritual, but performed with a warrior’s efficiency.
“Your turn,” Cregan said, once his own arm was neatly stitched.
He crouched before Lysaria. “I need to see the ribs.”
She was too tired, too full of pain, to protest modesty. She let him help her peel back her layers, the cold air biting her skin. His fingers, surprisingly gentle, probed the enormous, purple-black bruise that painted her entire left side. “Not broken. Cracked, maybe. Badly bruised for certain.” He looked up at her, his face close in the lantern light. “You should have said it was this bad.”
“You were busy,” she whispered.
He made a sound, part frustration, part admiration. From his pack, he pulled a small, waxed pouch. He smeared a thick, green salve onto his palms, warming it. “This will help. It’ll smell… strong.”
It did. Like pine and something deeply, earthily organic. He began to spread it carefully over the bruised flesh, his touch firm but not painful. The heat was immediate, a penetrating warmth that dulled the sharpest edges of the agony. She let out a shuddering breath, her head leaning back against the cold stone.
Elara watched, silent. After a moment, she rummaged in her own gear and handed Lysaria another strip of dried meat and a chunk of hard cheese. “Eat. The salve works better if you’re not empty.”
They ate in silence, the sounds of the forest returning around them. Kael stood watch somewhere in the darkness. The shared violence, the shared exhaustion, had forged a quiet, tentative understanding between the three of them in the circle of lantern light.
The second and third days blurred into a ceaseless, grueling rhythm of motion and pain. They followed game trails so faint Lysaria couldn’t see them, crossing frozen streams and rocky ridges. Cregan and Elara took turns scouting ahead and walking beside her horse, a constant, wary presence. Her world narrowed to the sweat on the mare’s neck, the grim set of Cregan’s jaw, the gradually softening suspicion in Elara’s eyes.
On the afternoon of the third day, Elara fell into step beside her. “The ghostcap. Did your mother’s book mention that use?”
Lysaria shook her head, wincing at the movement. “No. That was my own addition. The moles were… persistent.”
A faint, almost-smile touched Elara’s lips. “It was effective.” She paused, then asked, “The salve he used on you. Could you make it?”
“If I had the ingredients. Spiderwort, ironroot, rendered bear fat. It’s a good base. I’d add ground birch bark for the inflammation.”
Elara nodded, storing the information away. “We have birch. Plenty of it.”
That night, their last on the trail, the cold was profound. They huddled in a shallow cave, a small fire daring to push back the dark. Lysaria shivered uncontrollably, the salve’s warmth long spent.
Without a word, Cregan shifted. The great grey wolf settled against her back, exactly as he had that first night in her hut. The dense fur was a fortress against the cold, his body a radiating hearth. She sighed, sinking into the impossible warmth, her fingers instinctively curling into his ruff.
Across the fire, Elara watched. She saw the way the witch’s body finally relaxed, the way her Alpha rested his massive head on his paws, his blue eyes closing in quiet contentment. She saw the protected space between them. The calculation in her eyes finally settled, resolving into a decision.
She pulled her own cloak tighter and laid down, turning her back to the fire. “Don’t let the fire die, Kael,” she murmured.
On the dawn of the fourth day, the quality of the light changed. The oppressive, ancient trees began to thin. The air smelled less of damp decay and more of clean snow and, faintly, of woodsmoke. They crested a final, rocky rise.
Below them, tucked into a sheltered valley beside a half-frozen river, lay the Pack Hold.
It wasn’t a village. It was an organic growth of sturdy log longhouses, interconnected workshops, and stockade walls that followed the land’s natural contours. Smoke rose from dozens of hearths into the pink morning sky. Figures moved in the clearings—children chasing a dog, adults hauling water, wolves running around, the scene buzzing with a purposeful, guarded life.
Lysaria stopped breathing. It was a world.
Cregan, back in human form and standing beside her horse, pointed to the largest longhouse at the center. “That’s the Alpha hall. The infirmary is next to it. The building with the green door.” He looked up at her, his face etched with four days of hard travel and worry, but his eyes were clear. “Ready?”
She wasn’t. Her heart was a wild thing in her throat. She was a splinter of loneliness about to be dropped into a living organism. She looked from the Hold to his waiting, steady gaze. He had brought her flowers. He had fought for her. He had shared his warmth in the dark.
She nodded, a single, shaky movement. “Ready.”
As they picked their way down the slope, a cry went up from the watchtower. A howl, not of alarm, but of recognition and return. It was echoed by another, and another, a rising chorus that swept through the valley. Doors opened. Figures emerged, streaming into the central clearing, their faces turned up the path.
They reached the open gates. Hundreds of eyes watched. Curious, wary, assessing. Lysaria felt the weight of their stares like a physical pressure. She kept her chin up, her heterochromatic eyes wide, one black, one grey, taking in the sea of strangers.
Cregan stepped forward, his voice lifting, carrying over the sudden quiet. “Pack of Parfyn! I bring Lysaria, a healer of great skill. She saved my life from a silver wound. She has my trust. She has my protection. She is welcome here.”
A murmur ran through the crowd. Jace pushed his way to the front, a look of profound relief on his face. He gave Cregan a sharp nod, then offered Lysaria a small, encouraging smile.
Elara dismounted and stood firmly at Lysaria’s other side, her hand resting on the pommel of her sword. Her posture was no longer just protective of Cregan. It was defensive of the space around the witch. Her gaze challenged the crowd, a silent, fierce echo of Cregan’s words.
An older woman with kind eyes and hands stained with dye stepped forward, breaking the tension. “A healer? Thank the moon. My boy’s got a fever that won’t break.” The practical need cut through the abstract suspicion.
The spell broke. The pack began to move again, though eyes still lingered. The journey was over. The new reality, vast and terrifying and alive, had begun.
Cregan’s hand found the small of Lysaria’s back again, a solid point of contact in the swirling current. “Come on,” he said, his voice for her alone. “I’ll show you where you’ll sleep.”