Hazel’s POV

Tormund doesn’t expect us to move.

He expects Alphas to posture. Betas to wait for orders. Omegas to kneel.

He forgot who raised me.

“Now,” I say.

Cleric goes left. Twenty years in a cell taught him silence. His knife takes the first Council guard in the throat before the male can blink. Clean. Fast. No wasted motion.

Alaric goes right. No staff. No limp. Just Alpha rage, pure and clean. He breaks a guard’s arm, takes the sword from his hand, uses it on the next two.

I go straight.

For Tala.

Rook’s mother. Chained in the center of High Pine’s circle. Bruises on her wrists. Dress...