Eric moved before Ian reached the wall.

He blocked the bedroom panel with his body, one hand braced against the dark wood.

“There is no one there.”

Ian stared at him. “Your lies are getting lazy.”

“You are exhausted.”

“I heard a child call you Dad.”

The collar transmitted a sharp burst of panic.

Ian had felt Eric’s rage, pain, hunger, and control. Panic was new.

He stepped left. Eric matched him.

Ian stepped right. Eric moved again.

“Move.”

“No.”

“Is the child a prisoner?”

“No.”

“Then why is he behind a locked wall?”

“Because this keep is under threat.”

Ian’s wolf pushed against his ribs. “Whose child?”

Eric said nothing.

That silence answered too much.

Ian attacked.

He drove forward, caught Eric at the waist, and used the edge of the bed to overturn him. Eric hit the carpet and rolled. Ian followed, but pain tore through his left side. His injured leg folded beneath him.

Eric caught him before his head struck the floor.

The movement was instinctive and careful.

Ian hated it.

“Let go.”

“You reopened the wound.”

“I’ll survive.”

“That is becoming less convincing.”

Warm blood spread beneath Ian’s shirt. The lockstone spear wound from his last escape attempt had never healed. He had hidden the fever for three days.

The collar made hiding impossible now.

Eric lifted him.

Ian grabbed his collar. “Put me down.”

“No.”

“I will break your nose.”

“Do it after the bleeding stops.”

Eric set him on the bed and opened a medical cabinet concealed behind the mirror. Its contents were arranged by size and label. He washed his hands twice, pulled on gloves, then cut away the blood-soaked side of Ian’s shirt.

Ian looked toward the wall.

The hidden child had gone silent.

“You keep medical supplies in your bedroom?”

“I keep supplies everywhere.”

“Because you’re afraid of poison?”

“Because wolves who rule by fear eventually meet someone who is no longer afraid.”

“You mean me.”

“I usually do.”

Eric removed the bandage. His expression darkened.

The wound was black at the edges.

“Lockstone residue,” he said.

“Your guards have poor bedside manners.”

“This did not happen during your capture.”

“No.”

“When?”

Ian leaned back on his hands. “My first escape.”

“Eight months ago.”

“Time moves slowly in a cage.”

Eric’s eyes turned red at the edges. “Who treated it?”

“I did.”

“Badly.”

“I was working with a spoon and stolen vodka.”

Eric dropped to one knee beside the bed.

The sight startled Ian more than any threat.

The king of Nightfall knelt between his boots, one gloved hand closing around his ankle to stabilize the leg. Eric cleaned the wound with painstaking care. His touch was firm, controlled, and unexpectedly gentle.

Ian’s wolf went quiet.

“You hate touching people,” Ian said.

“I am wearing gloves.”

“You carried me.”

“You were bleeding on the carpet.”

“There he is.”

Eric’s mouth almost moved.

Pain struck as he removed a shard of black stone. Ian’s claws cut into the mattress.

Eric’s hand tightened around his ankle.

“Look at me.”

“I’d rather look at the ceiling.”

“Ian.”

The command landed differently now. Ian looked down.

Eric’s face had lost its usual distance. The collar shared each pulse of pain, but the fear in Eric’s eyes belonged to something older.

“You knew,” Ian said.

“Knew what?”

“That they put lockstone in the cell walls.”

Eric removed his gloves and threw them aside. “I ordered your transfer to the western rooms after your first week.”

“Silas canceled it.”

Eric’s head lifted.

“He said the order came from you,” Ian continued. “He showed me your seal.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

“I never signed it.”

“Then your uncle has been borrowing your crown.”

Eric bandaged the wound, rose, and reached for his phone.

Ian caught his wrist.

“Not yet.”

“He kept you in a poisoned cell.”

“And he wants you angry enough to act without thinking.”

Eric looked at Ian’s hand on him.

Ian released it.

“Find out why he needs me weak,” Ian said. “Then destroy him properly.”

“You speak as if you plan to help.”

“I plan to watch.”

Another tiny sound came from behind the wall.

Ian turned his head.

Eric stepped between him and the panel again, but too late. A new scent had slipped through the seam.

Warm milk. Snow. Black pine.

And beneath it, unmistakable as Ian’s own heartbeat, the wild cedar scent of Ironfang.

Ian stood despite the pain.

The collar flashed.

“That child smells like me.”

Eric’s silence became a confession.

Ian’s claws emerged.

“Open the door.”

“Not tonight.”

“Open it.”

“He is asleep.”

From behind the wall came an indignant little voice.

“No, I’m not.”

Ian stared at Eric.

Eric rubbed one hand over his face, looking for the first time like a man rather than a king.

“You have a son,” Ian said.

“Yes.”

“And he carries my scent.”

Eric did not answer.

Ian took one step toward the hidden door.

“If you stand between me and that child again,” he said softly, “the collar will let you feel exactly how I kill you.”

Eric did not threaten him back.

“I know,” he said.

The answer contained enough grief to stop Ian for half a second. Eric used it to call Maya and order the eastern corridor cleared of council guards. He also demanded the original custody records from the Moon Shrine.

“Custody,” Ian repeated.

“A legal word, not a moral defense.”

“At least you understand the difference.”

Eric opened a drawer and removed a stack of drawings. Every page showed the same three wolves. Some had crowns. Some carried swords. In one, the smaller black-haired wolf stood outside a locked gate while the silver child reached through the bars.

Ian’s throat tightened.

“He drew these?”

“He started asking about you when he was two.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That you were alive. That you were brave. That one day I would make the situation safe enough for him to meet you.”

“You had two years.”

“Every time I ordered your release, someone attacked the transport.”

Ian looked at the child’s uneven drawing of Eric lying beside a bed.

“And you kept accepting failure.”

Eric’s scent sharpened with shame. “Yes.”

It was the first unqualified admission Ian had ever heard from him.

Behind the wall, a music box began to play. The melody was an Ironfang marching song Ian’s mother used to hum when he was small.

No Nightfall wolf should have known it.

Ian placed his palm against the panel.

On the other side, a much smaller hand pressed back.

Ian kept his palm there until the music ended. Eric remained several feet away, granting him the moment. For once, neither Alpha challenged the other. The quiet between them carried more tension than their fight.

“Tomorrow,” Eric said. “I will tell you everything.”

Ian looked at the small hand’s outline fading from the wood. “You no longer control when the truth arrives.”

“I know.”

Outside, the full-moon bells marked midnight. Ian realized the promised tomorrow had already begun, and Eric no longer possessed even a minute in which to hide.

Neither of them slept.

Beyond the windows, snow covered every path that had once separated them.