Chapter 36
title: "The Price of Witnesses" wordCount: 2808
Garrett's voice cuts through the chaos like a blade through silk.
"Three days, Carrigan. Prove your blood or I will spill it."
The room goes silent again. Two hundred and thirty-seven wolves holding their breath, waiting to see if I'll flinch.
I don't.
"The challenge will take place at the Claiming Grounds," Garrett continues, his tone conversational, like we're discussing dinner plans instead of my execution. "With the full Conclave as witnesses. Standard terms apply—no interference, no weapons, fight to yield or death." He pauses, and his smile widens just a fraction. "But before we begin, Sloane Carrigan, you will present evidence of your bloodline claim to the Council of Elders. Testimony, documentation, blood verification—whatever you can provide. If you cannot prove you are who you say you are, the challenge is forfeit and you will be executed as an imposter attempting to destabilize pack hierarchy."
My nails dig into my palms. The scar through my eyebrow throbs.
"That is not standard challenge protocol," someone shouts from the back. I recognize the voice—Tobias, the archivist who helped me find information about Dad's jacket. "Bloodline challenges require only the claim itself and the physical contest."
"Standard protocol applies to recognized pack members," Garrett says smoothly. "Sloane Carrigan has been legally dead for eight years. The Carrigan Pack was dissolved. Its territory absorbed. Its bloodline ended." He turns to face the crowd, playing to them now. "We cannot allow anyone to walk into this hall, claim a dead name, and demand leadership. That would be chaos. That would be the end of everything our ancestors built."
Murmurs of agreement ripple through the room. Not everyone, but enough.
"She has the Carrigan face," a woman calls out. "Anyone can see it."
"Resemblance is not proof," Garrett counters. "I am not unreasonable. I am giving her three days to provide evidence. If she is truly Marcus Carrigan's daughter, surely she can prove it."
The trap closes around me with perfect precision. He knew I was coming. He has been ready for this.
"I accept your terms," I say, because what choice do I have.
Garrett inclines his head. "Then we have an accord. Three days, Sloane Carrigan. I look forward to seeing what you bring me."
He turns back to the Conclave as if I'm already dismissed, already irrelevant. "Now, shall we continue with the leadership ceremony, or does anyone else wish to interrupt?"
No one speaks.
I should leave. I should walk out with my head high, my father's jacket on my shoulders, and figure out how the hell I'm going to prove I'm not a ghost.
Instead, I stand there, frozen, while the Conclave reorganizes itself around me like I'm a stone in a river. Wolves move past me, some staring, some deliberately not looking. The ceremony resumes. Garrett's voice fills the hall again, smooth and confident, leading the oath.
A hand touches my elbow.
"Come on," Declan says quietly. "We need to leave."
Yeah, no. I need to stay. I need to watch Garrett, figure out his angle, understand what he's planning.
But Declan's grip tightens, just slightly, and I let him guide me toward the exit because my legs are moving on autopilot and my brain is three steps behind, still processing the impossible task Garrett just handed me.
Prove your blood or I will spill it.
The hallway outside the Conclave Hall is empty except for us and Tobias, who's waiting by a stone pillar with his arms crossed and his expression grim.
"That was a masterclass in political maneuvering," he says as soon as we're out of earshot. "Garrett just made himself look reasonable and you look desperate."
"Thanks for the analysis," I mutter. "Real helpful."
"I am trying to help." Tobias pushes off the pillar and steps closer, lowering his voice. "Do you understand what he just did? He made the challenge conditional. If you cannot prove your bloodline, you die before you ever set foot in the Claiming Grounds. No fight. No chance. Just execution."
"I got that part."
"Do you have proof?"
I touch the watch on my wrist. 11:47 PM. The time everything ended.
"Not my circus," I start to say, but the words stick in my throat because it is my circus now. I walked into that hall and claimed it.
"Sloane." Tobias's voice is gentler now. "Proving bloodline requires either a living parent's testimony or access to official pack records. Your father is dead. Your mother—"
"Do not talk about my mother."
"—is missing," he finishes quietly. "And the Carrigan Pack records were destroyed in the massacre. The Conclave archives might have copies, but they are restricted. Only Council members and senior archivists have access, and Garrett has allies in both groups who will make sure you find nothing."
Declan moves closer to me, a solid presence at my back. "Can you get us access?"
Tobias hesitates. His hand goes to his pocket, then drops. "I can try. But if I am caught helping you, I lose my position. Possibly my life, depending on how vindictive Garrett is feeling."
"Then do not help," I say flatly. "Not my circus."
"It is everyone's circus now." Tobias meets my eyes, and I see something there I did not expect—genuine concern. "Your father was a good man. He helped my family when no one else would. If you are truly his daughter, then I owe him this much."
The words hit harder than they should. Dad helped people. Dad was good. Dad is dead because of Garrett Voss, and I am standing here with nothing but a jacket and a scar and three days to prove I deserve to exist.
"What do you need from me?" I ask.
"Time. And a distraction." Tobias glances back toward the Conclave Hall. "The archives are in the lower levels. I can search tonight while everyone is focused on the ceremony, but I need you to stay visible. If Garrett thinks you are planning something, he will lock down the archives completely."
"Where should we go?"
"Anywhere public. Anywhere he can see you." Tobias pulls out his phone, types something quickly, then shows me the screen. An address. "This is my personal line. I will contact you if I find anything. If I do not reach out by dawn, assume I found nothing—or that I was stopped."
He leaves before I can thank him, disappearing down a side corridor with the practiced efficiency of someone who knows how to move through this building unseen.
Declan and I stand in the empty hallway, the weight of three days pressing down on us like a physical thing.
"We should go," he says finally.
"Where?"
"Iris's apartment. We need to regroup."
I nod, but I do not move. My hand goes to the scar through my eyebrow, tracing the line of it. Eight years old. Still raised, still visible. Still a reminder that I survived when I should not have.
"Sloane." Declan's voice is careful. "That was not the whole truth."
"What?"
"What Garrett said. About the records being destroyed." He touches his left wrist—the tell I have learned means he is uncertain. "There are always copies. Always backups. Someone knows where they are."
"Yeah, and that someone is probably Garrett."
"Perhaps." Declan's eyes are dark, unreadable. "Or perhaps your mother."
The words hang between us like a blade.
"My mother is dead," I say automatically, the lie I have told myself for eight years.
"You do not know that."
"I do not know anything." The words come out sharper than I intend. "That is the problem. I do not know if she is alive. I do not know where the records are. I do not know how to prove I am who I say I am when everyone who could verify it is gone."
Declan steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, the solid reality of another person in this nightmare. "Then we find out. We have three days. We use them."
I want to believe him. I want to think three days is enough time to unravel eight years of lies and loss and find the one piece of evidence that will save my life.
But I have been surviving on borrowed time for too long to believe in easy answers.
"Let's go," I say, and this time I move.
Iris's apartment is a third-floor walk-up in the industrial district, the kind of place that smells like old coffee and new paint. She opens the door before we knock, her face tight with tension.
"Everyone's talking about it," she says by way of greeting. "The challenge. The terms. Half the city thinks you are insane, the other half thinks you are already dead."
"Great. Love that for me." I push past her into the apartment, which is small but clean, with mismatched furniture and blackout curtains over the windows. The Rogue Coalition is already here—Kade leaning against the kitchen counter, Mira sitting cross-legged on the floor with her phone out, Jax pacing by the window.
They all look at me when I enter. Waiting for orders. Waiting for a plan.
I have neither.
"Tobias is searching the archives," Declan says, filling the silence. "He will contact us if he finds anything."
"And if he does not?" Kade asks.
"Then we move to plan B."
"What is plan B?" Mira looks up from her phone.
Declan glances at me, then back to the group. "We break into Cascade Pack territory and steal Garrett's files. He was involved in the Carrigan massacre. He might have kept records—evidence, documentation, something we can use."
"That is suicide," Jax says flatly. "Cascade territory is locked down. Garrett has fifty wolves guarding his compound, and that is before he knows we are coming."
"Then we make sure he does not know."
"Or," Iris cuts in, her voice sharp, "we focus on finding Sloane's mother. If she is alive, her testimony would be irrefutable proof. No archives, no files, no breaking into enemy territory."
The room goes quiet.
"We do not know if she is alive," I say, but the words feel hollow.
"We do not know that she is not." Iris crosses her arms. "Sloane, if there is even a chance—"
"There is not."
"How do you know?"
Because I have spent eight years telling myself she is dead. Because believing she might be alive and choosing not to find me is worse than believing she is gone. Because I cannot handle the hope.
"We do not have time to chase ghosts," I say instead. "Garrett's files are concrete. They exist. We know where they are."
"And your mother?" Iris presses.
"Is not part of this plan."
"She should be."
"She is not."
The words come out too hard, too final. Iris flinches, and I see the hurt flash across her face before she hides it.
Kade clears his throat. "We could split up. Half of us go after the files, half search for Sloane's mother."
"We do not have the numbers for that," Jax says. "And we definitely do not have the time. Three days is not enough to do both."
"Then we choose," Mira says quietly. "Files or family. Which one gives us the best chance?"
Everyone looks at me again. Waiting.
I want to scream. I want to walk out of this apartment and keep walking until I hit the ocean and then keep going. I want to rewind eight years and tell my sixteen-year-old self to run faster, hide better, survive smarter.
Instead, I stand in the middle of Iris's living room with my father's jacket on my shoulders and my mother's absence in my chest and no idea which impossible choice will keep me alive.
"I need air," I say, and I walk out onto the balcony before anyone can stop me.
The city spreads out below me, lights flickering in the darkness. Somewhere out there, Garrett is celebrating his victory. Somewhere out there, Tobias is risking his life searching for records that might not exist. Somewhere out there, my mother is either dead or alive, and I do not know which possibility terrifies me more.
The balcony door opens behind me. I do not turn around.
"You cannot do this alone," Declan says.
"Watch me."
"Sloane."
"I am serious. I have been alone for eight years. I am good at it."
"That is not the same thing as wanting it."
I grip the balcony railing hard enough that my knuckles go white. "What do you want me to say? That I am scared? That I have no idea what I am doing? That I walked into that Conclave Hall with nothing but rage and a dead man's jacket and now I am supposed to prove I deserve to exist in three days or die trying?"
"I want you to let us help."
"You are helping. You are all helping. And it is still not enough." I finally turn to face him. "Garrett knew I was alive, Declan. He has known all along. Which means he has been planning for this. Which means whatever proof I need, he has already destroyed it or hidden it or made sure I will never find it."
"You do not know that."
"I know him. I know how he operates. He does not make mistakes."
"Everyone makes mistakes."
"Not Garrett Voss."
Declan steps closer, and in the dim light from the apartment behind us, I can see the frustration in his eyes. "You are giving up before you have even started."
"I am being realistic."
"You are being afraid."
The words hit like a slap. My hand goes to the scar through my eyebrow, tracing it without thinking.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "I am afraid. I have been afraid for eight years. Fear is the only thing that has kept me alive."
"And now?"
"Now I am still afraid. But I am also angry. And I am tired of running." I meet his eyes. "I am going to fight Garrett Voss in three days, and I am probably going to die, but at least I will die as myself. As Sloane Carrigan. Not as the ghost everyone thinks I am."
Declan is quiet for a long moment. Then he says, "I would not let you die."
"You might not have a choice."
"I would find a way."
The certainty in his voice does something strange to my chest. I look away, back at the city, because I cannot handle whatever is happening between us right now on top of everything else.
"We should go back inside," I say. "Figure out the plan."
But before either of us can move, the temperature drops. Not gradually—instantly, like someone opened a freezer door. My breath mists in the air. The lights in the apartment behind us flicker.
Declan tenses. "Sloane—"
She appears between one blink and the next, standing on the balcony railing like gravity is optional. Lyra. Silver hair, silver eyes, wearing a dress that looks like it is made of moonlight and smoke.
"Hello, little Carrigan," she says, and her voice is wind chimes and warning. "We need to talk."
I take a step back. Declan moves in front of me, protective, but Lyra just laughs.
"The wolf thinks he can stop me. How charming." She hops down from the railing with inhuman grace, landing without a sound. "I am not here to hurt her, Thorne. I am here to help."
"We do not need your help," I say, but my voice shakes.
"Oh, but you do." Lyra tilts her head, studying me like I am a puzzle she is trying to solve. "You need proof of your bloodline. You need it in three days. And you need it to be irrefutable, because Garrett Voss will challenge every piece of evidence you bring him."
"How do you know that?"
"I know many things. I know where your mother is being held. I know what happened the night your pack died. I know what your father really was, and what you are becoming." She smiles, and it is not a kind expression. "I can give you everything you need, Sloane Carrigan. Proof. Testimony. Truth."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "What do you want in return?"
"Just a conversation. Just the truth." Lyra's eyes gleam in the darkness. "Your father was not the man you think he was, and neither are you. Do you want to know what you really are, Sloane Carrigan?"
Every instinct I have screams at me to say no. To walk away. To refuse whatever deal she is offering.
But I think about Garrett's smile. I think about three days. I think about dying before I ever get to fight.
Lyra extends her hand.
My hand moves toward hers before I can stop myself.