Reject Me Twice

Chapter 120

Magnus departs before dawn. Twenty wolves, packed and mounted, riding north through the palace gates in grey half-light.

No ceremony and no farewell, and I believe I shouldn’t explain why.

I watch from the upper gallery as the last rider passes beneath the arch and the gates swing closed, sealing the courtyard in the silence of a house that has just expelled something it mistook for family.

The court wakes to find the Ironridge delegation gone and the alliance officially dissolved. I address the council with a statement drafted at three in the morning.

"The Ironridge partnership has been dissolved by mutual agreement. Strategic differences in approach made continued alliance untenable. The crown extends its gratitude for Alpha Ironridge's service during the Broken Crown dismantlement and wishes his territory continued prosperity."

I don't mention the Transfer or the twins. The court accepts it with the practiced ease of people who know when not to ask questions.

Malik restructures the intelligence network in the days that follow.

"He mapped more than I'd like to admit," Malik tells me during a late briefing. "Guard rotations, ward placements, courier routes across five territories. I've closed the critical vulnerabilities — nursery wing, palace interior, and the Shadowpine routes. The rest takes months to fully rebuild."

"Start with the borders. I want to know the moment anything bearing an Ironridge crest moves south."

"Already done. I have watchers on every northern road and three scouts embedded in the territories between here and Ironridge. If Magnus sends a rider, I'll know before the horse is saddled."

"Good, because we're bringing the twins home."

"Theron's escort is ready. They can leave Shadowpine at first light tomorrow."

"Tell him. And, Malik… Also tell him thank you. What he did for those children, the patience he showed Castiel, the way Ciri cared for Lyra — I won't forget it."

"Theron won't accept thanks. He'll say it was duty."

"Then let him say it. I'll know the truth anyway."

They arrive three days later. Castiel sees me first — his face transforms into incandescent recognition, and he launches himself from the nursemaid's arms with a force that staggers the woman backward.

"Mama! Mama came back!"

He hits my legs at full speed. I catch him and lift him and hold him against my chest, his arms locking around my neck with the grip that bruises ribs: the grip I missed with every heartbeat he was gone.

"I'm here, baby. I told you I'd see you soon."

"Mama stay now? No more trips?"

"Exactly. You're home!"

Lyra is quieter. Malik carries her from the carriage, and when she sees me her silver-blue eyes fill with something vast and knowing.

She reaches with both hands, presses her palm against my cheek: reading, confirming, making certain the mother who left is the mother who returned. I hold both children and let the weight of them against my chest be the only truth that matters.

The homecoming is quiet and private: just family.

We gather in my chambers that evening. Damon and Elara on the sofa, the twins on the floor with toys, Malik by the fire with Castiel climbing his legs. I lean against the doorframe and hold the image like a photograph — this room, these people, firelight on my brother's face, Malik's hand on his son's back.

"He'll come back," I say quietly, and the room stills.

"Magnus believes he's right, and such men don't stop. He left because we forced his hand. The ritual knowledge is still in his possession, the convergence site still exists, and the twins' power keeps growing."

"Of course, we won’t take his leave for granted. We prepare," Damon says. "Every day is a day we use."

"The Transfer window narrows as the children age," Elara adds. "Their power bonds more firmly to their identities with each passing month. Time favors us, not him."

"He'll know that too," Malik says. "Which means if he moves, it's soon — within the year."

"Twins are almost two already, so we'll be waiting," Damon says.

A runner appears at the chamber door, carrying a small parcel wrapped in oilcloth.

"Your Majesty, this arrived at the northern checkpoint at dawn. A rider bearing Ironridge colors left it without a word."

I take it: dark green wax — the Ironridge crest. Malik sets Castiel down and rises with coiled readiness.

"Careful," he says.

I break the seal. Inside is a leather-bound journal, old, cracked at the spine, smelling of dust and cedarwood. A note folded on top in Magnus's hand — rawer than his diplomatic script, the pen pressed harder.

I read it aloud.

"'I was your friend, and I need you to know that was real. Everything I did for this court, for Damon, for your wolves — that was real, but this is also real. Both things at the same time, and that's what makes this impossible.'"

Silence.

"What is he doing?" Damon asks, his voice tight. "Is this a threat? An apology?"

"It's Magnus being exactly who he's always been," Elara says quietly. "A man who holds contradictions without flinching. He meant friendship and the threat, and he's telling us both truths because lying about either one would make him less than what he believes he is."

"He's warning us," Malik says. "Read the journal."

I open it. Dense, ancient, meticulous documentation — ritual protocols, ley line maps, convergence calculations, transfer procedures annotated in different hands spanning centuries.

"Elara, it's the complete archive. Every version of the Transfer and every variation of his bloodline is preserved across seventeen generations."

"He sent us his family's most guarded secret?" Damon's voice carries disbelief sharpened into something harder. "Why would he do that?"

"The man who was our friend couldn't bring himself to win through our ignorance," Malik says. "He wants to take the twins' power. He also wants us to have every chance of stopping him. He's giving us the tools to build defenses against his own attack."

"That's either noble or insane."

"It's Magnus, so both at the same time."

I hand Malik the journal without another word. He opens the first page and goes very still: it’s the stillness of a Commander absorbing the tactical scope of what he's holding. An entire bloodline's knowledge of the most forbidden practice in wolf history, delivered by the man who intends to use it.

He turns a page, then another, his eyes scanning the dense annotations with the focused intensity I've only seen when he's building a strategy that will determine whether people live or die.

Our eyes meet. The bond carries everything — fear that Magnus will return, fury that his friendship was real enough to hurt, and beneath it the iron-clad certainty that we will face whatever comes the way we've faced everything else.

Castiel climbs Malik's leg again. Lyra levitates a block toward her brother, who catches it with a grip that cracks the wood. Damon pulls Elara closer.

I cross the room, sit on the floor beside my children, and Lyra's hand finds my arm while Castiel leans against my side. The journal sits on the table — Magnus's gift, warning, and the shape of the fight still coming.