Reject me twice (Kira and Theron) novel Chapter 101

[Kira’s POV]

Malik returns three days after the siege, road dust on his coat, and the account he delivers is deeply unsettling.

“Shadowpine held,” he says, standing at the map table with the road dust still on his coat. “Theron commanded the center with competence and restraint. A defector from Cyrus’s camp proved instrumental in the tactical planning.”

“The defector,” Damon says from beside me. “Theron’s message mentioned a source but gave no details.”

“Her name is Ciri, and she’s Cyrus’s sister — and Celeste’s actually. She was sent to infiltrate Shadowpine as a spy but turned against her brother’s mission.”

“Celeste’s sister,” Elara’s voice is quiet from her seat by the window. “That’s a complication with layers.”

“But it’s not what can’t wait,” Malik sets his hands flat on the table, and the gesture tells me the real briefing is beginning. “When Cyrus was captured, he said that nothing is over yet. Not sure what he meant, but I think we should pay attention to this anyway.”

The chamber goes still.

“Do we have any names?” I ask.

“He didn’t give any particular. Just asked who provided intelligence on the Broken Crown.”

I look at Damon. His jaw is tight: “Malik, sit down. We need to discuss this properly.”

The four of us settle around the council table.

“Let’s review everything we know,” I say. “Magnus arrived at the Silver Throne six months ago. He was charming, intelligent, and offered cooperation against the Broken Crown without being asked, right?”

“The cooperation was genuine,” Damon says. “His intelligence led to three successful raids that dismantled Crown operations across the eastern territories. Wolves bled and died in those raids — his wolves, alongside ours.”

“Which is exactly the pattern that concerns me.” Malik’s voice carries the flat precision of a man laying out a case he’s been building in his head for days.

“Every favor Magnus has done has brought him closer to us, to our inner circle, closer to the people and information that matter. The Broken Crown cooperation earned him access to our intelligence network. The Shadowpine deployment put his wolves inside allied defenses. Each act of generosity expanded his reach.”

“You’re describing an ally,” Damon says. “That’s what allies do — they cooperate, build trust, they earn access through demonstrated reliability. If we start treating every act of good faith as evidence of conspiracy, we’ll have no allies left.”

“It’s a pattern that could indicate either genuine alliance or sophisticated infiltration. The two look identical from the outside, that’s what makes the second one effective.”

“Malik has a point,” Elara says, her voice carrying the measured diplomacy that once navigated her through years as a hostage. “But so does Damon. Magnus has given us material, measurable assistance. Questioning an ally who’s bled alongside your wolves carries a cost erodes the trust that makes alliances function in the first place.”

“If Magnus is what he appears, an investigation finds nothing and we proceed with confidence.” Malik says. “If he’s something else, we find out before his position becomes unassailable.”

“What specifically worries you beyond the pattern?” I ask. “Defeated Cyrus might say whatever he wanted to manipulate and cause maximum doubts and damage.”

“Agreed, it could be manipulation, but his questions weren’t random. I’ve run those operations myself, Kira, and I know what they look like from the inside. Magnus’s trajectory matches the playbook with uncomfortable precision.”

“No one is that generous,” Damon murmurs, and the admission costs him something visible — a concession from a man who wants to believe in the ally he’s fought beside. “Every favor, every deployment, every piece of intelligence. He’s never asked for anything in return.”

“That’s the part that should concern us most,” Malik says. “A man who gives freely is building credit he intends to spend.”

I let the silence settle.

Castiel comes barreling toward us — walking now, generous for the careening momentum of a child whose legs haven’t learned to cooperate with his impossible strength. He collides with Damon’s shins hard enough to make his father wince.

“Easy, little wolf,” Damon says, scooping him up. “You’re going to break my legs before you’re two.”

Lyra sits in the center of the nursery, surrounded by a gentle orbit of floating toys — a wooden horse, a cloth doll, three carved blocks suspended like satellites. She sees me and the toys drift higher, spinning in a delighted spiral.

I lift her into my arms. She’s warm, solid, smells like lavender, and her silver markings shimmer faintly along her forearms.

“Mama,” she says, and the word is still new enough to undo me completely.

I hold my daughter and watch my son attempt to climb Damon’s chest, and for a moment the council chamber feels very far away.

Then Castiel reaches for Lyra, and she reaches back, and the air between their hands hums with a power that makes the candles flicker and the floating toys tremble.

The silver markings on both children flare brighter than last week, brighter than the week before.

They’re growing, as well as their power. And somewhere beyond these walls, there are people who see my children and calculate value, look at miracles and see resources.

I hold my twins closer. Whatever threat is building in the spaces we haven’t learned to watch — it will not touch them. I will burn the world to bedrock before I let it touch them.