Page 132 of A Warrior's Fate

Isla put her arms up slowly, showing she didn’t mean any trouble.

As the woman’s body relaxed, Isla began, “Are you—”

“There is still no additional news regarding the challenging of Alpha Kai.”

Isla snapped her head towards an older couple huddled in the corner of the room over a small radio broadcasting the Pack Report. The transmission was faint and grainy, but she picked up on what she could.

Reporters and journalists were already flocking the Pack Hall, even in the early hours, looking out for any member of the council, Beta Ezekiel, or Kai himself for any word or comment, but no one had emerged.

Twelve had died during the attacks last night. Among them, one of the pack’s deltas.

Over fifty people had been injured in some capacity, two of which were in critical condition.

And most of all, they urged the public not to panic.

“What a disaster,” the woman at the desk said softly.

But Isla couldn’t pay it any heed, too focused on listening as the reporter had gone on to comment on Kai—

“I’ve been around to experience all three of these alpha shifts—Rainer, Kyran, and now Kai—and I’d say I certainly had my doubts, but I’ve liked the alpha’s tenure so far. It’s easy to forget our leaders are people, and he rose to the occasion in circumstances that would’ve broken many of us, odds against him and all. He’s the youngest alpha to take the mantle in a while, sure, but he’s shown promise. I’ve liked his proposals for the pack these past few months and how he’s handled himself after the tragedies, not to mention his triumphs in the Hunt.”

“That begs the question, who would be foolish enough to challenge him,” another voice responded.

“We’ve heard the speculations.”

No elaboration was made, but Isla figured she knew what was being alluded to. What Davina had said. Whoever was challenging Kai may have had something to do with his father’s death.

“I have family who lives in Charon,” the woman at the desk spoke again, and this time, Isla turned to her. “They went through a challenge and an alpha bloodline change maybe thirty years ago, and the pack has been in turmoil ever since. It’s a complete tyranny. My cousin suspects foul play, maybe some involvement from…” Catching herself, she waved a hand. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling. What can I help you with, dear?”

Something in Isla was begging her to push the elder woman. To find out where she was going with her theories. But she’d already wasted too much time. “I need to make a call.”

“That is what we do,” the woman said, attempting to lighten the situation as she angled her body to a switchboard-looking device, littered with buttons and small levers, trailed by long wires along the floor. “Where can I connect you?”

“Io’s Imperial City.”

It felt like the entire room arrested.

The woman’s features dropped, and Isla could feel two pairs of eyes searing into her back.

“We can’t do that, unfortunately,” the woman said, righting herself to face Isla fully again.

“Can’t you call any region from here?”

“Calls into the Imperial Pack aren’t permitted.” The woman’s own face matched Isla’s perplexity, though for different reasons. “Those are the rules of the Imperials, and they have been for a very, very long time.”

She spoke as though Isla should’ve known, but as a member of Deimos. Not as who she really was.

She wished she could’ve kept it that way, left her identity in the dark, but there was no time. The only other place one could make calls out of Deimos was likely the Pack Hall, and there wasn’t a chance she’d make it up there, either within the window she needed or through the reporters.

“I’m from Io,” Isla said, and instantly felt the room shift again. She steeled against it, that feeling of being out of place. “I need to call home.”

She watched as the woman’s fingers curled into fists on the counter. Another reflex. “Unfortunately, we still can’t do that.”

Isla let out a breath, ready to face whatever judgment would come her way. “Imperial Beta Malakai is my father. An exception will be made to whatever rule, I’m sure.” For proof, she fished her identification card from her pocket—boasting her name, familial line, and the Imperial crest—and placed it on the table.

The woman’s eyes widened, flickering between the card and Isla’s face. She wouldn’t move her hands, wouldn’t touch it. The radio had been lowered, and whispers of the couple behind carried over it.

“Why is she here?”

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