Ashcroft does not scream when the silver lattice locks around him.
He does not curse.
He does not beg.
He simply looks at me — and something in his expression shifts from fury to calculation.
That is what unsettles me.
He isn’t defeated.
He is recalibrating.
Morgan’s restraints tighten, silver threads woven through harmonic ward geometry. His field — what little remains of it — flickers faintly and then goes quiet.
Neutralized.
Not dead.
But rendered structurally inert.
That was the intention.
Not martyrdom.
Not spectacle.
Containment.
The courtyard is silent.
No wolves howl.
No one cheers.
The pack watches, not triumphant — but shaken.
An eight-year-old divine wolf lies dead three territories south.
And the man responsible kneels in their midst.
The cost is real.
The
