"Why not the south cabins?"

"Because thirty-four refugees in cramped quarters tells him our absorption capacity is at its limit. That's information he can use."

I nodded. This was why two Alphas worked. Not because we agreed on everything. Because when we disagreed, the answer we landed on was better than either one alone.

* * *

We gave Harlan three days.

I conducted the tour myself. Kieran walked beside me — silent for the most part, watching Harlan the way a wolf watches a wolf, with the patient attention of someone cataloguing every micro-expression, every eye movement, every moment where Harlan's gaze lingered a second longer than casual interest required.

I showed him the training yard. Sera had sixty fighters running drills — not the full count, but enough to make the number feel large. They moved with the coordinated efficiency that three months of joint training had produced. Harlan watched. His face was politely impressed. His eyes were counting.

I showed him the walls. The rebuilt south section, stone now, two feet thicker. The reinforced gate. The watchtower with its second platform. Harlan ran his hand along the stone — testing the mortar, I realized. Checking whether the construction was solid or cosmetic.

"Impressive work," he said. "For the timeline."

"We're good at rebuilding," I said.

I showed him the gardens. The school cabin where six children sat through lessons. The medical station, where Isla was treating a sprained ankle and doing a convincing impression of a healer with adequate supplies.

Harlan asked questions. Good ones. How many wolves in the alliance. How the territory was governed. What the relationship was between the different factions. He asked them the way a diplomat would — neutral, interested, recorded. He asked them the way an intelligence officer would — noting what I answered quickly, what I answered slowly, and what I didn't answer at all.

His offer was clean. Trade restoration. Provisional recognition. Council willing to consider Ashenmoor as a legitimate territory with negotiated autonomy, pending goodwill discussions. All he needed was open dialogue and a gesture of good faith.

"What kind of gesture?" I asked.

"Access. Council would like to send a medical delegation. Healers. Supplies. A humanitarian visit."

I saw Kieran's hands go still at his sides. A medical delegation. Healers who would need to visit every part of the territory. Who would see the supply stores, the medical station, the refugee cabins, the children. Who would see Lily.

"We'll consider it," I said.

Harlan smiled. The kind of smile that a diplomat practices until it becomes reflex. "Of course. No pressure. Council understands the value of time."

* * *

He left on the morning of the fourth day. Polite. Professional. Thanked us for the hospitality. Shook my hand. Shook Kieran's hand. Walked north with the same unhurried pace he'd arrived with.

Torren found me that evening.

"Boot prints," he said. He had a map of the compound, marked with red charcoal. "South wall. The inner corridor behind the supply shed. The ridge path above the refugee cabins."

I looked at the marks. Every location Torren had flagged was a place we hadn't shown Harlan. Places he'd gone on his own. At night, presumably — Torren's watch had two wolves on him at all times, but the compound was large and the nights were dark.

"He mapped us," Torren said.

"I know."

"The places he went — they're all approach vectors. The south wall. The ridge line. The supply route." Torren tapped the map. "He was planning an assault, Rhea. In his head, while he was shaking your hand, he was planning how to take this territory."

I looked at the red marks. South. The same direction Aldric's army had come from five months ago. The same wall they'd burned. The same approach, but this time with better intelligence.

"He wasn't planning it," I said. "He was gathering data for someone who will."

I folded the map. The diplomatic smile. The polite questions. The clean boots. Three days of a man pretending to offer peace while memorizing the layout of the thing he was planning to destroy.

"They're not done with us," I said.

Torren didn't respond. He didn't need to. We both knew what Harlan's visit meant. The embargo wasn't the strategy. It was the preparation. And now Aldric had exactly what he needed to design whatever came next.