I pressed my claw-tip to the courier stone, letting my scent seal the reply:
"Understood. I'll meet you at the boundary in three days."
When the third dawn broke, I said nothing of Aurora's deception. I traveled to the edge of the Outcast Grounds where they released wolves who had served their bond-sentences.
I caught her scent before I saw her—deliberately muted, layered with false notes of suffering. She stood near the boundary marker dressed in torn furs, playing the part of a she-wolf broken by three years of isolation and resource rationing. She'd even used ash and herb-paste to paint a false scar across her muzzle.
When her eyes found me, she limped forward and threw herself against my chest.
"Alaric!"
She pressed into me, her eyes glistening with practiced tears.
"I worked so hard to prove my worth during the sanction. The Pack Elders said my behavior was beyond reproach, so they lifted my sentence early." Her voice shook with rehearsed emotion. "Alaric, these past few years must have been so difficult for you."
She gazed up at me with such devotion—as if she had truly endured three years of pack exile.
I eased her back, keeping my expression still as stone. "It's good you're free."
Aurora hesitated. Something flickered behind her golden eyes. She seemed to sense the wrongness in the air between us. But then, in the next heartbeat, she seized my wrist.
"Alaric, what happened to your arm?"
Her concern appeared genuine. The worry creasing her brow didn't seem false.
But I found it hollow.
Aurora, what game are you playing now?
You're the one who sent those wolves—the rogue enforcers disguised as outsider claw-gangs who beat me until my bones cracked and my flesh tore.
And now you pretend you didn't know?
A deep weariness settled into my chest. Or perhaps I was simply afraid to face what would happen when her lies finally collapsed around us.
"It's nothing. I fell during a hunt." I pulled my hand free from her grip. "The den-healers said it will mend with time."
Aurora let out a breath, her shoulders dropping with visible relief. "That's good to hear."
She reached for my hand again, threading her fingers through mine with exaggerated tenderness.
"The damage is to your weaving hand. If it worsens and affects your scent-work, you'll be devastated." Her voice dripped with honeyed concern.
Every word cut deeper than claws.
I used to possess extraordinary talent. My ward-weaves had won recognition across territories. Pack leaders sought my work to stabilize their borders. Everyone said I had a brilliant future as a scent-weaver.
But for the experimental healing trials. For the territory resources.
To secure Aurora's early release from her sanction.
I let them damage my scent-channels and shatter the bones in my weaving hand.
Now I can't even hold a marking brush. My ability to weave wards is gone.
And it turns out all of it—every sacrifice I made—was just part of some twisted punishment game Aurora had designed.
How pathetic I must seem.
I stayed silent the entire journey back to the den. Aurora grew visibly nervous, filling the quiet with a stream of chatter—stories about her time in isolation, carefully rehearsed tales she'd clearly gathered from other wolves or pulled from old pack records.
All to convince me she'd really spent three years locked away from the world.
I listened without truly hearing. When she finally paused, I asked quietly:
"Aurora."
"Did I do something to wrong you?"
She went rigid. Her eyes reddened as she turned to face me.
"What do you mean, Alaric? Why would you ask such a thing?"
My mind drifted to the last time I'd been permitted to visit her supposed isolation den.
I'd been so happy. I'd saved my meager hunting portions for weeks, traded what little I had for fresh meat and herbs, prepared everything with my own hands, and brought it to her.
No wonder she'd wrinkled her nose and refused to eat.
The food was too common for her refined palate.
Of course it was. I thought she'd been suffering in exile for three years.
But the whole time, she'd been traveling across distant territories with her omega aide—feasting at alliance gatherings and tribute galas.
Why would she ever lower herself to share my hardship?
Even that den visit had been theater. She'd paid off the guards to stage the scene and play her part.
Three years. Three years I'd been their fool, their plaything, running in circles while they laughed at my devotion.
Tears slid down my face before I could stop them.
Aurora's composure cracked. She lunged forward, dabbing at my cheeks with her sleeve.
"Alaric, why are you crying? Did someone hurt you?"
