When I returned to the pack from my travels, all I found of my master was a heap of ruined flesh.
Every bone in his body was gone. His Wolf Core, ripped clean from his chest. My senior pack brothers and sisters were nowhere to be found.
Matron Thornwell sat before his corpse, her aged voice calling out to me.
"Lynara, your master traded his life for every ranked wolf's ascension to Celestial status. You should go report to the Sovereign Grounds too."
Only then did I learn the truth. Fenris Voss, Supreme Alpha of the Realm Council, ruler of all Three Territories, had needed a Wolf Core to graft a werewolf physiology onto his mortal mate. He'd chosen my master. The one with the strongest spiritual affinity. A Moonheart Core, the rarest kind in existence.
In exchange for allowing every ranked wolf of the Dawnveil Pack to receive Celestial Rank, he had ripped every bone and sinew from my master's body and torn the Wolf Core from his living chest.
I've had a flaw for as long as I can remember. I don't cry. I don't laugh. The whole pack called me cold-blooded.
Now, staring at the mangled remains of the man who had saved my life and raised me as his own pup, I was still calm. Somewhere deep below my ribs, in the hollow space where my wolf usually stirred, there was only silence. Not grief. Not rage. Just silence, vast and flat and wrong.
"Matron, did Master agree to this willingly?"
Her eyes reddened instantly.
"Fenris Voss is the last Primordial Alpha in existence. What he says goes. We never had a choice."
I gave a quiet "oh."
"If Master didn't agree to it willingly, then Fenris Voss deserves to die."
The Matron seized my arm, her voice tight with worry. "Lynara, before your master drew his last breath, he told all of you to take care of yourselves. Don't throw your life away picking a fight with a Primordial Alpha."
I pulled my wrist free, lifted my gaze toward the Sovereign Grounds far above the mountain line, and smiled faintly.
"Matron, Master said not to fight a Primordial Alpha. He never said anything about killing one."
——
I turned and walked back to my courtyard. Without a word, I dropped to my knees and began digging through the soil beneath the spirit-blossom tree with my bare hands. The earth was cold. It smelled of mountain sage and old pine, and something underneath that, something that smelled like safety itself. My master's scent, soaked into the roots.
Before long, a short blade caked in dirt saw daylight again. The air around it held no scent at all. A void where scent should be, unsettling in a way that made the Matron flinch back before she caught herself.
She rushed after me and snatched the blade from my grip, tears brimming in her eyes.
"Lynara, I know you want to avenge your master."
"But Fenris Voss is a Primordial Alpha. With this unremarkable little blade, you cannot defeat him."
"Please don't throw your life away for nothing."
"Your master said it himself. Trading one life for the future of every ranked wolf in the pack was worth it."
But I knew Master was lying.
One look at the wreckage strewn across the Dawnveil territory told the whole story. The moment Fenris Voss killed him, every last pack member had followed the Supreme Alpha away without hesitation. Their scent trails led outward, all of them, not a single one circling back.
Not a single one stayed behind to bury him.
For a pack of wolves that heartless, did Master truly believe it was worth it?
Faced with my silence, the Matron's eyes grew redder still.
But she was terrified I would do something reckless, so she swallowed her own tears and forced a smile. I could smell the salt on her, dried lavender and hearth-smoke and beneath it all, the faint undercurrent of tears that never fully dried.
"Lynara, you came back, didn't you? As long as you remember your master, that's enough."
Desperate to smother the hatred in my heart, she hurried into the kitchen and brought out a pot still faintly warm with steam.
"Lynara, our Dawnveil Pack is small. We don't have the power. Let's not talk about revenge."
"Look. Your master stewed this pigeon soup for you right before he died."
"He said you must have suffered on the road. You were already too thin, he said. You needed to eat properly."
I reached out and touched the dried blood crusted on the side of the pot. My face showed nothing. "Was Master making me soup when he died?"
The Matron's hands trembled. Her voice cracked further.
"Yes. He was watching the pot. He was afraid it would turn bitter if it stewed too long."
"He said you hate anything sour or bitter."
I thought to myself, that foolish old man. He died without ever realizing I'd been lying to him.
I never actually minded sour or bitter things.
I just hated taking medicine.
When Master first found me, I was badly wounded. A two-year-old pup, half-shifted and covered in wounds that smelled of something ancient. My health never fully recovered after that, and I needed wolfsbane tonics constantly just to stay alive.
It drove me mad. Every now and then I'd dump the doses in secret.
When Master caught on, he bought sour jujubes to coax me, saying that if I ate one first, the medicine wouldn't taste so bitter.
I didn't want to cooperate, so I told him offhandedly that I didn't like anything sour or bitter.
