“I wanted a divorce.”
The words left my mouth more easily than I expected, yet they felt чужder than any oath I had ever spoken beneath the Moon Goddess’s gaze, as though the very air of the room rejected them the moment they were uttered.
Silence followed at once, thick and suffocating, settling over Kaedric’s office like a heavy shroud woven from something far older than grief.
The firelight from the hearth cast shifting shadows across carved stone walls etched with the history of his bloodline, yet none of it moved him. He remained seated behind his great desk, unmoving at first, as though he were considering whether I had spoken in jest or in madness.
Then, slowly, he leaned back in his chair.
A soft creak of aged leather followed, and then came his laughter.
It was low and unhurried, the kind of sound that carried no warmth, only certainty. It rolled through the chamber like something that had no need to explain itself.
“You thought you could leave me, Raven?” he said at last, tilting his head slightly as his dark eyes studied me with something close to amusement. “You are mine. Whether you have accepted it or not has never changed that truth.”
My fingers tightened at my sides until my nails pressed into my palms.
“I am not your possession,” I replied, though even as I said it, I could feel how thin the words sounded against the weight of his presence.
He exhaled softly, as though I were speaking from ignorance rather than defiance, and rose from his seat with deliberate ease. The moment he stepped around the desk, the space between us seemed to collapse, filled entirely by him until I could no longer distinguish where the room ended and his authority began.
Still, I did not step back when he stopped before me.
“You forget your place,” he said quietly, his voice lowering into something almost intimate, though no tenderness lived within it. “Everything you have worn, every roof that has sheltered you, every comfort you have known within this packhouse, existed only because I allowed it.”
My breath caught.
“You allowed it?” I repeated, disbelief breaking through my restraint.
His gaze did not waver.
“Yes,” he answered simply, and lifted a hand to my face, his fingers brushing beneath my chin with controlled familiarity, forcing my gaze to meet his. “And you remain because I permit it. If you were to walk away from this place, Raven, you would find that there is very little of the world that belongs to you outside these walls.”
A tension coiled within me, sharp and suffocating, but I turned my face away from his touch before it could root itself deeper.
“I will find my way out of this,” I whispered, though the words carried more desperation than certainty.
A faint smile touched his lips, not unkind, but wholly devoid of doubt.
“You may try.”
**
That evening, Maerina came to me without announcement, her presence preceding her like a shadow cast long before the moon had risen.
She stood within the threshold of my chamber as though she had always belonged there more than I did, her expression composed, her voice calm as she spoke.
“You are making a grave mistake, my dear,” she said, her tone almost gentle as she lifted a goblet of wine to her lips.
I did not respond.
She stepped further inside, setting the goblet down upon the vanity with deliberate care, the soft sound of glass against wood carrying unnaturally through the stillness.
“You chose to walk away once before,” she continued, watching me closely. “And in doing so, you gave us reason to strip away everything you thought you held.”
I met her gaze then.
“You could not take what was never truly yours to begin with,” I replied.
A slow smile formed upon her lips, elegant and cold.
“Oh, but we did,” she said softly, leaning in just enough that I could feel the faint warmth of her breath near my cheek. “We took everything that made you what you are, including the illusion that you were ever safe in this pack.”
A chill moved through me at her words.
“You remain here only because my son allows it,” she added at last, her voice barely above a whisper now, yet carrying more certainty than any spoken threat.
When she left, she did so as though she had already delivered something inevitable.
Two days later, the world I had built my life upon began to collapse.
It began with a summons from the healer’s hall beyond the packlands, where the scent of herbs and ancient remedies once symbolized healing rather than ruin.
The voice that greeted me through the messenger carried none of the reverence once afforded to my title.
“Dr. Evergreen,” it said formally, “the Council of Healers has placed your name under suspension pending investigation.”
My breath faltered.
“What are you saying?” I demanded.
There was a pause, measured and detached, before the response came.
“A complaint has been lodged regarding a surgical incident resulting in a fatality. Supporting records were submitted to the council for review.”
My grip tightened around the edge of the desk.
“That is impossible,” I said sharply. “I have never—”
“The documents were verified upon submission,” the voice interrupted calmly. “The complaint was received anonymously.”
The words struck like something familiar.
Even before the call ended, I already knew.
Mirabel.
The realization did not come as surprise, but as confirmation of something already set in motion long before I had noticed the blade being sharpened.
When I returned to my quarters, I searched through every drawer, every carved compartment, every place where my records had once been kept under lock and seal.
They were gone.
Not misplaced. Not hidden.
Removed.
A hollow breath escaped me as understanding settled in.
And Kaedric knew.
That night, he came to me as though nothing had changed.
He entered my chamber with the ease of someone returning to a place that would always belong to him, a goblet of dark wine in his hand, his expression unreadable as he observed me sitting motionless upon the edge of the bed.
“You look exhausted,” he said quietly, as though commenting on weather rather than ruin.
I did not answer him.
He crossed the room with unhurried steps, stopping only when he stood directly before me.
“You wanted freedom,” he continued, swirling the liquid in his glass with idle patience. “And now you have it, in a manner of speaking. No council, no title, no path forward beyond what I decide for you.”
My throat tightened, but I remained silent.
He crouched slightly, setting the goblet aside before reaching toward me, his fingers brushing my knee in a gesture that felt less like affection and more like ownership confirmed.
“So I will offer you what remains,” he said softly. “Stay, and I will restore what you have lost. Your standing. Your work. Even the life you believe was taken from you.”
His grip tightened just enough to remind me of its presence.
“But leave,” he added, “and you will find there is nothing left for you to reclaim.”
I met his gaze at last.
“You would not allow me to leave either way,” I said quietly.
A faint smile returned to his lips.
“No,” he admitted. “But I am not without patience. I would rather you understand it yourself.”
I pushed his hand away and rose abruptly, the movement sharp enough that the glass on the table trembled.
“Get out,” I said.
He stood with me, unbothered by my reaction.
“As you wish,” he replied, though there was no surrender in his tone. “Think carefully, Raven.”
Then he left.
I did not sleep.
Not that night, nor in the long hours that followed, as silence pressed itself into every corner of the chamber until even my thoughts felt trapped.
It was only when the first light of dawn had yet to break that I heard it.
A faint sound near the edge of the room, subtle enough that it might have been dismissed as wind against stone.
But it came again.
Soft. Deliberate.
From the direction of my wardrobe.
My breath slowed as I approached, each step heavier than the last. My hand trembled as it reached for the handle, hesitation lingering only a moment before I pulled it open.
What I saw inside stole the air from my lungs.
Blood.
Fur.
And lifeless eyes staring back at me from a small, broken body.
My companion.
My familiar.
An arrow had pierced through its form, pinning it in place as though it were nothing more than an offering.
Beneath its collar lay a folded strip of parchment, darkened by crimson stains.
I reached for it with shaking fingers and read the words written upon it.
“The next to die will walk on two legs.”
