Chapter 117

Chapter 117: Chapter 117

The morning mist clung to the forest floor as Nyra pulled the hood of her cloak over her silver hair. She stood at the threshold of the hut, her hand resting on the weathered doorframe, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and anticipation. This was the first time she had left the hut since the night she had arrived here, broken and bleeding and consumed by grief.

Today, she was taking her first step back into the world.

Corvin stood beside her, his pack slung over his shoulder, his whiskey-dark eyes scanning the treeline for any sign of danger. He had arrived before dawn with supplies and information—a map of the surrounding territory, a report on Varek’s recent movements, and word of a small village a few hours’ walk from the hut where they might gather more intelligence.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

Nyra took a deep breath. "I’ve been hiding for a month. I’ve trained every day. I’ve grieved every night. If I stay in this hut any longer, I’ll go mad." She turned to look at him. "Yes. I’m ready."

"Then let’s go."

They moved through the forest in silence, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet of fallen leaves. Nyra had memorized the patrol routes of Varek’s trackers weeks ago Corvin’s reports were thorough and she guided them along paths that avoided the main roads and the guard outposts. The forest was her sanctuary now. She knew its rhythms, its secrets, its hidden places.

After nearly two hours of walking, the trees began to thin. The distant sound of voices reached them merchants hawking their wares, children laughing, the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer. The village of Thornwood was small and unremarkable, the kind of place that didn’t appear on most maps. But it was a crossroads for travelers and traders, and its tavern was a hub of gossip and rumor.

"Keep your hood up," Corvin murmured. "Your hair is too distinctive. If anyone recognizes you—"

"They won’t." Nyra pulled the hood lower, shadowing her face. "Let’s go."

They entered the village separately Corvin first, Nyra a few minutes later to avoid drawing attention. The tavern was a rough-hewn building at the center of town, its wooden sign creaking in the morning breeze. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of ale and woodsmoke. A handful of patrons sat at the scarred wooden tables, their conversations low and murmured.

Nyra slipped into a corner booth, her back to the wall, her eyes scanning the room. Corvin sat at the bar, ordering a drink he had no intention of consuming.

It didn’t take long for the rumors to start.

"—heard the Astrlyn girl killed a dozen men with a single scream. Just opened her mouth and they dropped dead—"

"That’s nothing. I heard she’s a witch. A Moonblood. The old magic. The kind that was supposed to be wiped out centuries ago."

"Witch or not, she murdered her own brother. Poisoned him in cold blood. The maid testified to it in front of the King himself."

"Some say she didn’t do it. Some say the uncle—Lord Varek—he’s the one who killed the prince. The girl just took the blame."

"You’d best keep that kind of talk to yourself. Varek’s men are everywhere. They’re looking for her, you know. Offering a reward for anyone who turns her in."

Nyra’s hands tightened around her cup. Her heart was pounding, but she forced herself to remain still. To listen.

"Reward, huh? How much?"

"Enough to retire on. Ten thousand gold pieces."

"Ten thousand? For a girl?"

"For the Moonblood heir. They say she’s dangerous. Say she could bring down the whole realm if she’s not stopped."

"Or save it. I heard the seer’s prophecy. The Daughter of the Moon is supposed to be the realm’s salvation."

"Salvation or destruction. Depends on who you ask."

Nyra filed away every word, every rumor, every scrap of information. The realm was divided. Some believed she was a murderer. Others believed she was a savior. And Varek was using his resources—and her pack’s treasury to hunt her down.

Corvin caught her eye from across the room. She gave a slight nod. She had heard enough.

They left the tavern separately, reuniting at the edge of the village. Nyra’s expression was troubled but determined.

"Ten thousand gold pieces," she murmured. "My uncle has put a price on my head."

"I heard." Corvin’s voice was grim. "It will make traveling more dangerous. We’ll need to be more careful."

"He’s also spreading the narrative that I’m a murderer. That I killed Thorne. But not everyone believes it. Some people are questioning the official story."

"That’s good. Doubt is a weapon we can use." Corvin paused. "There’s something else. I heard mention of a resistance forming in the eastern territories. People who don’t trust Varek. People who remember your father and your brother. If we can make contact with them—"

"Then we’ll have allies." Nyra nodded slowly. "We need to find them."

"Agreed. But not today. Today, we’ve gathered enough." He looked at her, his expression softening. "How are you feeling?"

Nyra considered the question. "Alive," she said finally. "For the first time in weeks, I feel alive."

They walked back through the forest in companionable silence. When they reached the hut, Nyra paused at the door and turned to face Corvin.

"Thank you," she said. "For everything. For the supplies. For the reports. For pushing me when I wanted to give up."

"You don’t have to thank me. I told you before—I’m not going anywhere."

"I know. But I wanted to say it anyway." She reached out and squeezed his hand. "We’re going to take back my pack, Corvin. We’re going to find out who killed Soren. And we’re going to make them pay."

"I know," he said. "And I’ll be with you every step of the way."

Nyra smiled—a small, tentative thing, but a smile nonetheless. Then she stepped inside the hut and closed the door, feeling more like herself than she had since the night of the showcase.

The council’s decision had come that morning. Selene was permitted to move into Soren’s suite.

She stood now in the center of the room that had once belonged to the man she was supposed to marry. The door had been sealed since the night of the showcase, the room untouched. His scent still lingered pine and leather and something uniquely him. His belongings were exactly as he had left them. A training tunic draped over the back of a chair. A half-empty cup of water on the nightstand. A book on Lycan history, marked with a ribbon near the end.

Selene walked through the room slowly, her fingers trailing across the surfaces. The desk. The wardrobe. The bed where he had slept.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and let the silence wash over her.

This is where he lived, she thought. This is where he dreamed. Where he planned. Where he probably thought about her.

She opened the drawer of his nightstand. Inside, she found a small stack of letters tied with a leather cord. The handwriting on the envelopes was elegant and feminine—his mother’s, she recognized. Letters from Queen Seraphina to her son. She didn’t read them. Even she had limits.

Beneath the letters, she found a folded piece of parchment. It was a drawing crude but heartfelt, the kind a child might make. It depicted a tall figure in black armor, a smaller figure beside him with dark hair and a crown, and a wolf with golden eyes standing between them. At the bottom, in messy handwriting: To Soren, the best brother in the whole world. Love, Freya.

Selene stared at the drawing for a long moment. She had never thought of Soren as a brother. She had never thought of him as anything but a political arrangement—a stepping stone to power. But he had been a son. A brother. A friend. He had been loved by people who knew him in ways she never had.

Her chest tightened.

She set the drawing aside and opened the wardrobe. His clothes hung in neat rows training tunics, formal coats, the pageantry attire he had worn on the night he died. She reached out and touched the fabric of his coat. It was still stained with blood.

And then she saw it.

Tucked behind the clothes, half-hidden in the shadows of the wardrobe, was a small wooden box. She pulled it out and set it on the bed. It was unlocked. Inside, she found a collection of items that made her heart stop.

A pressed flower moonlace, she recognized, the kind that grew only in the northern territories. A small silver pendant, identical to the one Soren had given Nyra, but older, more worn. A lock of silver hair tied with a white ribbon. And a letter, unsealed, written in a hand she didn’t recognize.

She unfolded the letter and began to read.

My love,

I know we can’t be together the way we want. I know there are a thousand obstacles between us—your father, my uncle, the betrothal, the Crown. But I need you to know that whatever happens, I don’t regret a single moment we’ve shared. Not the training sessions. Not the arguments. Not the nights I spent in your arms.

You are my mate. My partner. My equal. And I will fight for you until my last breath.

When this is over—when the showcase is done and the realm is at peace—find me. I’ll be waiting.

Yours always,

Nyra

Selene’s hands trembled as she refolded the letter. Nyra had written this. Nyra—the woman she had tried to destroy, the woman she had called a murderer and a traitorbhad loved Soren with a depth that Selene had never allowed herself to feel.

She had thought Soren was hers. She had thought the betrothal contract made him her property, her prize, her future. But he had never been hers. He had always belonged to someone else. Someone who loved him. Someone he loved in return.

And Selene had played a role in his death.

The realization hit her like a physical blow. She had schemed with Valeria. She had threatened to expose Nyra. She had forced Soren into that kiss, that pageantry, that performance that had set the stage for everything that followed. If she hadn’t pushed so hard, if she hadn’t been so consumed by jealousy and ambition, would Soren still be alive?

She didn’t know. But the guilt was already settling into her bones like a sickness.

She folded the letter carefully and placed it back in the box. Then she closed the lid and sat in the darkness of Soren’s room, surrounded by his things, haunted by his ghost.

The royal palace was quiet as Freya lay in her bed, her bandaged arm resting on a silk pillow. The healer had done her work well—the wound was already beginning to close, the flesh knitting together beneath the bandages. But the Queen had insisted Freya remain in bed for at least another day, and Freya was going stir-crazy.

"Mother," she said, for the third time that hour. "I’m fine. The healer said I’m healing well."

"You’re not fine. You lost a significant amount of blood. You’re staying in that bed until I say otherwise." The Queen’s voice was firm, but her eyes were soft with worry.

"Mother." Freya’s tone changed. "I need to ask you something. About Soren."

The Queen’s hands stilled on the blanket she was smoothing. "What about your brother?"

"I know he’s not dead." Freya’s voice was quiet but steady. "I can feel him. Through the family bond. It’s faint, but it’s there. He’s still alive, isn’t he?"

The Queen stared at her daughter for a long moment. Then she crossed to the door and closed it, ensuring they were alone.

"Yes," she said quietly. "He’s alive. But barely."

"Where is he?"

"In a place that only our family can access. A hidden chamber beneath the palace. The healers are doing everything they can, but the poison—" Her voice caught. "The poison is too strong. His Lycan blood is fighting it, but he’s trapped between life and death. We don’t know if he’ll ever wake up."

Freya’s eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t cry. She was done crying. "Can I see him?"

"When you’re well enough. When the healer says you’re strong enough to make the journey."

"I’ll get stronger," Freya said fiercely. "I’ll get stronger, and I’ll see him, and I’ll find a way to help him. I won’t just sit here while he’s trapped down there. I won’t."

The Queen reached out and took her daughter’s hand. "You’re so much like him, you know. Stubborn. Brave. Fierce."

"I learned from the best."

That night, Freya dreamed.

She was standing in a vast, dark void, the ground beneath her feet made of nothing but shadows. In the distance, she saw a figure—tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and eyes that burned gold.

"Soren!" she called, running toward him.

He turned. His face was pale and drawn, his movements slow, as if he was fighting against an invisible current. But he smiled when he saw her.

"Freya," he said, his voice echoing strangely. "You shouldn’t be here."

"I’m dreaming. I think." She reached him and threw her arms around him or tried to. Her hands passed through his body like smoke. "You’re alive. I knew it. I knew you were alive."

"Barely." His smile faded. "The poison is strong, Freya. I don’t know how much longer I can hold on."

"Then don’t hold on. Fight. Fight the way you taught me to fight."

"I’m trying. But it’s so dark here. So cold. I can’t find my way back."

"Then I’ll help you." Freya’s voice was fierce. "I don’t know how yet, but I’ll find a way. I promise. Just don’t give up. Please, Soren. Don’t give up."

He looked at her his little sister, so fierce and brave and stubborn and something in his expression softened.

"I won’t," he said. "I promise."

Freya woke with a start, her heart pounding, her cheeks wet with tears. But her jaw was set with determination.

She would find a way to save her brother. Whatever it took.