The scent of simmering yams and wild herbs filled the small kitchen, mingling with the faint crackle of firewood in the hearth. Their village home was a modest, humble thing: walls of sunbaked clay, a sloping thatched roof patched with care, and wooden beams blackened by years of smoke and stories. Outside, the soft chirping of dusk birds drifted through the open shutters. Inside, all was warmth and the rhythm of home.
Helen stirred the pot slowly, lost in the familiar motion, her hands moving while her mind wandered elsewhere, backward to a memory that never left her.
Araya.
Sweet, brave Araya.
She'd been so young. So soft-spoken. Her skin, pale with the sheen of agony, had glistened with sweat as she labored on the old cot beside the fire, clutching the blanket as if she could hold her own life together with her bare hands. Helen had knelt at her side, whispering words of comfort she wasn't sure Araya even heard.
Araya's eyes—goddess, those eyes—had found hers then. Wide, glassy, the color of storm-washed skies. There was terror in them, yes, but also peace. A strange, unnatural peace.
"Take care of my son," she had whispered, the words barely a breath. "Please… promise me."
Helen had nodded before she even realized she was crying.
And then, just like that, the light faded from Araya's gaze.
The midwife had gone still. Silent.
Then she sobbed.
Tears ran freely down her cheeks as she gently handed the newborn over to Helen. So small, so alive, so unaware of the sacrifice that had just been made for him.
He didn't cry at first.
He just blinked, those same storm-colored eyes, and nestled against Helen's chest.
A weight she hadn't expected to carry, yet could never put down.
A gift.
A promise.
A debt of love.
Now, years later, in the soft orange glow of twilight, she could hear Liam laughing faintly in the yard with his father. The sound was sweet. Whole. Full of life.
Helen wiped her hands on her apron and let out a long breath. Her heart was aching, but not in grief. Not quite.
"Araya," she murmured to the bubbling pot, to the memory, to the evening air, "he's safe. I've kept my promise. I will always keep it."
But then, her thoughts turned to Prince Aedric.
Could it be? Was Aedric the one who fathered Araya's child?
Could Aedric be Liam's father?
Outside, the wind rustled through the trees.
Back in the Castle, the kitchen buzzed with the usual clang of pots and the comforting hiss of boiling broth, but today, a strange hush had settled beneath the noise.
"Did you hear?" the head cook, a stout woman named Gilda, whispered to the two maids hovering by the spice rack. "They say Orla was the who kidnapped the King's mate. Imagine that snake in the king's court for years."
One of the maids, young and sharp-eyed, leaned in. "She always had that look. Like she could smile and skin you at the same time."
The other scoffed. "You lot say that now, but you were fawning over her dresses last moon."
Gilda swatted at the air with a ladle. "Never trusted her."
The door creaked open then, and Mira stepped in, cloak dusted with wind, her braid tight, her face grim. Behind her, two royal guards flanked the entrance like twin shadows.
Gilda wiped her hands on her apron and straightened. "Something I can get you, miss?"
Mira nodded. "The Lady Lara requires soup. Broth only, simple, hot, fresh. Deliver it to Ninzu's room once it's done."
Gilda blinked. "To the Seer's chamber?"
Mira gave nothing away. "Yes."
The two guards didn't move. One stared hard at the pot, as if suspecting it of treason.
Gilda's brows rose. "And... the guards?"
"They'll remain," Mira said smoothly, "until the food is prepared. Then they'll escort me and the tray directly."
A long silence followed. Even the cauldron seemed to simmer more quietly.
"Doesn't trust anyone anymore, does he?" Gilda muttered, half to herself.
"Would you?" Mira asked softly, offering a small smile. "I know it's tense these days, but the king's just trying to keep everyone safe. There are whispers in every corner—best the kitchen stay clean, don't you think?"
And with that, she stepped aside and grabbed a seat, the guards standing like statues behind her.
The maids exchanged glances. One whispered, "I think I liked it better when the gossip was about who was sneaking into whose bed."
Gilda grunted. "At least back then, it wasn't treason, just treachery of the usual kind."
....
The carriage rolled to a stop beneath the ivy-covered arches of Vargorath's east portico. The wheels crunched over loose gravel, the sound sharp in the quiet morning. The door opened, and Lady Selene stepped down with smooth, practiced grace. Her deep green cloak flowed around her, the hem brushing petals scattered by the breeze.
The air was crisp but gentle, carrying the scent of damp earth, wildflowers, and pine. Fresh leaves rustled high above as the palace towers stretched into a sky the color of pale gold. The old stone was dark and proud, but spring had softened its edges, tiny vines crept along the walls, and patches of moss glowed in the sunlight.
Carved gargoyles watched from above, their faces no less fierce, but now crowned with early blooms and trailing vines. Banners bearing the silver wolf of House Vargorath stirred in the breeze, the fabric soft with recent rain. The marble steps were damp, but clear, their surface glinting with dew.
The great iron gates stood open, tall and strong, guarded by Lycans in black and silver armor. Their eyes followed her with quiet focus, their breath steaming faintly in the cool morning air.
Behind her, the courtyard was bright with new life. Trees stretched their branches skyward, dotted with pale blossoms and shy leaves. A few birds flitted between the branches. Somewhere deep inside the castle, a bell chimed the hour, soft and slow, like the rhythm of waking earth.
"Lady Selene!" came a voice, bright and familiar.
Lady Alira, one of the court ladies with a tongue quicker than her wits, hurried down the steps with practiced grace, skirts whispering secrets to the wind. "By the stars, it's been far too long. You look radiant, as always."
Selene offered a polite smile. "Lady Alira, it's been a while."
Looping her arm through Selene's as though they were the closest of friends. "Come, let's go inside. Her Highness will be pleased you've come. Mmm, well, I hope you brought some of that refreshing air back with you," Alira said, lowering her voice with a conspiratorial gleam. "This place hums like a beehive. Ever since the attack, oh, I shouldn't say too much, but let's just say even the kitchen's been seeing more guards than pots."
Selene lifted an elegant brow, but said nothing.
"Oh, you know how it is. So much unrest. Whispers everywhere. Half the court's too afraid to sneeze without asking permission."
They walked slowly toward the inner doors. Alira lowered her voice. "Ever since that girl was rescued, the King's become a storm bottled tight. And now there are guards stationed in the kitchens, of all places. The staff are terrified to even serve tea without an escort."
Selene said nothing. She simply removed Alira's arm and adjusted her glove with practiced indifference.
"And you," Alira continued with a sugar-sweet smile. "Returning just as things begin to stir again. Curious timing."
Selene smiled back, cool and unreadable. "Curiosity is a dangerous habit at court, Alira. I suggest you keep yours wrapped tight. Moreover, I'm here to see the Queen," She added, pausing at the great doors. "If there's trouble, I'm sure she'll tell me herself."
Alira blinked, then gave a nervous chuckle. "Of course, my lady. Of course." She said, quickly hurrying off.
As Selene reached for the door, laughter broke through the stillness. She turned her head. There they were.
Thornak, his hair tousled by the wind, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. Lara wore the flush of a morning run, her smile bright and too familiar. Thornak leaned close, saying something low that made her laugh again..
Selene didn't blink. But her hand, still resting on the handle, curled ever so slightly. Something cold and bitter stirred in her chest.
She pushed it down quickly, hiding it with the same calm she used to fix the cuff of her glove.
They walked close, not quite touching but pulled into each other's orbit like moons around a shared sun. Thornak brushed a strand of hair from Lara's face, voice low and warm. "If you keep outrunning me like that, little wolf, I'll have to start training harder."
Lara laughed. "I think I just like the way you chase me."
He leaned closer. "Then I'll never stop."
The moment stretched, tender and unguarded. But then, heels on stone. A soft, deliberate step on gravel. They both turned.
Lady Selene stood not far from them, her cloak of pale plum velvet dusted with road-travel and her expression carved from polished ice. Her smile was practiced, almost kind.
"I'm glad to see you well, Lady Lara," she said, her voice gentle, eyes anything but. "You look... strong."
Lara dipped her head in polite greeting, but her fingers curled slightly at her side, instinct sensing the edges beneath the words.
Selene took another step forward, tilting her head just slightly. "When I heard what happened, I feared the worst. But I should've known better. A survivor always finds her footing."
Thornak stepped subtly in front of Lara, not aggressive, but unmistakably protective.
"We weren't expecting you so soon, Selene," he said, voice cool.
She smiled wider, eyes still locked on Lara. "I couldn't stay away. Vargorath has always felt like home."
There was a beat of silence. The wind stirred the trees. Behind her warmth, Selene's gaze shimmered with something ancient and cutting. She looked at Lara the way wolves look at interlopers, too still, too sweet, too ready to strike.
"Excuse me," Lara said quietly, her voice even but clipped. "I should return to my chambers."
Thornak gave her a look of reassurance, then turned to Selene once more as Lara walked away. His jaw was tense now.
"You didn't come for the Queen," he said flatly.
Selene's smile finally faded, just a breath. "You always did see too clearly, Thorn."
And with that, she turned on her heel and walked toward the palace, the wind tugging at her cloak like a warning.
Lady Selene stormed through the palace halls, her boots tapping sharply against the polished stone. Servants stepped quickly aside, eyes cast down, skirts brushing the walls as she passed. Her cloak billowed behind her like a wave of green silk, and her lips were pressed into a thin, furious line.
She didn't knock.
The doors to Queen Maravelle's chambers swung open, hitting the walls with a loud crack. The room inside was calm, warm light spilling from tall windows, the scent of lilac and parchment floating in the air.
Maravelle sat by the fire, legs crossed, a book open in one hand, a glass of deep red wine in the other. Her eyes lifted slowly over the rim of her glass.
"Well," she said coolly, "you've made an entrance."
Selene marched forward, jaw clenched. "You sent for me, then left me to ride in with no escort, no greeting, not even a word. Do you take me for some merchant's daughter?"
Maravelle didn't flinch. She closed her book with a quiet snap and set it down beside her.
"You arrived, didn't you?" she replied, taking another sip of wine. "Alive. Unharmed. With your pride intact, if not your patience."
Selene's eyes flashed. "You treat this like a game."
The Queen raised an eyebrow. "Everything at court is a game, dear. You'll do well to remember that."