Third Person P.O.V
She hadn't spoken.
Not a word.
Three days since she'd woken, and Kelowna had asked her the same two questions every day, in the same dead tone:
"What is your name?"
"Where did you come from?"
And every day, she stared back with those defiant violet eyes.
Silent.
Chained.
And infuriating.
Kelowna had seen warriors scream under interrogation. Seen spies beg for mercy. Even the bravest cracked when hunger set in.
But not her.
Not the half-starved rogue with bandaged wrists and skin blistered from silver.
She just sat there, back propped against the stone headboard, shoulders trembling from fatigue—but not once had she cried again. Not once had she begged.
Kelowna stood now in the shadows of her chamber, arms folded, watching her from across the room like a hunter studying a puzzle with teeth.
Esryn had done his job. The girl's wounds were treated, her vitals steady. Her body had begun to mend.
But her mind?
Her will?
Unbending.
Kelowna didn't like mysteries in his territory. And this one—this ghost of a girl who crawled out of a river and collapsed beneath his sacred willow—was beginning to gnaw at the edges of his control.
He wasn't stupid. He'd seen her body. The old wounds. The scars. The kind of pain that taught someone to hide deep inside themselves and stay hidden.
He could break her if he wanted to.
But she wouldn't survive it.
Not yet.
So today… he tried something different.
Not kindness.
Not mercy.
Just pressure.
He stepped forward and set the tray down on the table beside her bed with a dull clang of ceramic on stone.
Steam rose from the plate. Real food. Roasted meat, fresh bread, broth seasoned and warm enough to make her stomach ache just from the smell.
Her eyes flicked to it.
Then to him.
And back again.
Kelowna said nothing for a long moment. He simply pulled the chair beside the bed and sat—casual, but alert. Every line of his body controlled. Dominant.
Finally, he leaned forward, resting one forearm on his knee.
"I'm going to ask you again."
His voice was deep, smooth, edged with quiet authority.
"Name. Origin."
Silence.
She looked at him.
Not with challenge.
Not with fear.
With distance. The kind of silence that wasn't stubborn but trained.
Kelowna's jaw ticked.
"You tell me what I want to know…" He nodded toward the tray. "And you eat."
She didn't blink.
Didn't move.
The only sound was the faint rattle of the chain as she shifted slightly—just enough to ease the burn at her wrist.
Kelowna leaned back slowly, studying her.
"So you'd rather starve," he murmured. "Then speak."
Her lips parted like she might say something.
But no sound came.
Nothing but violet eyes.
Nothing but silence.
He hated it.
Because for the first time in years, he didn't know what to do with that silence.
Kelowna's P.O.V
I left her chamber in silence.
The door shut behind me with a low, final thud, and I just stood for a moment in the hall, jaw clenched, hands flexing at my sides. The scent of silver and burned skin clung to me, even after the distance grew.
I hated that it lingered.
Hated that she lingered.
I didn't look back.
But her eyes had followed me long after I turned away.
Violet.
Unnatural.
And not just in color.
There was something in them.
A stillness. Not numb. Not afraid.
Like she'd already seen every horror the world could offer… and now she was waiting to see what kind of monster I would be.
I started walking and didn't stop.
Didn't speak.
I moved through the torch-lit stone corridors of the keep with long, tense strides, the soft click of my boots echoing like distant thunder.
I was halfway down the corridor when I caught the scent of pine and steel—Marcus, my Beta, leaning against a stone column near the war hall doors, arms crossed.
"Let me guess," came his voice from the hall. "Still nothing?"
Marcus fell into step beside me—broad-shouldered, dark-haired, with the easy confidence of someone who'd survived a hundred battles and still found a way to grin through most of them.
I didn't answer right away.
"I brought her food," finally muttering.
Marcus glanced at me eyebrows raised. "You? Offering food? That's a new interrogation tactic."
"I tried softening the edge," I muttered. "It didn't work. She didn't take it."
"For some reason I'm not surprised. That was softening the edge?" Marcus snorted. "Remind me never to ask you on a date."
I didn't laugh. Didn't smile. We passed the eastern stairwell and entered the war hall, the firelight flickering against the carved walls. I stopped near the edge of the long stone table, placing both hands against the surface, my shoulders rigid.
Marcus studied me.
"You're rattled," he said flatly.
"I'm annoyed."
"Same thing when it comes to you."
I exhaled through my nose, jaw tight. "She's hiding something. She's not some starving rogue girl who got lucky. She's too quiet. Too... composed."
Marcus leaned against one of the stone columns, arms crossed. "She's traumatized, Kal. You saw her. That kind of silence isn't cunning—it's survival."
My knuckles flexed against the table. "And yet she made it across the river. In the dead of winter. With cracked ribs, frostbite, and no visible wolf."
Marcus paused, then asked what he had been avoiding for days.
"You think she's something else?"
I didn't answer.
Not directly.
"She doesn't smell right."
"Well, she's been bleeding out and sleeping in our dungeon's medical room. No one smells right in that situation."
I straightened, staring into the fire.
"No. She knows what she's doing. She's calculated. I've seen soldiers trained to withstand pain fold faster than her."
"She doesn't smell like a fighter."
"She looked at me," I said quietly, "and I didn't see fear. Not submission. Just… nothing. Like I wasn't even there."
Marcus's tone shifted. "You mean her eyes."
My jaw clenched.
"Violet," Marcus said. "I've never seen that in a wolf before. Not in any bloodline we've logged."
"They're not just strange," I muttered. "They're... wrong. Not human. Not wolf. Something in between."
Marcus watched me for a long moment, then softened.
"She rattles you."
"No."
"She unsettles you."
I didn't speak.
Didn't need to.
Marcus let the silence stretch before pushing off the wall.
"So what do you want to do with her?"
I looked away from the flames.
Then said, low and final: "Keep her chained. Keep her alive. But no more soft attempts. If she doesn't speak soon… we find a way to make her."
"And if she breaks?"
My eyes flicked toward him, cold and sharp.
"She won't."
But even as I said it, my wolf shifted uneasily beneath my skin.
Because a part of me wasn't so sure anymore.
Marcus went quiet for a beat.
Then, low: "There's something off in the woods."
My gaze sharpened.
"I've had two border patrols report it. Animals staying away. Fog that doesn't burn off even by midday. And near the willow—"
"What about it?"
Marus's voice dropped lower. "The earth feels wrong there. Like it remembers something it shouldn't."
I looked back toward the hall, toward the direction that led to her cell.
"Ever since she arrived," Marcus added. "The trees near the river creak like they're warning us. Old trees. Roots deeper than our bloodline."
I didn't speak. Not right away.
Then: "You think she brought it with her?"
"I think," Marcus said carefully, "she didn't come alone. Not really. Whatever followed her—whatever woke when she crossed that river—it's still out there."
My fists clenched slowly at my sides.
"She's not just a rogue," I said. "She's something else. And I don't like being left in the dark."
Marcus studied me for a long moment.
"Neither do I," he said. "But maybe she's been in it longer than we have."