Sometimes you carry something so long it just becomes part of how you breathe. She always wore long sleeves, even in the heat, even in sleep. Every morning she touched the same spot on her shoulder, quick, quiet, like checking if it was still there. No one asked why. Maybe they thought it was a scar. Maybe they didn’t want to know. But tonight, someone saw it.

 The mark open again, fresh. And the way he looked at her, it was like he already knew. So why did he walk away? Chapter 1. The bite she never spoke of. The sun had just begun to dip behind the pines when Elra washed her hands at the basin, the scent of crushed herbs still lingering on her fingertips.

 The small cottage she called home sat at the edge of the village, far enough from the others that no one came knocking unless they truly needed healing, or were too desperate to pretend they didn’t. 12 years had taught her silence, how to make the right amount of noise during festivals, how to bow her head just enough at market stalls, how to answer questions with smiles that leave no room for follow-ups.

Most believed she’d been widowed young. Some thought she’d never been claimed at all. No one asked which was true. Inside, her son Tom was hunched over the table, carefully carving a line of bark from a branch he’d picked up in the woods that morning. His brow was furrowed, tongue poking out slightly.

 She loved how serious he could be about the simplest things. “Don’t press so hard,” she said gently, drying her hands. “I’m not,” he murmured, not looking up. It’s supposed to be a spear. You’re not going hunting. I might. Elyra smiled. Not today. You’re not. It was their routine. Small jokes, quiet dinners, reading by fire light. Nothing about their lives stood out. That was the point.

 They had their space, their peace, and their rules. And the most important one had never been broken. No one was to see her shoulder. Not ever. When Tom finally fell asleep, curled with his quilt halfway to the floor, she stood over the hearth and unfastened the old clasp at the neck of her nightrobe. Her fingers hesitated. The ache had returned.

 She pulled the fabric down and stared at the spot just below the curve of her collarbone. The mark was still there, faint and silvery by day, barely visible. But now it pulsed with warmth. Not hot, not painful, just alive. As if something inside it remembered. 12 years ago, it had burned like fire. Not from violence, but from something deeper. She hadn’t been attacked.

 She’d been chosen by him. Kalin, the Alpha King. She whispered the same words she always did, the same ones she had whispered the night she left the palace. No one can know. Her fingers brushed the mark once, and then she fastened the robe shut and banked the fire. The moon was rising. She bolted the door.

 And for the 12th year in a row, she faced the full moon with nothing but her silence. The knock came 2 days later. It was early, barely past dawn, and Tom was still sleeping. A rider stood at the gate, dust clinging to his cloak, the royal crest stamped into the seal he handed her. To all healers, he said, by direct order of the alpha king.

 She read the words twice, then a third time. Her fingers didn’t shake, but her heart did. The palace was calling them back. A fever was spreading. They needed help. But it was the seal that made her hand tremble. Not the news, not the danger, his mark. Kalin’s mark, his crest, his command. She waited until the rider had gone before she sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the parchment.

 Her pulse beat through her ears. Her shoulder tingled beneath her robe. 12 years of silence, 12 years of hiding, of raising a child with no father’s name, of building a life in the shadows of someone else’s choice. And now he was calling. Not her, not directly, but still. That night she packed quietly. A healer’s satchel, two changes of clothes. Herbs are dried and bound in cloth. Mama. Tom’s voice was groggy.

 She turned to him. We’re going on a trip. He blinked. Where? Silverpine. His eyes widened. Where is the palace? Yes. Why? They need healers. He sat up straighter. Just for a few days, she nodded. Just a few. He didn’t ask if his father was there. He never did. She’d never lied. Just never given him a name.

 When they left the next morning, the village was still quiet. No one stopped them. No one asked where they were going. And that was the way Elra liked it. The trees thickened as they rode. Two palace guards had been sent as an escort. They didn’t speak much, just rode ahead and behind with watchful silence. Tom, riding beside her on his small pony, kept his questions to a minimum.

 He could feel the change in her, even if he didn’t understand it. By midday, the ache had returned, her mark pulsed gently, the sensation like fingers tapping against her skin from the inside. Eller kept her hand over it through most of the ride. The closer they drew to Silverpine, the more her memories returned, memories she had locked away so tightly they barely felt real.

 The stone corridor where she had walked barefoot. The room where she mixed Calin’s pain drafts. The fire light that had lit his face the night he leaned in close and whispered. You’re not just a healer, the way his breath had warmed her cheek right before everything was taken. They had shared a bond. That much was certain. No one had needed to say it.

 No ceremony had made it official. The moon had chosen. And Kalin had leaned into it, had touched her mark, had stayed beside her that whole blood moon night until morning. Until the council found out, until Elder Idris declared her a threat, a distraction, a mistake. She had been too low, too ordinary. A servant. And the Alpha King was not allowed to choose a servant.

 Not when there were daughters of council bloodlined up to wear the lunar crown. He had rejected her in front of the whole court. His voice hadn’t wavered, but his eyes had. The next morning, she’d left without a word. Now, 12 years later, she saw the outer walls of Silverpine cresting over the ridge, the great stone pillars, the black banners of flying in the wind, the same scent of burning pine in the distance.

Tom leaned forward in his saddle. It’s huge. Elra nodded, her stomach tightening. Yes. The guards led them through the outer gate. Workers and warriors bustled through the training yard. She kept her hood up, face down, but a few turned to look. Her heart thudded. One of the guards dismounted and spoke quietly to another stationed near the barracks.

 The second guard nodded and disappeared inside. They were not taken to the palace proper, but instead to the outer healer’s wing, a long stone building behind the kitchens. It had once been hers, or close enough. Inside, the scent of burning herbs hit her immediately. She paused in the doorway. Nothing had changed.

 Wooden beds lined with wool sheets, a table of picuses, the same row of glass jars filled with roots, bark, and dried petals. The older healer on duty, a woman named Corin, blinked in surprise. Elijah. She didn’t ask how she’d been summoned. She didn’t mention Tom. She only handed her a rolled scroll and said, “Orders from the king.” Corin’s eyes darted to the seal, then back to Elra’s face.

“You’ve been gone a long time.” “Yes.” “Well, we’re short staffed. I hope you remember how to grind fever root. Elra walked past her and set her satchel on the counter. I never forgot. That night, after settling Tom in a cot beside the window, Elra stepped outside the healer’s wing and looked up.

 The moon was nearly full, and for the first time in 12 years, the mark beneath her scarf throbbed, not with memory, but with warning. She didn’t know why, but she felt it deep in her bones. Kalin was near, and the silence she’d built her life on was starting to crack. Chapter 2. The road back to Silverpine.

 The forest road twisted through tall pines and low fog. Quiet except for the muffled sound of hooves and the rustling of leaves underfoot. Elra sat straight on her mare, rains loose in her hands. Beside her, Tom shifted in the saddle of his small pony, kicking his boots gently against its sides, full of restless energy. They’d been riding for hours.

The two warriors sent to escort them hadn’t said a word beyond the morning greeting. They rode like shadows, one ahead, one behind, silent, watchful, and utterly uninterested in small talk. Tom, of course, filled the quiet with questions. “Will the palace have a library?” he asked, glancing up at her. Elra nodded slightly. Yes. Will I be allowed in? Probably not. He frowned.

But I’m not going to break anything. She gave him a small smile. That’s not the reason, Tom. He squinted ahead, then leaned closer to her. Is that where he lives? She didn’t answer. Tom knew not to push too hard, but she could feel the questions pressing behind his teeth. Questions she’d never answered, not fully, not honestly.

She had told him once that she’d been a healer at Silverpine. She had never said what happened after, or who had sent her away, or why she flinched whenever he asked if he looked like his father. Now returning through the same woods she had once fled, Elra felt her thoughts shift like the wind, uneasy and circling. 12 years. 12 years since that night on the deis.

 12 years since Kalin stood before the council and said the words she never forgot. There is no bond. Lies. All of it. She remembered the look in his eyes as he said it. The tension in his jaw. the blood still drying on his palm from where his claws had cut her during the bond.

 But words mattered more than wounds, and his words had sent her into exile. Now his crest had summoned her back. But she didn’t know if that meant anything or everything. As they rounded a bend in the path, the outer towers of Silverpine came into view. The stone walls rose above the forest, familiar and foreign all at once. Tom let out a low whistle. It’s huge. Elra didn’t answer.

 Her heart had climbed into her throat. The moment her horse passed beneath the arched gates, memories struck fast and sharp. The courtyard where she’d once knelt, shaking in front of the entire council. The deis where Kalin had turned away from her. The steps Meera had climbed wearing the lunar crest that should have never been hers.

 The scent of pine smoke clung to the air. The sound of metal on metal rang from the training field. Guards passed them without recognition. The outer healer’s quarters came into view, modest, stonelined. The same garden still growing lavender and fever route near the steps. The building hadn’t changed, but everything else had.

They dismounted near the entry. One of the warriors gave a quick nod. You’ll report to the infirmary. The lunar is aware of your arrival. Elra nodded without speaking. Inside she found Corin, the older healer she’d once trained beside, bent over a tray of crushed herbs. The woman glanced up, eyes narrowing in something like surprise, then confusion.

 Elra, she said slowly. “I received a summons,” Elra replied, handing over the sealed scroll with Kalin’s crest. Corin’s eyes lingered on the seal for a long time. Then she tucked it under the tray and motioned toward the back. The east wings quiet, but we’re short staffed. You’ll sleep here near the supplies.

 No formal re-entry has been made. Elra nodded. She expected no warm welcome. Tom stood behind her, arms crossed, eyes scanning every corner. Corin glanced at him. Your son? Yes. Corin didn’t comment further. She simply pointed toward a cot tucked beneath the high windows. You can make him comfortable there.

 Elijah guided Tom to the corner, helped him lay out his small bag, and kissed the top of his head. “Stay here,” she whispered. “Don’t go exploring,” Tom gave her a look that told her he was already planning to ignore that. By late afternoon, Elra had washed linen wraps, set fresh pices, and redressed a wound on an elers’s leg without speaking more than a handful of words. The nurses avoided eye contact.

The other healers whispered. She was used to it. But then Meera arrived. The room shifted the moment she entered. Tall, beautiful, clad in a crimson cloak that shimmerred even in the dim light. Her boots clicked softly across the stone. she said, voice smooth. It’s been ages. Elra didn’t bow. She simply straightened. Luna.

 Meera’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. Imagine my surprise when I heard your name in the healer’s report. She walked a slow circle around her. I almost didn’t recognize you, but then again, you were always forgettable. Elra held her tongue. I trust you’ll be discreet. Mera continued, voice low. There’s no reason to confuse old stories with new ones. The court remembers what matters. Elra stared straight ahead.

 I’m here to heal. Good, Mera said, turning. Then heal quietly. The Luna left with her head held high. Her perfume lingered in the air like something sour. Elra exhaled slowly. That night, as dusk fell, Corin called her over. One of the warriors, Egan, is fading fast. Fever won’t break. He’s in the east cell.

 Try what you can. Elra gathered supplies and stepped into the small, dim chamber. The soldier on the bed was barely breathing, his face soaked with sweat, his body trembling under the heat of a burning fever. She worked in silence, stripping back cloth, soaking towels, crushing herbs to mix with water.

 She pressed the pus against his chest, whispered instructions to the nurse, and wiped his brow. The room was quiet until the growl, low, deep, not animal, but not human either. Elra froze. The hair on her arms lifted before she turned. In the doorway stood Kalin. He hadn’t changed. Taller, broader. His jaw was more lined, his eyes colder. But she would have known him in any crowd, even after a hundred years. He said nothing.

 He looked at the dying soldier, then at the herbs in her hand, then finally at her. The moment their eyes met, the breath left her lungs, and under the thin fabric of her tunic, her mark began to burn. Not with pain, with fire. Chapter 3. The alpha who wouldn’t look her in the eyes. Kalin came every morning now, never speaking, never asking, just watching.

 Elra felt his presence before he even stepped into the infirmary. The low hum beneath her skin would stir, the same rhythm that had once lived between them. His boots echoed against the stone floor, then stilled, always a few feet away. Close enough to see everything, far enough to say nothing.

 He stood at the archway between the main chamber and the eastern wing, hands behind his back, shoulders squared, face unreadable. She pretended not to notice, but every time she reached for a bandage or leaned over a patient’s wound, she could feel him watching, not with anger, not with guilt, with something heavier. She didn’t know if he saw a memory or a mistake, and she wasn’t sure which would be worse. The other healers whispered when he left.

 Corin glanced between them without a word. No one dared ask why the alpha king spent his morning shadowing the infirmary. Only Elra knew he hadn’t once met her eyes. He never did. Meera arrived shortly after midday. Always unannounced, always smiling. She brought wine once, claiming it was a gift for the infirmary. The guards chuckled.

 The junior healers nodded politely, but Elra said nothing. The next day, Meera came again, this time with fruit and cloth for bandaging. She complimented Corin on the new herbs, asked after the warrior’s recovery, and gave Tom a soft smile when he passed through the room.

 “But the moment they were alone in the back corner, her voice changed. “You do remember how this ended last time, don’t you?” Meera murmured, eyes never leaving the tray of gaw. You made quite the mess before. I’d hate to see you do that again. Elra met her gaze for only a moment, then moved to refill the salv jars. I’m here to help. Nothing more. Meera smiled soft and sweet. Good.

Then help. Quietly. She left without waiting for a response. The hem of her cloak brushing the stone. Ara stood still for a long time after that. Tom was making friends too quickly, too easily. She’d tried to warn him. Stay close. No exploring. This is not our home. But he returned each evening with a new name on his tongue. A stable boy who let him feed the horses.

 A cook who slipped him a sweet bun. A young guard who showed him how to spin a dagger on his palm. He said, “I’m fast.” Tom beamed, mimicking the movement at supper. Faster than some of the trainees. Elra gave a tight smile. You need to be careful what you show. Tom tilted his head. Why? Because not everyone here is kind. He watched her for a moment.

 Is that why you won’t tell me who my father is? Her hand froze on the cup. He didn’t press. He never did. But she saw the question bloom behind his eyes and realized it was only a matter of time. The wound was shallow. A blade nicked across the ribs. It could have been handled by any healer in the wing. But when Kalin walked in that night, blood staining the edge of his tunic, he didn’t call for Corin or the others. He called for her.

His voice echoed low and firm. I need a dressing. She didn’t look up immediately, didn’t move until the room emptied. When she finally stepped into the small side chamber, he was seated on the low stone bench, shirt discarded, one arm resting over his knee. The gash ran along his right side, not deep, but raw. He didn’t flinch as she approached.

Elijah gathered a bowl of warm water, a clean cloth, and salve. She knelt beside him without a word and pressed the cloth to his skin. Still, he said nothing. The silence felt louder than speech. Her fingers worked quickly, gently. Years of healing had taught her how to move without causing pain, how to touch without thinking. But she thought now.

Every part of her was aware of him. The heat of his skin, the strength in his frame, the steady rhythm of his breathing. And still, he wouldn’t look at her. When she reached for the salve, their hands brushed, his fingers closed around hers before either of them could pull away. Her breath caught. Finally. Finally, his eyes met hers.

 The weight of 12 years collapsed into that single glance. The rejection, the silence, the unanswered bond. His expression didn’t change, but something shifted in the room. The air bent around them. Her shoulder burned beneath the thin fabric of her sleeve, not with pain, with pressure, like something long asleep had stirred. Kalin released her hand slowly.

 She dipped her fingers into the salve and pressed it gently over the wound. He didn’t move. Not when her knuckles brushed his ribs. Not when her wrist trembled. She bandaged the cut in silence. Clean, quick, professional. But the space between them was anything but. When she stood to leave, he said only one word. Elra. Her back stiffened.

 She turned halfway, waiting, but he didn’t speak again. Didn’t ask. Didn’t explain. He just watched her leave. And this time, she didn’t look back. Chapter 4. She almost told him the truth. The garden was quieter than she remembered. Elra stood beneath the old birch tree, fingers brushing the pale bark as if touching a memory.

 The air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant pine. This was where she used to meet him, before everything fell apart, before titles, councils, and laws had come between them, before she learned what silence could cost. She hadn’t planned to come here.

 She’d been walking Tom back to the quarters, guiding him by the hand when he noticed a fox darting through the shrubs and chased after it. She followed him, laughing softly until she stepped into the clearing. Then the laughter died. “Are you okay, Mama?” Tom asked, tugging her sleeve. She forced a breath. “Yes, I just haven’t been here in a long time.” Tom crouched to pick a stone near the roots, studying it like it held secrets only he could see.

 The innocence in his face softened her heart and tightened something inside it at the same time. He didn’t know this place, didn’t know why her steps slowed, why her throat tightened, why her hands still hovered near the mark beneath her tunic. She looked at the branch above her head, the one he had once tied a ribbon to, laughing as the wind tugged at it.

 The ribbon was gone now, and so was the girl she’d been when he placed it there. Tom straightened and brushed dirt off his hands. “Can we stay here a little?” “Yes,” she whispered. “We can.” They sat together in the grass, Tom leaning against her knee. The late afternoon light fell through the branches in thin threads.

 She felt the quiet settle around them, soft and still, and for one small moment she almost said it. She almost told him the truth. Almost whispered the name she had carried alone for 12 years. Kalin, his father. She opened her mouth. Just a breath, just the beginning of a sound. Then footsteps broke the silence.

 Elra stiffened as Meera entered the garden, red cloak bright against the pale bark, her hand hooked into the arm of Elder Iddris. They moved with purpose, the kind that always meant trouble for someone else. Meera paused when she saw Elra, and her smile tightened. Elder Iddris said nothing at first. He simply studied Elra with those steady, assessing eyes that had once held her fate like a knife’s edge.

 Tom immediately stood and stepped closer to his mother. “Ely,” Meera said sweetly. “What a coincidence.” Elra rose slowly, keeping Tom behind her. “Luna,” Idrris tilted his head. “You choose interesting places to wander.” His voice hadn’t changed. Cold, controlled, certain of its own authority. Elijah met his gaze without flinching. This is a public garden.

 For most, Meera replied lightly. But some corners hold sensitive history. Idris stepped closer. The king should be choosing his focus carefully. The packs are unsettled. Illness is spreading. And yet he lingers near old shadows. Elra felt heat rise in her chest. I’m only here as a healer. Idris’s eyes narrowed. You are here because you were summoned.

Nothing more. Do not forget your place. Tom’s grip tightened around her wrist. Before she could speak, another pair of footsteps approached. Heavy, strong, familiar. Kalin. He entered the clearing without announcement, tall and steady, gaze sharp as it swept across the garden.

 It landed on Meera, then Idrris, then finally Ella. He didn’t speak, but the shift in the air around him was immediate. Meera stepped forward first. We were just discussing responsibilities. The council has concerns. Idris nodded. The Luna is right to be cautious. We cannot allow distractions, especially not those rooted in past mistakes.

Kalin’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained even. Old matters have no place in current decisions, Idris pressed on. Still, the appearance of impropriy is irrelevant, Kalin said, cutting him off. Tone final. Mirror blinked. Idris swallowed. Elra felt Tom lean into her side.

 Kalin glanced briefly at Elra, not long enough to communicate anything, but enough for her mark to flicker beneath her clothing. Idrris shifted his weight. With respect, Alfa, she Kalin’s attention snapped to him. I said, “It’s irrelevant.” Silence fell over the garden like a dropped curtain. Meera’s lips parted, but she didn’t dare interrupt. Idris lowered his chin slightly, stiff and displeased.

 Of course, Kalin gave no further explanation, no apology, no justification. His authority didn’t need them. Slowly, Idris turned. Meera followed, though she shot Elra one final look, half warning, half threat, before disappearing through the trees. Only when their footsteps faded did Calin look directly at her. Just a second.

 Then he turned and walked away without a word. Elra’s breath left her in a small, quiet rush. The moment was gone, and the truth she almost spoke sank back into silence. That night, the wind carried a chill through the healer’s quarters. Elra finished boiling herbs for the evening pus, and returned to her small space. Tom was asleep, curled tightly in the blankets, his hair falling over his forehead.

 She brushed her fingers softly through it. She wanted to tell him, needed to, but the words stayed trapped in her throat. She stepped outside to get air, moving down the dim hallway with soft steps, the cool stone under her feet grounding her. The moon was hidden behind thick clouds, but the night was still bright enough to see the outline of the courtyard.

When she returned to her room, something slipped under her door that caught her eye. A folded piece of parchment. She stared at it, breathtightening before she bent to pick it up. Kalin’s handwriting. Her thumb brushed the seal. The urge to drop it, tear it, or hide it wared with the ache beneath her skin. She opened it with careful fingers.

 Just one line. Why did you never scream? Her pulse stumbled. She sank onto the edge of the cot, staring at the words. Of all the questions he could have asked, “Why that one? Why now? 12 years ago, when Idrris declared her bond false, when the council branded her unworthy, when she was forced out, Kalin had been there.

 He had rejected her publicly, watched her leave, watched her walk barefoot past the same birch tree where he had once held her face in his hands. She had never screamed, not once, not when they stripped her of her place, not when they silenced her.

 Not when she realized the bond still pulsed beneath her skin, and not when she learned she carried his child. She folded the note with shaking fingers and placed it under her pillow. She couldn’t answer him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But as she loosened her tunic and slipped beneath the blankets, a sharp sting tore through her shoulder. She gasped, hand flying to the mark beneath her collarbone. Warm, wet.

 She pulled her fingers back. Blood, fresh, bright. The first drop slid down her skin like a tear. Her heart knocked against her ribs. 12 years. 12 years of silence. 12 years of a bond she had forced into stillness. And now, without warning, it had come alive.

 She pressed her palm over the bleeding mark, breath shaking. Something was waking. something she had spent 12 years trying to bury. Chapter 5. The mark bleeds beneath the moonlight. The first thing she felt was heat. Eli awoke with a sharp gasp, the thin blanket tangled around her legs, her night dress soaked with sweat, her shoulder throbbed, sharp, rhythmic, burning.

 She sat up, hand already at the mark just beneath her collarbone. It pulsed. She slipped from bed and moved to the basin, lighting the small lantern that hung beside it. In its flickering light, she pulled back the neckline of her shift and stared. The mark had changed.

 What once was silver and faint had turned gold, the edges glowing softly as if lit from within. Blood welled up slowly, not from any wound she could see, but from the very center of the old bite, fresh, dark, and real. Her breath caught. She pressed a cloth to it, heart racing, but the heat didn’t stop. The pulse didn’t fade. It was alive now. Awake.

 Someone knocked, she startled and turned quickly, pulling her shawl around her shoulders. Yes, she called, voice unsteady. A young healer’s voice answered. “Is everything all right?” The torches outside flared. Thought I saw smoke from your window. Elra crossed the room and cracked the door just enough to see the boy’s concerned face. I’m fine, she said.

 Just couldn’t sleep. He hesitated, then nodded. “The full moon’s out. That’s probably all.” “Right,” she whispered. “The moon,” she closed the door, locked it, then bolted it for good measure. Her hands were trembling now. It had been 12 years since the bondark bled. 12 years since she felt it flare like this.

 Hot, responsive, tied to something she couldn’t control. She sank into the chair near the hearth, pressing the cloth harder. Her thoughts raced. What had triggered it? Was it the garden, the note, or something worse? She looked toward Tom’s cot. It was empty. Her blood ran cold.

 She was in the hallway in seconds, half-dressed, no shoes, the shawls still clutched tight around her. The corridors were dark, but for the soft glow of torches mounted along the walls. Elra, Corin’s voice called sleepily from the infirmary door. What is it? My son, she said quickly. Tom, he’s gone. Corin blinked. Gone? I woke and he wasn’t there. Corin stepped back. I’ll check the kitchens. Elra nodded, already running.

 She searched the east wing first linen stores, bathing rooms, the old herb closets. Nothing, no sound, no sign. Panic rose hard in her throat. She checked the rear garden, the well near the eyes. Stable then doubled back. A guard near the southern hall spotted her rushing past and raised an eyebrow. Looking for someone? He asked.

 My son, she said breathless, small, dark hair, 10 years old. He frowned. A boy like that walked past not long ago toward the council chambers. Her stomach twisted. Was he alone? No, the guard said, “With the king.” She climbed the main stairs two at a time, hand pressed to her shoulder as if she could contain the heat bleeding beneath the fabric.

 The hallway before the council chamber was lined with polished stone and quiet torches. Voices echoed ahead, deep, calm, familiar. She stepped through the archway and froze. Tom was seated calmly beside Kalin on the long bench before the great window, legs swinging, hands folded in his lap. Kalin sat tall, his cloak draped over one shoulder, his gaze turned down toward the boy.

 The light of the full moon streamed through the high window behind them. They looked peaceful. Chest achd. Tom turned first. Mama. He slid off the bench and ran toward her. She dropped to one knee and wrapped her arms around him, holding him too tight, too suddenly. She breathed him in, trying to calm her heart. “You scared me,” she whispered.

 “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. The guard said the king was awake. Elra looked past him. Kalin had risen. “He didn’t approach, but his eyes, those unreadable storm dark eyes, watched her closely. I wanted to ask him something, Tom said. Elra cupped her son’s face. You can’t just wander off. Not here. Tom nodded, guilt flickering in his expression. I’m sorry.

 Behind them, Kalin’s voice rumbled low. He’s strong, she looked up. He came here on his own, Kalin added. Didn’t flinch when the guards stopped him. Said he wanted to learn about the bond. Elra stood slowly, pulling Tom behind her. Kalin’s gaze lowered briefly to the boy’s hand in hers, then lifted again. He looks like you. The air shifted.

Elra’s breath faltered. Her shoulder burned hotter beneath her shawl. She turned to leave, but as she stepped into the torch light, the shawl slipped just enough. Kalin saw it. The blood. His eyes narrowed, not in confusion, but recognition. He took a single step forward. He said, voice deeper now, slower. You’re bleeding.

 She pulled the shawl tighter. It’s nothing, she said quickly. But he didn’t move. Didn’t blink. I saw it. She hesitated. It’s old. It happens sometimes. No, it doesn’t. Tom looked between them, confused. Kalin took another step. Is it the mark? Elra didn’t answer. His voice lowered. Elra. Still, she said nothing, but her silence said everything.

 Kalin’s jaw clenched, and in that moment, everything changed. Chapter 6. The Luna’s lies come undone. Kalin didn’t sleep. Not after what he saw. The blood on her shoulder hadn’t been an accident, not an old wound, not a scratch. It was the mark, the bond, and it was bleeding.

 He had spent 12 years convincing himself that she had abandoned it, that she’d accepted the rejection and vanished without a word. Whatever flickered between them that night was extinguished the moment she left the gates. But it hadn’t died. It had never died. He stood in the council archive now, alone, except for Elder Thain, who fumbled with a scroll so old it cracked at the edges. She was registered here, Kalin said.

 She was assigned as healer to the royal wing. She had access to my quarters. She worked beside me. There should be a record of her dismissal. Thain swallowed, unrolling another scroll. There’s nothing direct. Only a notice of reassignment. It’s signed by Elder Iddris. Where did he send her? Fain looked uneasy. It doesn’t say. Just a dismissal for insubordination.

But I was here. I remember no incident. Nothing like that ever reached public ears. Kalin’s voice dropped. Why wasn’t I told? Then didn’t answer. Kalin’s hand slammed onto the table, shaking the ink pot. Why wasn’t I told she was pregnant? Thain’s eyes widened. Pregnant? Kalin nodded once, sharp, certain. That boy, Tom, he’s mine. Thain looked stunned.

There was never an official record. No bond registered. Idris must have buried it. Kalin finished like he’s buried everything else. He sent for Elra that afternoon, not to the infirmary, not to the garden, to his chambers. When she entered, her steps were slow, unsure. But her chin was lifted.

 She looked more tired than usual, but stronger, too, like a woman who’d run out of places to hide. He motioned to the seat across from him. She didn’t take it. Elra, he said, sit. She did carefully, her hands folded in her lap. I need the truth, he said. She didn’t speak. Why did you leave? Her jaw clenched.

 Why didn’t you fight? Why didn’t you tell me what they did? Still, she said nothing. He said again, the mark is bleeding. That doesn’t happen unless the bond still lives. Her voice, when it finally came, was soft but steady. It never died. He froze. Her eyes met his. But I did. Kalin leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Tell me. So she did. She told him everything.

 How Idris summoned her the morning after the bond flare. How he called her unfit, unworthy, a danger to the pack’s order. How Meera’s father, Counselor Varic, offered a solution. Send her away, erase her from the record, and crown mirror in her place. She spoke of the caravan she was forced onto, the sealed scroll that ensured no healer would take her in, closer than the outer territories, how she lived in exile, alone, pregnant, cast out without a single word from him. Kalin listened.

 He said nothing, moved nothing, but his hands curled slowly into fists. And when Tom was born, she said, voice cracking, he came into this world without a name. I didn’t give him yours. I didn’t know if you even wanted him to live. Kalin’s eyes flinched just slightly. I wanted to tell you, she continued.

 I almost came back, but every time I tried, someone reminded me I wasn’t welcome, that I was a mistake, that your silence proved it. I never knew, he said, voice. I know. Why didn’t you scream? He whispered. She looked down. Because I didn’t think anyone would listen. Kalin stood slowly crossed to the hearth. The silence stretched heavy and brittle. He turned back to her.

 I should have looked for you. Yes, she said. I should have demanded answers the moment they said you left. She didn’t respond, his jaw tensed. I was a coward. She raised her eyes. You were a king who chose silence over war. I understand that. But I lived in the ruins of that choice. He stepped forward, one hand hovering between them. She didn’t flinch, but she didn’t reach for him either.

 I’m not here to be forgiven, he said. Not yet, she nodded once. Good. His hand dropped. But something had shifted. Not forgiven. Not yet. But something between them was no longer frozen. Later that evening, the council was summoned. No public decree, no announcement, just a quiet order delivered by the alpha king himself. Private chamber, closed door.

 Only the highest elders allowed. “Mera caught him in the hallway before he entered. She wore a soft robe and no crown, her hair braided with threads of gold.” “Kalain,” she said, reaching for his hand. He stepped back. She adjusted her tone. You’ve been distant. There’s a reason.

 Whatever it is, she leaned in, placing a kiss on his cheek. We can work through it. He said nothing. Meera searched his face. You don’t have to let her confuse you. Elra’s return is unsettling. I understand. But it’s old history, unsealed, unrecognized. He met her eyes. And for the first time, Meera saw it. His wolf was awake, not raging, not wild, present, and looking past her. Kalin, she cried again.

 I am your Luna. He shook his head. You were named Luna. Her breath caught. I let it happen. I didn’t question what I should have questioned. I didn’t fight for what I knew, and now. He turned from her voice, steady, sharp. I will. She reached for him again, but he was already walking away into the chamber. To truth, to war, to her. Chapter 7.

 The trial of the forgotten mate. The sky was pale when they came for her. A knock. Two guards. No words spoken. Just a tilt of the head, a glance down the corridor, and Elra understood. She didn’t ask who called the trial. She already knew. She dressed in silence, brushing the fabric flat over the old bite mark, now bright with gold and raw with steady bleeding.

 It had soaked through two layers by the time she stepped into the open air. The full moon had passed, but her body still burned with its echo. The deis loomed ahead. The courtyard had filled quickly. Elders in ceremonial robes, highborns whispering at the fringes, soldiers flanking the stone steps. Kalin stood already on the raised platform, broad and unyielding. Tom wasn’t in sight.

 As Elra approached, a sharp voice cut through the stillness. “Bring forth the healer,” Elder Iddris called. “Let her stand where truth is demanded.” She stepped into the ring of stone, the sunlight sharp on her face. “The last time she stood here, she had been 19, shaking, silent, alone. This time she wasn’t any of those things. Elder Idris’s voice rang out again.

Elra, daughter of no house, former apprentice healer and exile. You stand accused of bond deception. You re-entered Silverpine with no formal summons, bore false witness to a sacred connection, and now walk among us with a claim that threatens the Luna’s station and the order of this court. Gasps rippled through the crowd. She kept her eyes forward. Kalin’s jaw was tight.

 His arms were folded across his chest. He wasn’t stopping this. Yet, Idrris continued, “The council demands a truth binding, sworn blood and magic under moonlight. If your bond is false, you will face banishment. If your claim is fabricated, the child you brought with you will be stripped of name and protection.” Elra didn’t flinch. She took one step forward. I accept.

 Kalin moved suddenly. No. All heads turned. He stepped down beside her. This isn’t necessary. Her mark bleeds. That’s proof enough. Idris’s tone sharpened. We do not rule by sentiment. Even an alpha must abide by council law. Elra spoke before Kalin could. Let it be done. I have nothing to hide.

 She pulled her shawl from her shoulders, fingers steady. Then she unfastened the top clasp of her tunic. The crowd went silent. The mark shimmerred in the light, glowing gold, ringed in red, blood slowly trailing down her collarbone. Gasps, a sharp breath from someone in the elder seats. Elder thing stepped forward. That mark I remember.

Idris frowned. You were not on the council when it was sealed. But I saw it, Thain said, voice rising. 12 years ago, the night after the blood moon, the scroll from the vault, the record that was erased, Meera, who had stood quiet beside Idris until now, stepped forward. This is manipulation.

 Healers can craft marks with herbs and trickery. Thain turned. Enough. I read the original bond scroll. The entry was sealed by your father’s hand. Mera’s face blanched. You lie, she hissed. Kalin looked at her for the first time that morning. Do you deny your father’s role in Elierra’s exile? Meera’s lips parted, but no words came.

Do you deny the council erased Elra’s placement record? That her pregnancy was hidden? Still silence. Idrris stepped in, voice sharp. These are accusations with no surviving proof. Elijah raised her voice, then let the child speak. A murmur broke out among the gathered, and from the back of the crowd, a figure emerged.

 Tom, he walked slowly but surely, the wind tugging at his shirt, hair must from rushing. He climbed the de stairs alone. Elra, Calin began, his voice low, warning, but Elra touched his arm. Let him. Tom walked up to them both. stopped, looked up at Kalin, his eyes clear, his chin lifted, and he said, “He’s my dad. I’ve always known.

” Gasps spread across the crowd like ripples in water. Elra’s breath caught. Tom turned to the elders. “I don’t need a truth binding. I have the same blood. I can hear his voice before he speaks. I felt it when we touched hands in the garden. I felt it when he looked at her like that.

” He pointed gently at Elra, who stood frozen, her eyes glassy. He’s the only one that’s ever looked at her like she mattered. Kalin swallowed hard. Elder thing stepped forward. We need no more proof. But Idris held up a hand. We do. The child’s word is heartfelt, but not binding. This is court. Kalin raised his voice. And I am king.

 Everyone fell silent. Kalin stepped beside Elra, his voice low but firm. I failed once when I let others decide what the bond meant. I won’t fail again. He turned to Idris. You tried to bury her. You tried to bury our son. You called her unfit while she bled alone. That ends now.

 Meera stepped forward, desperation breaking into her voice. You can’t throw everything away for her. She’s not one of us. Kalin didn’t even look at her. She’s the only one who ever was. Chapter 8. The wolf that remembered her name. The howl rose just after midnight. Long and low, it cut through the stillness like something sacred breaking.

 Not wounded, not lost, calling. Elra sat upright in her cot. Heart already pounding. The sound reached deep into her bones, vibrating something she hadn’t touched in years. something that is still remembered. She rose quickly, wrapped her cloak tight around her shoulders, and stepped barefoot into the cold. The hall outside the healer’s wing was empty.

 The torches had burned low. No one else stirred, but she heard it again, closer now, a second call, softer this time, curving up through the trees toward the stars. Not pain, not rage, recognition. Her feet moved before her thoughts did. She passed the garden, the outer court. The steps where her name had been spoken were like a crime.

 She followed the sound through the eastern gate and into the sacred grove. The moon hung full above the clearing, bright and silver. The old trees stood silent, bearing witness. And in the center, where the grass had grown soft from centuries of silence, he waited. Not Kalin, his wolf, large, dark, goldeyed.

 Still, she stopped at the edge of the grove, cloak wrapped tight around her chest. Her feet were already freezing, but she didn’t care. The wolf didn’t move at first. He just looked at her. She had seen him once like this 12 years ago, on the night the bond first stirred, when he had touched her neck with his nose and something unspoken passed between them, raw and terrifying and warm. She thought she would never see him again.

 But now he was here, and he remembered her. Slowly the wolf stepped forward, one paw, then another. Silent, his body moved with restrained power. Each step measured, deliberate, unsure. Elara’s breath shook. She didn’t step back. He circled her once, not fast, not hunting, just sensing, noticing.

 And then, after a long pause, he bowed. His great head lowered to the earth, his shoulder dipped, his ears flattened, not in fear, but in reverence. Elra’s throat caught. Then he stepped forward closer and touched his muzzle to her shoulder, right where the mark lay beneath her cloak. Heat rushed through her body.

 She gasped, stumbling a step back, her hand clutching the edge of her cloak. The mark flared. Not just glowed, flared. Gold light pulsed through the fabric, visible now, even through the layers. It burned hot and fast, not with pain, but with urgency, with a pull that threatened to undo every wall she had built. She fell to her knees, pressing her palm over it. “No,” she whispered.

 The wolf stepped closer, concerned flickering in his posture, but she shook her head. “No,” she said again, louder this time. The bond was trying to seal right here, right now. And if she let it, there would be no more hiding. No more waiting. The moment she accepted the seal, everything would lock into place. Wolf, bond, fate, truth.

 She wasn’t ready. Not yet. Not until justice was done. Not until the court acknowledged what they had buried. Not until Meera answered for the years Elra bled alone. Not until the elders who had cast her out said her name in truth, not silence. She stood slowly, shoulders trembling. The wolf stepped back as if he understood. She met his eyes.

 Not yet, she whispered. Not like this. The wolf watched her for a moment longer, then slowly bowed his head again. Not in surrender, in respect. She turned, cloak trailing behind her, and walked back into the night. Her mark still burned, but her heart was steady. Chapter nine. The child, the air, and the truth.

 The chamber doors opened just after dawn. Elra stood outside them, heart thudding, her cloak clutched tightly in one hand. The courtyard beyond was already filling. Elders, packheads, guards, even villagers had gathered behind the outer gate. Word had spread. The king was calling the council, and this time not for war or policy, for bloodline.

Tom stood beside her, adjusting the sleeves of his cleanest shirt. His hair was combed back, still damp from the hurried wash, and he carried himself taller than usual. He didn’t ask questions. He hadn’t since Kalin knocked on their door that morning and said, “It’s time.” Elra looked at her son, her son, the son they tried to erase.

 And now he was about to walk into the room where they’d once told her he had no right to exist. The guards at the door nodded and Elra took Tom’s hand. They walked in together. Kalin stood near the deis, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but solid. The elders were already seated. Meera was nowhere to be seen. Elder Idris sat tallest. Scrolls spread before him.

 When Kalin spoke, the room quieted instantly. “I call this session to order as Alpha King of Silverpine,” he said, not to make war, not to settle pack disputes, but to correct a wrong. The elders shifted. Some looked uneasy. Others folded their hands and waited. Kalin continued, “12 years ago, Elra was cast out without trial.

 Without a fair hearing, she was marked unworthy. And with her, my son was erased. Idris raised her hand. With respect, Alfa. You’ll speak when I say. Kalin cut in. You had your chance. Idris sat back, jaw tight. Kalin turned to the council. I asked this court to recognize Tom, son of Kalin and as my heir. The words dropped like a stone. Murmurss rose. Elder Saurin leaned forward.

 There was no mating ceremony. No union sealed. The law states the law. Idris snapped, seizing the opportunity is clear. No child born outside a sacred bond can be named heir. The lunar mark was never transferred. The record was never sealed. This child is mine, Kalin said calmly. Idris rose from his seat. Then let the bond prove it.

 Let the boy speak under oath. Elra’s chest tightened. Tom looked up at her, then stepped forward without being asked. The room fell silent. The boy walked to the center of the deis and turned to face the council. I know the oath, he said. Idris narrowed his eyes. “That’s impossible.” “I know it,” Tom repeated. Elra held her breath.

Tom raised his chin and began to speak slow, steady, clear. The bond oath. Word for word. The old one. The version no longer taught in public scrolls. The one passed only through blood and bond. Spoken not in ceremonial recitation but in instinct, memory, truth. The room was so quiet.

 Even the torches seemed to hush. When he finished, Elderthne stood, voice cracking. No one teaches that oath to a child, he said. No scribe, no tutor. It lives in the blood. Idris stood again. This proves nothing. A mother could. Kalin stepped forward and held out his hand.

 Tom looked at him, walked forward, and placed his palm in Kalin’s. Kalin drew a small knife from his belt. He nicked his own thumb, then Tom’s. Two drops of blood, one mark. He pressed their hands together and spoke not to the council but to the boy. “You carry my fire,” he said. “You speak my name. You are my son.

” And then he reached into the folds of his robe and drew out the crest of the Alpha King, silver, sharpedged, sacred. He pressed it into Tom’s palm. The light that burst from their joined hands was small, brief, but golden. No one moved until Idris did. He stepped forward, voice rising. This is blasphemy. No heir can be claimed without Luna blood. The records, Fain stood.

 You erased the records. I You lied to the court, to the pack, to the king. Others rose now, one by one. Elder Saurin, Elder Mari, a warrior captain. You let this child be cast out, Fain continued, his voice shaking. You buried Elra’s name. You served your ambition, not the law. Idrris turned to Kalin.

 You believe this is justice? Kalin didn’t blink. I believe it’s true. The chamber began to shift. Some standing, others murmuring, not shouting, not fighting, but the fracture was visible, and Idris saw it. He turned to Elra, voice low, cruel. You think this gives you a place? That a child and a glowing scar make you queen? Elra stepped forward, drawing her cloak aside. She exposed her shoulder.

 The mark blazed gold, still bleeding, still burning. But this time, she didn’t hide it. “I’m not here for a title,” she said. “I’m here for my son.” And the room, the whole room finally looked at her without doubt, not as a mistake, but as the mother of the air. Chapter 10. The bite that became a crown.

 The moon rose slowly and full, turning the entire courtyard silver. Elra stood at the base of the sacred deis, cloak wrapped around her shoulders, hand resting over the mark that had ruled her life for 12 long years. It didn’t hurt tonight. It didn’t pulse or bleed. It just shone. Soft gold, warm, almost steady. For the first time, she wasn’t hiding it.

 Tom stood at her side, small fingers wrapped around her own. He stared up at the great fireballs arranged around the deis, gold flames licking high into the night. Warriors lined the edges of the courtyard. Elders gathered in their seats. The pack had come in numbers Elra had never seen. Every face was turned toward them, toward the truth. She felt Calin before she saw him.

 His presence moved through the crowd like heat, steady and grounded. When he stepped beside her, the murmurss stopped. His cloak swept over the stones. His shoulders straightened, his gaze lifted, and the whole courtyard bowed. He didn’t speak right away. He looked first at Elra, then at Tom, then up at the moon hanging full above them.

 When he finally stepped forward, the fire light caught the silver crest pinned at his shoulder, the same crest Tom now carried over his heart. Tonight, Kalin said, voice carrying across the courtyard, we gather not for tradition, but for truth. Elder Iddris stiffened in his seat. Mera stood behind him, pale and shaking. Her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles whitened.

 Kalin continued, “For years, this pack was told a lie. A lie that cost us our future, our Luna, our heir.” He turned, gesturing toward Tom. “My son.” Gasps spread across the courtyard like a wave. Tom didn’t shrink back. He took one small step forward. Kalin nodded once, proud and steady.

 By the rights of Fire and Moon, I named Tom, son of Kalin and Elier, heir to Silverpine. Elder Iddris shot to his feet. This is unlawful. But before he could finish, Elder Thain rose beside him. “No law forbids truth,” Thain said. “Only men who fear it.” A murmur broke out again, this time not in doubt, but support. Kalin reached inside his cloak.

 Slowly, deliberately, he removed the alpha crest. Silverwork edged with flame markings and placed it in Tom’s hands. Tom held it carefully as if afraid it might burn him. Elra’s throat tightened. Her boy, her brave, stubborn, brighteyed boy. A child they said should never have existed, now stood in the open with the crest of the king.

 Iddris lunged forward, hand raised. I object. But the council did not rise with him this time. They turned their backs. Every single one. Elder Saurin, Elder Mari, Elder Thain, even the guards looked away. Idris faltered, stunned. His power built on silence, fear, and control crumbled in a single breath. Kalin faced him.

 Four crimes against sacred law for the erasure of record, the manipulation of council and the exile of the rightful lunar. You are stripped of title and exiled from Silverpine. Idris opened his mouth, but no words came. For the first time he looked small. He lowered his head and stepped back. No one followed him.

 No one defended him. And as he crossed the courtyard, disappearing into the shadows, something heavy and dark lifted from the air, like a fog finally burning off after years of clinging. Calin turned to Meera next. She stiffened, trying to hold her chin high. “You are crowned on lies,” Calin said, voice low but unshakably firm.

 And a Luna crowned on deceit cannot keep her title. Mera’s eyes filled with furious tears. You can’t do this. I stood beside you for years. I You stood on what was stolen, he said. And you knew it. She froze. The courtyard did too. You knew Ela had been cast out, he continued. And you said nothing.

 A Luna protects truth, not buries it. He reached up, removed the Luna’s silver crest from her shoulder, and stepped back. Meera’s legs buckled. Two guards moved forward. She didn’t fight. She simply lowered her head, shoulders collapsing inward as the weight of what she clung to slipped away. Kalin turned back to Elra. Everything slowed.

 The firelight softened. The murmurss quieted. Even the moon seemed to wait. Calin said, his voice changing gentler now, deeper, something warm breaking through. Come forward. Her breath caught as she stepped up the deis beside him. Her mark glowed brighter with each step.

 Kalin reached for her hand, not forcefully, not possessively, but with steady intent, and guided her to stand where the Luna should always have stood. He didn’t lift the crest yet. He looked at her first. Were you forced? He asked quietly. 12 years ago. Were you forced to leave me? No, she whispered. Not by you, but by them. He closed his eyes once, pained by the truth. Then lifted the silver lunar crest, the real one, and placed it against her palm.

 Not pressed, not forced, offered. Elijah, he said softly, so only she and the moon could hear. Will you stand with me? Not because lore demands it, but because the bond calls you. Her fingers curled around the crest. Her voice trembled. Yes. The fires roared upward in gold. The pack erupted into sound. Cheers, cries, the pounding of fists to chests.

 Kalin stepped closer and touched her shoulder right over the old bite. The mark flared brighter than ever before. And then it sealed, not with pain, with warmth, with a feeling like something broken finally sliding into place. Like every silent night, every lonely year, every wound she carried had finally found its answer. Kalin bent his forehead to hers. His voice was barely a breath. You’re home.

And for the first time, the mark didn’t hurt. It didn’t pull. It didn’t bleed. It simply glowed. Tom ran up the deer steps. Then, breathless and wideeyed, he grabbed her waist and pressed his face into her side. Mama, he whispered, voice shaking. Are we home now? Elra wrapped her arms around him.

 Her child, her miracle, her proof. She looked up at the man beside her, the moon above her, the pack before her. Yes, she said softly. We’re home. Because they were. Because after 12 years of silence, lies, and exile, the truth had finally taken its place as crown, as bond, as family. And the bite that once marked her pain became the crown that marked her