Chapter 46: The Betrayal
Seraphine's POV
I turned the page.
The next spread made my breath catch.
On the left, a charcoal sketch—simple lines forming a girl's profile. Her hair was loose, caught mid-movement like wind had swept through it. The artist hadn't drawn her face in detail, but somehow the posture captured everything. Hesitation. Curiosity. Hope.
Kaelen's handwriting sprawled across the right page:
---
June 15th, 2017
Saw her today by the creek. She was reading something, completely lost in it.
Didn't even notice me watching.
Then she looked up and smiled at me.
I forgot how to breathe.
---
Fuck.
My chest tightened.
That's... that's exactly what she wrote about him.
"I forgot how to breathe."
I flipped the page.
This time, the drawing was Isolde's work—I could tell from the softer lines, the attention to detail. A pair of eyes stared out from the paper. Rendered with careful shading that made them look almost alive.
Beneath them, her rounded script:
---
June 18th, 2017
A boy with peculiar black eyes.
He looked at me like I was the sun.
Like I was something worth seeing.
I think I'm in trouble.
---
Peculiar black eyes.
My stomach twisted.
Kaelen's double pupils.
I kept reading.
Page after page, their story unfolded.
Kaelen drew her silhouette against a sunset. His words: "We watched the sun go down. She didn't say much. She didn't have to."
Isolde painted their hands clasped together, shadows falling gently around them. Her text: "His hands are warm. Rough from training, but gentle when he holds mine. I feel safe."
A sketch of them running through trees, both laughing. Kaelen wrote: "She laughs at my terrible jokes. Her laugh is the best sound in the world."
Isolde drew wildflowers scattered across a page, each petal detailed with care. "He brought me wildflowers today. My favorite kind. How did he know?"
Jesus Christ.
This wasn't just a record.
This was their world.
Every drawing. Every word. Every shared moment captured and preserved like they knew—somehow—that it wouldn't last forever.
They loved each other.
Really loved each other.
The kind of love you see in movies. The kind people write songs about.
And she's dead.
The thought hit me harder than I expected.
He lost this.
Lost her.
No wonder he's so fucked up.
But I couldn't stop reading.
I flipped forward, page after page, watching their relationship bloom across ink and paint.
Kaelen's drawings grew bolder. More confident. Like he was learning to see beauty again through her eyes.
Isolde's paintings became more vibrant. Her words lighter, happier.
This is what he was before.
Before everything went to shit.
Then the pages started changing.
Subtle at first. Easy to miss if you weren't paying attention.
Isolde's paintings—they were still beautiful, still detailed—but something felt off.
The flowers she drew? Their edges looked torn. Petals fragmenting into broken lines.
The sky in her landscapes grew darker. Heavier. The shading pressed down like weight.
She drew herself once—just a small figure in the corner of a scene—and the shadows around her were too deep. Too consuming.
One page made me stop completely.
Two figures in the center. Kaelen and Isolde, I assumed. But surrounding them were countless scratchy lines—harsh, jagged marks that formed vague shapes. Watching. Crowding.
The text beside it:
---
October 2nd, 2017
They're watching us now. Whispering.
I can hear them even when they're silent.
Their eyes follow us everywhere.
---
Who's "they"?
Kaelen's response on the next page:
---
October 5th, 2017
She's been quiet lately. Distant.
Something's wrong but she won't tell me what.
I asked today. She just smiled and said "nothing."
But her eyes said everything.
---
Then Isolde again:
---
October 12th, 2017
I wish I could tell him.
But how can I?
He wouldn't believe me. No one would.
---
Tell him what?
What the hell happened?
I turned the page faster now, desperate for answers.
The paintings stopped.
Isolde's handwriting disappeared.
Only Kaelen's remained.
And it was different. Rougher. The letters jagged and uneven, pressed so hard into the paper I could feel the grooves.
His drawings turned chaotic—harsh lines overlapping, forming nothing recognizable. Just emotion splattered across the page in angry strokes.
Then the words:
---
November 3rd, 2017
They came to me today. The council.
Said she's been seen with outsiders.
That she's been passing information to other packs.
They're calling her a spy.
---
My heart slammed against my ribs.
A spy?
I kept reading, my hands shaking.
---
November 4th, 2017
I don't believe them.
I can't.
But everyone is saying it.
Everyone.
---
---
November 7th, 2017
They say you're a traitor.
That you've been meeting with enemies in secret.
Isolde, tell me it's not true.
Please.
---
---
November 10th, 2017
Why won't you defend yourself?
Why won't you explain?
You just stand there. Silent.
Like you've given up.
---
Then, on one page, a single word written over and over in thick, dark letters:
BETRAYAL
BETRAYAL
BETRAYAL
I couldn't breathe.
They accused her.
They called her a traitor.
I flipped frantically now, scanning the increasingly frantic text.
---
The pack demands answers. They want you gone.
But when I look at you, I don't see a traitor.
I see the girl who smiled at me by the creek.
So why won't you fight back?
Why won't you tell me the truth?
---
Page after page of the same desperate questions:
Why?
Why?
Why?
And no answers.
Just Kaelen's unraveling grief bleeding through every word.
I slammed the book shut, my chest heaving.
Holy shit.
Isolde was accused of betraying the pack.
And she never defended herself.
My mind raced, trying to piece it together.
Why wouldn't she defend herself?
If she was innocent, why stay silent?
Unless—
I stopped.
Opened the book again. Flipped back to the middle pages.
Reread Kaelen's words carefully this time.
"They came to me."
"They said."
"The pack demands."
Not "I believe."
Not "I think."
It was always "they."
My pulse quickened.
He didn't believe it.
Or at least... he didn't want to.
I looked at the page where he'd written: "When I look at you, I don't see a traitor."
He questioned it.
He had doubts.
So why—
I flipped back to Isolde's drawings. The ones with the shadows. The figures watching.
"They're watching us. Whispering."
She'd known something was wrong.
She'd felt it closing in.
And she'd tried to tell him—tried to warn him—but couldn't find the words.
Or maybe she was protecting him.