Chapter 47: Tragedy

Seraphine's POV

The sound of dinner preparations drifted up from downstairs—distant clattering of plates, muffled voices I couldn't quite make out. I glanced at the small clock on the nightstand. Six-thirty. The lamp beside it cast weak, yellowish light across the room, throwing long shadows against the wooden boards covering the window.

Outside, wind howled through the trees, rattling the boards with each violent gust. Snow had been falling all day, heavy and relentless, muffling the world beyond these walls into thick, oppressive silence.

I should've been thinking about food. About going down there and facing whatever the hell awaited me at that table. But I couldn't stop thinking about what Cordelia had said.

"After he lost her, Vespera appeared."

The words kept circling in my head, relentless and sharp. I stared at the book in my lap—the worn cover, the pages I'd been reading for the past hour. The lamp's glow barely reached the corners of the room, leaving them drowned in shadow. It felt fitting somehow. Like the darkness pressing in from all sides was a reflection of the story I'd just read. A love consumed by lies. A woman destroyed by accusations she never fought. A man left to rot in his own guilt.

The story inside wasn't just tragic. It was deliberate. Calculated, even.

In the drawings, in the words, I'd seen their love unfold. Kaelen and Isolde. Two people who'd found something rare and real in each other. The kind of connection people spent lifetimes searching for. And then it had been ripped apart. Not by fate. Not by accident. By accusations. By whispers. By a pack that had turned on her.

"They say you're a traitor."

"They say you've been meeting with enemies."

I flipped back to one of Isolde's paintings—the one with the shadowy figures surrounding them. The harsh, jagged lines forming shapes that watched. That judged. The wind outside picked up, a low moan that seemed to echo the unease crawling up my spine.

"They're watching us now. Whispering."

Who the hell were "they"?

And more importantly—why hadn't Isolde defended herself? If she'd been innocent, why stay silent? Why let them destroy her without a fight? Unless she couldn't. Unless someone made damn sure she couldn't.

The thought hit me like a punch to the gut. I closed the book slowly, my fingers pressing against the cover. The lamplight flickered, casting jittery shadows across the pages. Outside, snow pelted the boarded window in soft, rhythmic thuds, like the world itself was trying to bury this place—and me along with it.

What if it wasn't real? What if someone fabricated the evidence?

My mind immediately went to Vespera. The timing was too perfect. Too convenient. Isolde disappears. Kaelen is left broken and vulnerable. And then Vespera shows up, ready to step into the void. What if she orchestrated the whole thing? What if she wanted Isolde gone so she could have Kaelen?

I shook my head hard, forcing the thought away. The lamp sputtered slightly, the bulb dimming for a second before steadying again. The room felt colder suddenly, the heat from the radiator barely making a dent against the chill seeping through the walls.

Stop. You don't have proof. This is just speculation.

But the idea wouldn't leave. It clung to me, sharp and insistent, like a splinter buried too deep to pull out. I exhaled slowly and opened the book again. There were only a few pages left. The last remnants of whatever Kaelen had written after everything fell apart.

My hands trembled as I turned the page. The paper here was different. Rougher. The edges torn and crumpled, like they'd been soaked in something and left to dry. The lamp's weak light made the stains on the pages look darker, more sinister. Outside, the wind shrieked louder, rattling the boards so hard I thought they might come loose.

Kaelen's handwriting was barely legible—scratchy, frantic, pressed so hard into the page that the pen had torn through in places.

"The pack gave me an ultimatum. Banish her or lose my position. I had no choice."

My breath caught. He sent her away.

"She didn't fight back. Didn't defend herself. Just... left. Why didn't you tell me the truth? Why did you let them drive you away?"

I turned the page. Blank. Another page. Still blank. Then, halfway down the next one: "I found her today. At the border. She's dead."

The words were surrounded by dark, irregular stains that spread across the paper like ink spilled in water. But it wasn't ink. I knew what it was. The lamp's glow seemed to shrink, pulling back from the edges of the room as if it couldn't bear to illuminate what I was seeing. Snow continued to fall outside, thick and silent, building up against the boards like it was trying to seal me inside this moment forever.

I turned to the next page. More stains. More frantic, broken sentences. "I sent her away. I believed them. And now—"

The rest was smeared. Illegible. The second-to-last page had only a few words visible: "Forgive... Too late..."

And on the final page: "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you defend yourself? If you'd said something... if I'd believed you... We could have—"

The bottom half of the page was torn off. Ripped away violently, leaving jagged edges that looked like they'd been clawed apart in a fit of rage. The remaining part was covered in dark, rust-colored stains.

I reached out slowly, my fingers hovering over the paper. The lamplight wavered again, casting my shadow long and distorted across the wall. Outside, a branch cracked under the weight of snow, the sharp sound making me flinch. Then I touched it.

The texture was rough. Uneven. The color dull and oxidized. The moment my fingertips made contact, the bond flared. Sharp. Violent. A wave of emotion crashed into me—so strong it knocked the breath from my lungs.

Grief. Despair. Guilt so deep it felt like drowning.

It wasn't mine. It was his.

I could feel it through the bond, raw and unfiltered, like a wound that had never healed. "I sent her away. And then she died." The mark on my neck burned. The room felt smaller. Darker. Like the walls were closing in, pressing the air from my lungs. The lamp flickered once more, and for a terrifying second, I thought it might go out entirely, leaving me alone in the dark with his grief bleeding into mine.

I jerked my hand back, gasping. "This is his blood, and tears."