Chapter 4 The Pack Heir's Burden (Declan POV)
The Nightshade territory sprawls across the northern edge of campus like a fortress carved from shadow and stone. By the time I reach the main hall, my jaw aches from clenching it for the entire walk. The guards at the entrance exchange glances as I pass but don't speak. They know better than to ask questions when an heir returns wearing that particular expression.
The interior is all dark wood and wrought iron, sconces casting flickering light across ancestral portraits. My footsteps echo against marble floors that have absorbed centuries of pack secrets. I can smell my father before I see him, that distinct combination of aged whiskey and dominance that permeates everything he touches.
He's waiting in his study. Of course he is.
"Declan." His voice cuts through the silence before I even cross the threshold. "Shut the door."
I comply, the heavy oak clicking into place with a finality that makes my shoulders tense. Garrett Hale sits behind his mahogany desk like a king presiding over his court, silver threading through his dark hair in a way that only adds to his gravitas. He doesn't look up from the papers he's reviewing, a calculated power move I've seen him employ countless times.
"You left campus in the middle of a crisis," he says, still not meeting my eyes. "The Ironwood pack is demanding immediate justice, Silvercrest is threatening to withdraw from the Concordance, and my heir is playing detective with a human girl's life."
"She's not just a human girl." I step closer to the desk, refusing to let him intimidate me with proximity games. "Someone Turned her, Father. Illegally. And now she's being framed for murder."
Finally, he looks up. His eyes, the same slate gray as mine, are hard. "Framed? The evidence is irrefutable."
"Evidence can be manufactured."
"To what end?" He sets down his pen with deliberate precision. "Explain to me why anyone would go through the elaborate process of Turning a human, murdering a pack member, and framing said human. What's the tactical advantage? What's the motive?"
It's a fair question, one I've been gnawing at like a bone since I left Rowan's cell. "I don't know yet. But the timing..."
"Is irrelevant." Garrett rises, moving to the window that overlooks our territory. Beyond the glass, pack members move through the twilight, their silhouettes sharp against the deepening purple sky. "What matters is maintaining order. The Concordance is in three weeks. Three weeks, Declan. We cannot afford instability."
"So we sacrifice an innocent girl to appease..."
"Innocent?" He turns, and there's something in his face that makes me pause. Not anger. Something colder. "You've known this girl for what, three years? You've barely spoken to her outside of antagonizing her in the hallways. And now suddenly you're convinced of her innocence?"
The observation is too accurate, too pointed. I force my expression to remain neutral. "I've been watching her longer than you think."
"Yes, I'm aware." His tone carries an edge I don't understand. "The question is why."
Because she looks exactly like Elena. Because every time I see her dark hair catching sunlight or hear her acerbic wit cutting through pack politics, it's like having my sister back for just a moment. Because the guilt of failing Elena seventeen years ago has been eating me alive and maybe, just maybe, I can save someone this time.
I don't say any of that.
"She's being framed," I repeat instead. "The Turning sigil on her arms, it's incomplete but active. Someone started the process and left her to die or complete it during the full moon. That's not random violence. That's calculated."
Garrett's expression doesn't change. Doesn't even flicker. That's what catches my attention, the absolute absence of surprise. Any Alpha presented with news of an illegal Turning should show some reaction. Concern. Anger. Curiosity. Something.
My father shows nothing.
"The Turning sigil," I press, watching him carefully, "is advanced work. Whoever did it had extensive knowledge of transformation magic. That's not common. We should be investigating..."
"We are investigating." Garrett returns to his desk, shuffling papers with dismissive efficiency. "The Council has assigned appropriate resources to determine how this happened. Your job is to prepare for your role in the Concordance ceremony, not to play savior to some miscreant who..."
"Don't call her that."
The words escape before I can censor them, sharp and defensive. Garrett's eyebrows rise slightly, the most emotion he's shown this entire conversation.
"Careful, son." His voice drops to a dangerous register. "You're letting sentiment cloud your judgment. Just like..." He stops himself, but I know what he was going to say.
"Just like Elena?"
The name hangs between us like a specter. We never talk about her. Not in seventeen years. Her portraits were removed from the halls, her belongings burned in accordance with rogue tradition, her name stricken from official pack records. Only her letter remains, hidden in my room where no one else can find it.
Garrett's jaw tightens. "Elena made her choices. They led to her destruction."
"She was trying to expose something," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "Something she thought was important enough to die for."
"She was rogue." The word cracks like a whip. "She killed a human girl and paid the price for breaking the most sacred law. Don't romanticize her madness."
"What if she wasn't mad?" I step closer to the desk, my hands bracing against the wood. "What if she was right? What if there was something worth..."
"Enough." Garrett's Alpha voice fills the room, pressing against my skin with physical force. I have to fight not to bare my throat in automatic submission. "You will drop this obsession with the Ashford girl. You will attend the trial, vote with the pack's interests, and accept whatever verdict is delivered. Am I understood?"
Every instinct screams at me to submit. The Alpha command is nearly impossible to resist, especially from your own father. But I think of Rowan in that cell, silver marks crawling up her arms like vines of poison. I think of Elena's final letter: They'll come for the children.
"No."
The word costs me. I feel it in the way my wolf recoils, whimpering at defying the Alpha. But I hold my ground.
Garrett's eyes narrow. "What did you say?"
"I said no. Sir." I straighten, meeting his gaze directly, a challenge in wolf culture, but I'm too far gone to care. "Maintaining order matters, but so does truth. If Rowan Ashford is being framed, then someone in our territory, or one of the other packs, is the real killer. Finding them matters more than convenient scapegoating."
"Convenient?" His voice could freeze fire. "A human-turned-wolf murdering a Concordance Committee member is the opposite of convenient. It's a catastrophe. It gives ammunition to every faction that opposes pack unity. If anything, her guilt is the inconvenient truth we must manage."
"Then why aren't you more surprised?" The question erupts from me before I can reconsider. "When I mentioned the Turning sigil, you didn't even blink. Most Alphas would demand to know how, who, why. You just... accepted it."
For a heartbeat, something flickers across Garrett's face. Fear? Guilt? It's gone too quickly to identify.
"I've lived long enough to know that humans covet what we are," he says carefully. "It's not surprising that someone found a way to illegally Turn one. The Academy has resources, forbidden texts. These things happen."
The evasion is masterful but unmistakable. He's hiding something.
"What aren't you telling me?" I ask quietly.
"Nothing you need to concern yourself with." Garrett returns to his papers with an air of finality. "You're dismissed, Declan. I expect better judgment from you going forward."
I don't move. "And if I continue investigating?"
Now he does look up, and there's something almost sympathetic in his eyes. Almost. "Then you're making Elena's mistake. Caring more about righteousness than survival. We both know how that ends."
The threat is clear. Continue down this path, and I'll share my sister's fate.
I turn toward the door, my hand on the brass handle, when his voice stops me.
"Declan."
I glance back.
"I'm trying to protect you," he says, and for a moment he sounds like an actual father instead of an Alpha. "From consequences you can't foresee. Whatever you think you're doing, whatever crusade you believe you're undertaking—it won't end the way you hope."
"Maybe not," I admit. "But at least I'll know I tried."
I leave before he can respond, before the Alpha command can settle over me like chains. The walk back to my room feels interminable, every portrait on the wall seeming to judge my defiance.
Once inside, I lock the door and pull out the small wooden box I keep hidden beneath a loose floorboard. Inside: Elena's final letter, the paper worn soft from years of rereading. Her handwriting—elegant and rushed—fills the single page.
Declan,
If you're reading this, I'm already gone. Don't mourn me. I made my choices with clear eyes and no regrets.
There's something rotten in the pack structures, little brother. Something that goes deeper than politics or territory disputes. They're experimenting on children, suppressing their wolves, erasing their memories, turning them into weapons that don't even know what they are.
I tried to stop it. Father knows. He's part of it, along with the other Alphas. They offered me silence in exchange for safety, but I can't. Not when I know what they're planning.
They'll come for the children. The ones already made, the ones still being created. They'll use them somehow, leverage them for power or control. I don't know the full plan, but I know it's monstrous.
Protect them if you can. Question everything. Trust no one in leadership positions.
I'm sorry I won't be there to see you become the Alpha you're meant to be. You have the strength to be better than Father. Better than all of them.
Don't let them make you complicit. Don't let my death be meaningless.
All my love, Elena
P.S. — If something happens to my daughter, if they find her, promise me you'll keep her safe. She deserves better than this legacy.
The last line still makes my breath catch. Daughter. Elena had a child I never knew about, a niece who disappeared after her death. The official records claim Elena died childless, that the human she supposedly killed was unrelated to her personal life.
But Elena's letter suggests otherwise. Suggests coverup and conspiracy, secrets buried so deep that even seventeen years later, they're still killing to protect them.
I fold the letter carefully and return it to its hiding place. My hands are shaking, rage or fear, I'm not certain which.