Chapter 77: Hunger and Hollow Stone

I woke to the sound of my son crying.

Not softly. Not that muffled, uncertain mewling I’d come to dread in the dead of night. This was sharper. Desperate. The sound of hunger stretched too long.

My first instinct was to reach for him, but pain stopped me cold. My body was a battlefield—dried blood crusted to my side and back, muscles stiff with cold and bruising. My mouth was dry. My throat ached. I tried to sit up, and everything screamed.

Talon cried again.

That sound cut through everything—fear, fatigue, pain. I rolled toward him with a strangled groan and pulled him closer. His face was flushed, lips chapped, little fists curled against his chest. He rooted against the edge of the cloak, trying to suckle through the fabric.

I reached down and bared my skin to him. He latched, weak and frantic. A wave of raw pain surged through me—both physical and something else. Something deeper. A primal ache I couldn’t name.

I held him close, rocking with what little strength I had left, whispering nonsense under my breath just to keep him tethered. His tiny body was warmer than mine. His breath steadied against my chest, but the tremble in his limbs told me everything.

We couldn’t last long like this.

I didn’t know how much time had passed since they’d thrown us in here. The cell was stone, wet and foul-smelling, lit only by a slit in the door where torchlight spilled and flickered like flame on water. My last memory was cold hands, harsh voices, footsteps retreating. No one had returned.

Until now.

I heard boots again.

Deliberate. Pacing. One pair this time, not three. Coming closer.

I wrapped Talon tighter in the cloak and shifted slightly so he was tucked against the wall, half beneath my arm, out of sight.

The lock turned.

The steel door groaned open.

A man filled the doorway—broad-shouldered, heavy boots, beard bristling like wire. A guard. His scent hit first—smoke, rust, leather. Iron Hollow through and through.

He stared at me for a moment. Long enough to register I was awake. Maybe longer than he expected me to be.

He tossed something across the floor. A cloth bundle landed with a dull thud, skidding halfway toward me.

“Food,” he said flatly. “If you’re still breathing.”

I stared at him. Didn’t move.

He shifted, propped one hand against the doorframe. His eyes flicked over my body—taking in the dried blood, the sunken face, the hollow stare.

“You going to take it or keep rotting?”

I reached out slowly, keeping my other arm curled protectively along my side. The bundle was a crust of stale bread, a strip of dried meat, and a bruise-soft apple. I almost wept at the sight of it.

“You don’t talk much,” the guard said.

I said nothing.

He scratched his jaw and looked around the cell like he’d just noticed how small it was. “You’re lucky you didn’t get dropped in the bone pit.”

I ripped off a corner of the bread, chewed carefully. It tore the roof of my mouth, but it was food. I sucked some moisture from the apple’s skin and tore off a soft bit to press to Talon’s lips.

The guard was turning to leave when he paused. Something in his face changed. Not alarm. Not suspicion. Just the slight narrowing of his eyes. A flicker of new information registering.

“What’s that?”

I didn’t look up.

He stepped back in, one foot into the cell, staring down.

“Something moved.”

I kept Talon shielded, still nursing at my chest.

The guard crouched slowly, warily, like approaching a cornered animal. He leaned in. Squinted.

And then he saw it.

A tiny hand. Pale. Wrinkled. Clutching at my shirt.

His eyes widened—not in fear, but stunned disbelief.

“The hell…”

I didn’t speak. Just held Talon tighter.

“That’s a pup,” he said.

I met his gaze. Steady. Silent.

“You brought a pup into Hollow?”

I didn’t answer.

He stood abruptly, eyes flicking toward the door like he expected someone to be watching.

“Shit.”

He paced once—two long steps—then faced me again.

“There wasn’t a mention of a pup. Just a she-wolf bleeding out on the border.”

I let silence stretch between us. Talon’s suckling had slowed. He was full now, warm and heavy against me.

“What kind of she-wolf carries a pup into a war line?” the guard muttered, not really asking me. “What kind of mother makes it this far alone?”

He rubbed a hand over his beard, eyes darting between me and the child in my arms. I could see the wheels turning. Questions he didn’t want to ask. Possibilities he didn’t want to name.

He took one slow breath.

Then, quieter: “You’re her, aren’t you.”

I tilted my head.

“The Widow,” he said, almost to himself. “The one from the trader talk. Black wolf. Fire eyes. Rogue killer.”

I said nothing.

He stared at me for another long second. His face was unreadable now. Something between awe and doubt.

Then, finally, he straightened and stepped back toward the door.

He looked at me one last time.

Then at Talon.

Then back again.

“Alpha’ll want to see you,” he said, half a warning, half a promise.

He didn’t sound pleased.

He didn’t sound afraid either.

He sounded like a man who knew the rules of his world were about to shift.

He shut the door behind him.

Bolted it.

Left me with stale food, a half-healed wound, and a pup curled in my arms.

I fed Talon again, rationed what was left of the meat and bread. My stomach clenched and protested, but I ignored it. He came first. Always.

I cleaned the worst of the blood from my skin with the inside of the cloak, then laid back against the stone, listening to the water drip in some far-off corridor.

The cell was quiet.

But my mind was not.

Roran Vale.

He was real.

And he knew I was here now.

Let him come, I thought.

Let him look at me and see what’s left.

I’ve lived through worse than this.

I’ve buried my mate.

I’ve crossed every line they drew in my path.

Let him try to break me.

Let him try.