Chapter 37: Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter 37

Edgar’s POV

The manor was too quiet.

Even with the crackle of the fireplace and the occasional footsteps of a patrolling guard, it all felt muted. Distant. Like I was walking through the echo of a life I no longer recognized.

I sat alone in my study, staring at the map on the wall, the one Lia used to trace with her fingers while she planned our defenses. Her voice still lingered in this room. Her scent, faint but stubborn, clung to the cushions.

My wolf should’ve been howling for her.

But he was silent.

Ever since Quinn’s confession, I hadn’t been able to sleep. Not properly. Not deeply. I’d lie in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying every word I’d ever said to Lia. Every moment I doubted her. Every time I looked her in the eye and chose someone else.

And then the dreams would come.

Only they weren’t dreams. Not anymore.

Visions. Flashes. Pain seared through my skull like fire. Shadows clinging to the corners of my sight. My hands trembling. My vision dimmed, flickering like a candle struggling to stay lit.

At first I thought it was grief.

But now… I knew better.

I was unraveling. Piece by piece.

And I was still no closer to finding Lia.

I didn’t even know where to start.

I’d sent scouts beyond the border, even dared venture toward the outskirts myself, but there was no sign of her. It was like she’d vanished into the trees and taken my soul with her.

A knock broke the silence.

Low. Measured.

“Enter,” I said, my voice hoarse.

Elena stepped in, her face pale, eyes sharp.

“You need to see this,” she said, and handed me a folded piece of parchment. Her hands were shaking.

I took it without a word.

The wax seal was unfamiliar, broken, no sigil. Anonymous.

I unfolded it slowly, scanning the first few lines, and felt my blood turn to ice.

She wasn’t lying.

She wasn’t the enemy.

The attack was orchestrated by someone within your bloodline.

Ask your mother about Alaric Dexter. Ask her what she did to his son.

Or better yet… ask your brother.

My heart stuttered.

I read the letter again. Then a third time.

Alaric Dexter.

That name, it struck something deep, like a memory half-buried in mud and time.

He was a rogue. Banished from the council before I was born. My father had always referred to him with disdain. I remembered whispers growing up, something about betrayal, about forbidden alliances.

And… a child.

A boy.

I looked up at Elena, who was watching me carefully.

“Where did you find this?” I asked.

“Taped to the kennel gate,” she said. “No scent. No trail. Whoever delivered it knew how to cloak themselves.”

My pulse pounded. “Get me everything we have on Alaric Dexter.”

She hesitated. “Edgar”

“Now.”

She nodded and disappeared, and I was left staring at the letter with shaking hands.

A brother.

Connor?

It couldn’t be.

But the timelines… the hair, the eyes, the resemblance I’d always ignored. My father’s refusal to speak of certain things. My mother’s obsession with keeping the bloodline “pure.”

I stood, pacing. My heart was a drumbeat in my ears.

What if it was true?

What if Connor wasn’t just a rebel with a vendetta?

What if he was family?

The study spun slightly, my vision narrowing. I braced myself on the desk as a sharp pain tore through my skull. My wolf whimpered inside me, a hollow sound, like wind through dead trees.

I blinked, and for a moment, everything went black.

Total darkness.

Then, flickering light. Shapes returning. Shadows dancing where there were none.

I clenched my jaw and waited for it to pass.

It took longer this time.

When the haze cleared, I felt weaker. As if something inside me had been drained.

I had to move.

I grabbed my coat, ignoring the ache in my bones, and headed down to the archives.

Elena met me halfway, a bundle of old scrolls and papers clutched to her chest.

“This is everything we have on Alaric,” she said, walking beside me. “And Edgar… there’s something else.”

She handed me a faded photograph.

A woman with auburn hair and a distant smile. Standing beside a man with sharp eyes.

A toddler between them.

“Elena,” I began.

“That boy,” she said quietly. “Connor’s mother. Her name was Myra Dexter. They disappeared after Alaric’s exile. We assumed she left with him. But this photo, it was taken near the northern cliffs. Near your family’s summer manor.”

The pieces clicked.

I stared at the photo, my throat tight.

My mother had always hated that part of the territory. Called it tainted. Refused to go near it, even after my father’s death.

And now I know why.

She did this.

She orchestrated the attack. Used Quinn. Tried to kill Lia. Hid a bastard son, my brother, and turned him into a weapon.

And I’d helped her. I’d doubted Lia. I’d condemned her.

My boots echoed down the hall like war drums.

My vision blurred again.

From rage.

No more shadows.

No more lies.

I was going to find Lia.

And I was going to find Connor.

Not to kill him. Not yet.

To look him in the eyes and ask the one question my mother never had the courage to answer.

What did she take from you?

Because if he really was my brother… then I owed him more than a blade.

I owed him the truth.

Even if it cost me the last piece of myself.