Chapter 37 Shadows before Northwood
Morning crept quietly through the palace.
Soft gold light filtered along the marble corridors, brushing over tall pillars and sleeping gardens beyond the windows. Servants moved in hushed patterns, guards changed shifts, and the world resumed as though nothing had shattered the night before.
But inside Elara, everything still felt broken.
She walked beside Faye and Liora, her steps careful, her arms wrapped loosely around herself. Each breath tugged faintly at her ribs not painful enough to slow her, but enough to remind her of strong hands tightening too much.
Of fear.
Lyra stirred weakly in her mind.
"He didn’t mean it," her wolf whispered. "I felt his regret."
Elara swallowed.
"I know," she answered silently. But knowing doesn’t erase nine years of being hurt.
They rounded the corridor leading toward Queen Arwen’s solar.
And stopped.
Ronan stood ahead.
Sunlight framed his broad figure, catching on the fresh bandage around his knuckles and the faint bruising along his arms. He looked as though he hadn’t rested at all.
His gaze lifted.
"Found her."
Relief flickered, then guilt swallowed it whole.
“Elara,” he said softly.
Her breath stuttered.
Lyra nudged gently. "Let him speak."
Elara hesitated.
Fear whispered first.
But so did the bond, heavy with regret.
Ronan took a careful step forward, as though approaching something fragile.
“I frightened you,” he said hoarsely. “I lost control. I would never willingly harm you.”
Her fingers trembled.
“I know,” she whispered.
But her feet stayed planted.
Her pulse raced.
He stopped a few steps away.
“I am sorry,” Ronan said quietly. “I shouldn't have reacted that way.”
Tears burned behind her eyes.
Lyra stirred again. "He understands now. Give him a chance. Draven would never apologize if it were him."
Elara wanted to.
So badly.
But memories rose uninvited hands grabbing, voices shouting, pain wrapped in love.
“I… I need time,” she said softly. “I’m not angry. I’m just scared.”
Ronan’s chest tightened, but he nodded.
“You will have all the time you need,” he said gently. “I will not push you.”
Understanding warmed the bond as he stepped aside.
Elara walked past slowly.
Not running.
Not retreating.
Just needing space.
\---
Queen Arwen was already waiting when Elara entered the solar.
Sunlight poured across the room, illuminating soft cushions, flowering plants, and the faint shimmer of enchanted glass.
The Queen studied Elara closely.
“You spoke with Ronan,” she said.
Elara froze slightly. “How did you—”
“A mother sees many things,” Arwen said gently. “And a Queen hears more.”
Elara lowered her gaze.
“There is something you must know,” Arwen added softly. “But it will have to wait until after the masquerade ball.”
A knot formed in Elara’s stomach.
“For now,” Arwen continued, “go easy on him. He has punished himself far more than you could.”
Elara nodded slowly.
Then Arwen inhaled. “About the ball at Northwood Park. Would you really like to attend?”
“Yes,” Elara said without hesitation.
The Queen went still.
“But—”
“I understand why everyone is worried,” Elara interrupted gently. “I know it’s dangerous considering my past in Northwood pack.” She lifted her chin, voice steady.
“But I need closure. The only way I can move forward is to see my father’s grave.”
Silence stretched.
“Have you told Ronan?” Arwen asked quietly.
“Yes.”
Arwen studied her for a long moment.
Then she hummed thoughtfully.
“Very well,” the Queen said. “The seamstress will arrive shortly for fittings.”
Relief rushed through Elara.
“And hopefully, the artifact will be ready before then,” Arwen added calmly.
The seamstress arrived before midday in a flurry of fabric and perfume.
Madame Cirelle swept into Elara’s chambers like a storm of silks, her assistants trailing behind carrying bolts of cloth in every shade of moonlight and shadow.
“Ahhh,” she breathed dramatically. “The miracle girl.”
Elara blinked.
“I have been waiting to dress you since the Queen described your eyes.”
Faye stifled a laugh.
Fabric unfurled across the bed-deep sapphire velvet, pale silver chiffon, crimson satin threaded with starlight embroidery.
“This ball requires mystery,” Madame Cirelle declared. “Movement. Drama.”
She circled Elara like a hawk.
Measurements were taken swiftly, chalk marking invisible lines of magic. “Your frame is delicate,” the seamstress murmured, “but your presence is powerful. We shall honor both.”
Elara’s pulse quickened.
Lyra preened.
"We will be beautiful."
Layers were held against her skin.
One shimmered like frost. Another drank in light like midnight.
But when the seamstress lifted a flowing gown of deep silver-blue that glowed softly like moonlit water, the room went still.
“This,” Madame Cirelle whispered, “was waiting for you.”
Elara reached out, fingertips brushing the fabric.
Warmth spread instantly.
“It’s enchanted,” she breathed.
“Of course,” the seamstress said smugly. “Protection woven into elegance.”
Emotion tightened Elara’s throat.
For the first time since arriving, she allowed herself to imagine the ball — not danger, not fear — but possibility.
Across the palace, Ronan stood in the strategy hall, staring at patrol routes carved into the crystal table.
Matthew leaned beside him, arms folded.
Fenrir prowled furiously in Ronan’s mind.
"You should have held her."
“I nearly crushed her,” Ronan muttered.
"You should have begged."
“I gave her space.”
Matthew sighed. “Which was the right choice.”
Ronan looked at him sharply.
“She’s frightened,” Matthew continued. “But she didn’t run this time around. That matters.”
Ronan exhaled slowly.
“I can feel her fear through the bond,” he admitted. “But it isn’t hatred.”
“Then you haven’t lost her,” Matthew said quietly.
Fenrir grumbled. "Still should have apologized on your knees."
Before Ronan could respond—
The doors burst open.
A guard rushed inside, face pale.
“Your Majesty!”
Ronan straightened instantly.
“We caught something near the eastern wall.”
Matthew’s posture sharpened.
“What kind of something?”
The guard swallowed.
“A Nosferu.”
The air went cold.
“Alive?” Ronan demanded.
“Yes.”