Chapter 47

**Freya's pov.**

The noise never stopped.

At first, it had been like whispers on the wind—fleeting, almost ignorable. But now the voices in my head were louder, sharper, more insistent. They didn’t just speak—they argued. Constantly. As if I wasn’t even there.

*“She’s not listening again.”*

“*Because you’re always talking over me!”*

*“You don’t understand what she needs. You never did. I’ve protected her longer than you’ve existed.”*

*“Your version of protection nearly got her killed.”*

Their voices—my own voice, fractured—clashed with every step I took, rising and falling in a maddening rhythm. I pressed my palms to my temples, stumbling through the training field, trying to shut them out.

Shut up shut up shut up.

It didn’t help.

“She’s weak right now,” the Hunter’s voice snapped. *“Because of you.”*

*“She’s weak because she was poisoned,”* the Wolf growled. *“Don’t act like you weren’t blind to it.”*

*“You think this is about poison? It’s about her losing focus. She needs discipline.”*

*“She needs freedom.”*

I dropped to my knees.

“Tiberius,” I whispered, barely able to speak. “Make it stop.”

He was there in seconds. I felt the warmth of his hands on my shoulders before I saw him kneel beside me. His voice was calm, grounding.

“Freya. Breathe. Look at me.”

I tried. His gaze met mine, filled with worry—and something else. A question.

“Are you able to speak with them?” he asked softly. “Your wolf. Your hunter spirit. Can you make contact?”

The words cut deeper than I expected. My throat tightened, tears stung behind my eyes.

“No,” I choked. “They… They don’t talk to me. They talk about me. Like I’m not even there.”

I broke down then, burying my face in my hands. “They’re fighting all the time. I can’t think. I can’t breathe.”

Tiberius didn’t say anything. He wrapped his arms around me and held me close until the shaking slowed.

Then he stood, face grim. “We need help.”

He brought me to a secluded part of the Hunter’s compound—an overgrown circle of stone ruins surrounded by whispering trees. At its center stood a man draped in layers of worn cloth, feathers, and leather. His eyes were milk-white, unseeing, but he turned as if he could feel every heartbeat in the forest.

“The shaman,” Tiberius whispered.

The old man stepped forward and touched my forehead gently. “She’s fractured,” he said immediately.

Tiberius’s voice was sharp. “She needs guidance. They won’t speak with her.”

“They can’t,” the shaman said. “The thread that binds her to her spirits—her wolf, her hunter’s legacy—has been damaged. Poisoned.”

I flinched. “Poisoned…?”

He nodded solemnly. “It was not physical poison. It was magic. Alchemical toxins fed to you over time. It severed the natural link between your essence and your soul-guides.”

I tried to remember if I had ever been poisoned, but nothing came clearly. The memories were hazy, like smoke slipping through my fingers. Yet I often woke in Alaric's house disoriented, with no recollection of how I’d gotten back to my room. Sometimes I’d lose hours—entire evenings vanished. There were strange teas, unexplained headaches, and dreams that left me shaking. My stomach turned at the thought. It had to mean something.

“I told you,” Tiberius growled. “They did this to her.”

“She is caught between two powers,” the shaman continued, ignoring him. “The wolf. The hunter. Neither trust the other. And she is the battlefield.”

I felt suddenly small, like a thread about to snap.

“Can she fix it?” Tiberius asked. “Can she heal the bond?”

The shaman’s expression darkened.

“If she does not find a way to reconcile both voices soon, her mind will begin to splinter. Her body will follow. She may harm herself without understanding why. Or worse—she may be lost entirely.”

“No,” Tiberius said immediately, stepping in front of me. “That won’t happen. What do we do?”

“There is one known method,” the shaman said carefully. “But it is not easy. She must reconnect to both parts of herself at once. That can only happen under unique conditions.”

“Tell me,” Tiberius demanded.

The shaman paused, then turned to him.

“She must be near both of her mates. Both must offer their strength—not their dominance, not their claim. Their support. Only then will the spirits lower their guard.”

Tiberius went rigid. “Both?”

Freya’s eyes widened. “Two mates? What are you talking about?”

“Yes,” the shaman said, unbothered by her shock.

A muscle twitched in Tiberius’s jaw. “You’re telling me that to save her, I need to bring Dorian back?”

He didn’t even glance at me. As if I had no say in it at all.

I reached out and grabbed his arm, tugging it sharply. "Look at me. What is this man talking about? Two mates? What does that even mean?"

Tiberius finally looked down at me, his gaze hard. "Your hunter," he said slowly, "just like your wolf, has its own mate."

I blinked. "I’m sorry—what?"

“She will not survive if she remains divided,” the shaman said calmly. “The wolf within her belongs to his bloodline. It recognizes him. But you, Tiberius… the hunter within her recognizes you.”

There was a pause, a weight in the silence that followed.

I turned to Tiberius, eyes wide. "You’re my other mate? Why didn’t you... why didn’t you ever tell me, Tiberius?"

He looked at me then, jaw clenched. "Did anyone ever *tell* you Dorian was your mate? No. You felt it. Just like you were meant to feel it with me."

He turned away before I could respond, his stern gaze locking back onto the shaman.

And I was left frozen, stunned.

“If she cannot find that balance soon… she will die. Her spirit will unravel, and her body will not hold.”

I stared at the ground. My throat burned.

Tiberius’s voice was cold steel. “She was poisoned under their roof. They left her in chains. You expect me to let him near her again?”

“She is not herself,” the shaman said. “Her spirits are trying to lead her in different directions. One toward instincts, rage, and bond. The other toward control, logic, and purpose. But both are hers.”

He turned his blank eyes to me. “If she does not find a way to accept them both, she will destroy herself.”

Tiberius was silent.

A long, heavy silence.

Then: “She can’t go back to the kingdom. Not yet. Not ever, if I can help it.”

“You misunderstand,” the shaman said. “It is not about geography. It is about connection. Her wolf needs Dorian near. Her hunter needs you. You may hate it, but the spirits do not care for hatred. Only balance.”

Tiberius looked at me then. And gods—it hurt.

His eyes were filled with conflict. Love. Rage. Helplessness.

“Freya,” he said finally, voice hoarse. “Do you want to try?”

Did I?

I looked inside myself and felt the chaos churning. The voices fighting. The storm of it all threatening to consume me.

I nodded.

“Then we find him,” Tiberius said. “And we do it my way.”

His tone promised blood.