Chapter 43 The Truth Revealed; Part Two (Vivienne POV)
"Wait." I stop halfway across the quad, Freya already several paces ahead. "There's more, isn't there? You said you saw the suppression spells. Plural."
She turns back, her expression carefully neutral. "Vivienne, you've seen enough for one night…"
"No. Show me everything." My voice is steadier than I feel. "If I'm going to face my father in three weeks, I need to understand exactly what he did. All of it."
"The suppression memories are worse than the murder. They span years. Watching yourself be systematically manipulated as a child..." She trails off. "It's different from witnessing a single violent act. This is sustained psychological torture."
"I know." I do know. Can already feel the shape of it from what I saw…the monthly injections, the hired tutors, the isolation. "But I need to see it. Need to understand how he did it. What he took from me."
Freya studies my face for a long moment. "We should go to Greyfang Hollow first. Tell Declan…"
"After. Once I know everything." I'm already walking back toward the chapel. "Please, Freya. I need this."
She catches up, matching my stride. "Okay. But we're doing this quickly. No extended viewing. Just enough to understand the scope."
"Agreed."
We return to the chapel, the salt circle still faintly visible on the stone floor. Freya redraws it with fresh salt from her bag, her movements practiced and efficient.
"This will be harder than before," she warns, relighting candles. "Harder because you're looking for yourself in these memories. Watching your own conditioning." She fills the silver bowl again. "If it becomes too much, just close your eyes. That breaks the connection."
"I won't close them."
"Vivienne…"
"I won't." I step back into the circle. "Show me what he did."
She takes my hands, the chanting beginning again. The water glows.
The chapel vanishes.
I'm standing in a room I recognize…my childhood bedroom in Edmund's house, before he sent me to Blackthorn. I'm maybe four years old, sitting on the floor playing with blocks.
The door opens. My father enters carrying a tray with food and a glass of juice that sparkles wrong in the light.
"Dinnertime, sweetheart," he says, setting it on my small table.
Four-year-old me abandons the blocks, climbing into the chair. "Where's Mama?"
My father's expression tightens. "We've talked about this, Vivienne. Mama's gone."
"But where did she go?"
"She... she was hurt by monsters. Bad creatures that live in the woods." He kneels beside my chair, his face level with mine. "That's why we have to stay safe. Why you have to drink your juice and eat your vegetables and do everything Papa says. To keep the monsters away."
"What kind of monsters?"
"The kind that pretend to be people but aren't. The kind that change into animals and hurt people we love." His hand is on my shoulder, gripping slightly too tight. "But you don't need to worry. Papa will always protect you from them."
Four-year-old me picks up the juice, drinking it without question. Within seconds, my eyes glaze slightly. The suppression spell in the liquid taking hold.
"That's my good girl," my father murmurs, smoothing my hair. "Finish your dinner and then we'll read a story."
I watch myself eat mechanically, the magical compulsion making me compliant.
The scene shifts.
I'm five now, maybe six. Sitting across from a woman I vaguely remember…Dr. Sanders, my childhood therapist.
"Tell me about your mother, Vivienne," she says gently.
"Monsters killed her." The words come automatically. "Bad creatures that change shapes. They hurt her so she couldn't come home."
"How do you feel about that?"
"Sad. But Papa keeps me safe from them." I'm coloring in a workbook, staying carefully inside the lines. "We have rules to keep monsters away. No going outside after dark. No talking to strangers. Always drink my juice."
Dr. Sanders makes notes. "And do you remember your mother at all?"
I stop coloring, my small face scrunching in concentration. "Sometimes I dream about... a lady with silver eyes. She sings to me in my dreams. But Papa says those aren't real memories. Says it's just my imagination making things up because I'm sad."
"What do you think?"
"Papa's always right. He knows about monsters." I select a different crayon. "He showed me pictures of the bad creatures. Wolves with big teeth. He said Mama got hurt by wolves."
Dr. Sanders' pen pauses. "Your father showed you pictures of wolves?"
"To teach me to be afraid of them. So I don't go near them if I see them." I'm drawing now, my crayon moving across the page. "See? This is a wolf. It has teeth and claws and it's scary."
The drawing is surprisingly detailed for a child my age. Almost like I'm remembering something rather than imagining it.
"Very good, Vivienne. You're a talented artist." Dr. Sanders closes her notebook. "I think we're done for today. Why don't you wait here while I talk to your father?"
Five-year-old me nods, returning to the coloring book.
I watch Dr. Sanders leave the room, hear her muffled conversation with my father in the hallway.
"She's remarkably well-adjusted given the trauma."
"I've worked hard to help her process it appropriately."
"Mr. Ashford, I have to ask…showing her graphic images of predators, is that recommended by her previous therapist?"
"I want her to understand danger. To recognize threats."
"She's five years old. This level of conditioning could create unnecessary phobias…"
"With all due respect, Dr. Sanders, I know what's best for my daughter. We'll continue our sessions, but my methods aren't up for discussion."
The memory blurs, shifts again.
I'm seven. Sitting at the kitchen table doing homework while my father prepares dinner.
"Papa?" My voice is small. "Claire at school said her mum is teaching her to bake. Can we bake something?"
My father's back is to me, shoulders tight. "Your mother can't teach you to bake, Vivienne. You know that."
"I know. I just thought... maybe we could try? Together?"
"I'm not very good at baking."
"That's okay. We could learn." I'm watching him hopefully, my pencil hovering over the workbook. "Claire says it's fun when you mess up. Her mum let her lick the spoon."
He turns, and the expression on his face makes me flinch. Not anger. Grief. Raw and unprocessed.
"Your mother loved to bake," he says quietly. "She would have taught you if she could. But the monsters took her away before she got the chance."
"I'm sorry." Seven-year-old me is crying now. "I didn't mean to make you sad."
"No, sweetheart. It's okay to ask questions." He comes to the table, kneeling beside my chair. "But we need to remember that some things are gone forever. Your mother. The life we could have had. All of it was stolen by creatures that don't deserve to exist."
"The werewolves."
"Yes. The werewolves." He wipes my tears with his thumb. "That's why Papa works so hard. To make sure no other little girl loses her mother the way you did. To protect people from monsters."
"When I grow up, can I help you protect people?"
His expression shifts to something complicated. "When you grow up, you'll be safe. That's all that matters. You'll never have to worry about monsters because Papa will make sure they're all gone."
Seven-year-old me hugs him, small arms around his neck. "I love you, Papa."
"I love you too." But he's looking past me, at nothing, his face carved from stone. "More than you'll ever know."
The scene fractures.
I'm ten now. Older. More aware.
I'm in my bedroom, the door locked, examining my arm in confusion. There's a bruise from the monthly injection my father gave me an hour ago, but that's not what has my attention.
My nails look longer than they should. Sharper. Almost like...
I blink and they're normal again.
"I'm seeing things," I whisper to myself. "Just tired."
But I stare at my hands for another long minute, frowning. Something feels wrong. Off. Like I'm forgetting something important every time I try to think about it too hard.
My father's voice drifts up from downstairs, talking on the phone.
"The suppressants are still working, but she's getting older. The witch warned me this would happen." A pause. "No, she hasn't transformed. But she's noticing things. Yesterday she asked why she can hear conversations through walls." Another pause, longer. "I know the risks. But what's the alternative? Let her become what her mother was?"
I move closer to the door, pressing my ear against it. I can hear perfectly even though he's two floors down.
"The enhanced senses are breaking through first. Then it'll be the strength, the speed, the... the other things." His voice drops. "I need stronger suppressants. Something to hold her until she's eighteen at least. By then maybe she'll be old enough to understand…" He stops. "No. You're right. She can never understand. Can never know."
I'm supposed to be hearing this. I know that somehow. Know that my father is talking about me, about things I'm not supposed to know.
But instead of asking, instead of demanding answers, ten-year-old me goes back to bed.
The compulsion spells are strong. Strong enough that even when presented with evidence that something is wrong, I choose ignorance.
The memory shifts faster now, years compressing.
Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Flashes of moments where the suppression cracks.
Running faster than humanly possible during PE and being told I must have been mistaken about the time. Healing from a broken arm in days and accepting the doctor's explanation that children's bones knit quickly. Seeing my eyes flash silver in the mirror and convincing myself it was just the lighting.
Each time, my father is there. Reinforcing the narrative. Offering alternative explanations. Ensuring I never question too deeply.
But the memories also show something else.
Me asking about my mother. Constantly. Relentlessly.
"Papa, what was Mama's favorite color?"
"Did Mama like reading?"
"Do I look like Mama?"
"Was Mama good at math?"
"Did Mama want me to go to university?"
"Would Mama be proud of me?"
A thousand questions over thirteen years. And my father answering each one with carefully constructed lies.
"Your mother loved blue."
"She preferred poetry to novels."
"You have her eyes, her smile, her determination."
"She struggled with math but never gave up."
"She wanted you to be anything that made you happy."
"She would be so proud of you, sweetheart."
Lies built on lies. Creating a version of my mother that was palatable. Human. Safe.
Erasing the Silvermane heritage. The ancient bloodline. The power that runs in my veins.
The final memory crystallizes at age sixteen, one year ago.
I'm in my father's study late at night, unable to sleep. He's away on one of his "research trips" so I'm alone in the house.
I shouldn't be in here. He's made that clear. But I'm looking for something…. a photograph, maybe, or a letter. Anything tangible from my mother beyond his sanitized stories.
The filing cabinet is locked, but the key is in his desk drawer where he thinks I don't know to look.
Inside, I find folders. Dozens of them. Each labeled with locations and dates.
Yorkshire, October 2023. Three targets eliminated.
Cornwall, March 2022. Pack decimated, two survivors fled.
Wales, December 2021. Alpha killed, territory claimed.
Research trips. He called them research trips.
I open another folder, this one labeled Silvermane Investigation.
Inside are photographs. Not of my mother as a young woman, not of her wedding or pregnancy.
Photographs of wolves. Large, silver wolves. Running through forests, hunting, howling at the moon.
And beneath them, handwritten notes in my father's precise script.
Subject demonstrates Alpha-class size and strength. Confirmed Silvermane bloodline through ancestral markings. Behavior suggests high intelligence and pack leadership. Threat level: Extreme. Recommendation: Immediate elimination.
I stare at the words, not understanding. Not wanting to understand.
Another photograph. A woman with dark hair and silver eyes, laughing at whoever is behind the camera. My mother. But stamped across her face in red ink: DECEASED - THREAT NEUTRALIZED.
My sixteen-year-old hands shake as I close the folder, shove it back in the cabinet, lock it, return the key.
I go to bed and by morning, I've convinced myself I dreamed the whole thing.
The suppression spells are that strong. Strong enough to make me forget even damning evidence right in front of my face.
The chapel returns with violent force.
I'm on my hands and knees this time, retching. Nothing comes up because there's nothing in my stomach, but my body tries anyway.
"Seventeen years," I gasp. "Seventeen years of... of..."
"Systematic psychological conditioning." Freya's voice is clinical, but her hand on my back is gentle. "Reinforcement of fabricated narratives. Suppression of questioning. Magical compulsion to accept lies."
"I asked about her constantly. I wanted to know her." The tears come again, different from before. "And every answer he gave was designed to hide what he did. To erase what she actually was."
"Yes."
"He made me afraid of wolves. Showed me pictures to condition me. Made me associate them with losing her." I sit back on my heels, wiping my face. "While knowing the whole time that she was a wolf. That I would become one too."
"The suppression couldn't last forever. The witch told him that."
"But he tried anyway. Kept pumping me full of silver and magic and lies." I look at my hands, remembering ten-year-old me staring at them in confusion. "How many times did I almost figure it out? How many times did the suppression force me to forget?"
"The memories show at least a dozen instances where you noticed anomalies. Enhanced senses, unusual strength, healing too quickly. Each time, the conditioning made you dismiss or forget."
"Even when I found his files. Even when I saw proof that he was hunting werewolves, that my mother was one—" My voice breaks. "The spells were strong enough to make me think I'd dreamed it."
"Dark magic designed specifically to suppress Silvermane awakening. Your father hired the best." Freya helps me stand. "Or the worst, depending on perspective."
"He constructed my entire identity." The realization settles like lead in my stomach. "Everything I think I know about myself, about my childhood, about my mother…it's all filtered through his manipulation. How do I even know what's real anymore?"
"The memories I showed you are real. Your mother's murder, the suppression spells, his current plans, all verified through deep seeing magic that can't be fooled by human deception."
"But my memories. My actual memories from childhood." I touch my temples, pressing against the ache building there. "How much of what I remember is true and how much is compulsion-induced false narrative?"
"I don't know. Untangling seventeen years of magical conditioning would take months, maybe years. And we have three weeks."
Three weeks. Right. Back to the immediate crisis.
"He told me monsters killed her," I say quietly. "Made me afraid of the very thing I was destined to become. Made me complicit in hating what I am."
"Classic abuser tactic. Make the victim internalize the abuser's worldview so deeply they police themselves."
"It worked. I spent sixteen years believing werewolves were monsters who deserved to be hunted. Who took my mother from me." The bitter laugh escapes before I can stop it. "And all along, I was mourning the woman he murdered. Accepting his justification for genocide while being the thing he was teaching me to fear."
"You didn't know."
"That's the point. I was designed not to know. Seventeen years of careful psychological manipulation to ensure I'd never question, never investigate, never discover what I actually am." I move toward the chapel door, needing air. "My entire identity is a lie he constructed to hide his crime."
Freya follows me out into the cold. "Not your entire identity. What you've become since awakening…that's real. That's you discovering who you actually are beneath the suppression."
"Is it? Or am I just reacting against his conditioning? Becoming the opposite of what he wanted because that's the only form of rebellion I understand?"
"Vivienne…"
"How do I know anything about myself is authentic when my foundation is built on systematic lies?" I'm pacing now, unable to stand still. "My personality, my interests, my fears…how much of it was shaped by his agenda? How much of me is actually me?"
"The you who kissed Declan in the library. The you who stood up to Helena. The you who chose transformation over suppression." Freya catches my arm, stopping my pacing. "That's real. That's you making choices free of his control."
"For two months. Two months of freedom versus seventeen years of conditioning. The math doesn't work out in my favor."
"Then we make it work. You have three weeks to discover who you are beneath what he made you. Three weeks to access power he spent seventeen years trying to bury. Three weeks to become so completely yourself that when he attacks, he's facing someone he's never met."
I stop, looking at her. "Someone he's never met."
"The daughter he raised doesn't exist. You said it yourself…she was a construction. A lie." Freya's expression is fierce. "So stop trying to be her. Stop trying to reconcile what you thought you were with what you're becoming. Just be what you are."
"And what am I?"
"Silvermane. Werewolf. Heir to three thousand years of accumulated power. Mate to an Alpha. Sister to a survivor. Daughter of a woman who loved you enough to die trying to bring you into the world." She squeezes my arm. "You're not Edmund Ashford's carefully constructed victim anymore. You're Vivienne Silvermane. And you're terrifying."
The words settle into my chest, heavy and real.
Vivienne Silvermane. Not Ashford. Not the obedient daughter who believed her father's lies. Not the isolated girl who accepted suppression as protection.
Someone new. Someone dangerous. Someone my father has never actually known.
"He's going to try to kill me," I say.
"Yes."
"And I'm going to have to fight back."
"Yes."
"Against my own father."
Freya's expression doesn't change. "Against the man who murdered your mother, tortured you with suppression spells, and is currently planning to execute fifty people including you. Yes."
When she puts it that way, the guilt lessens. Doesn't disappear…I don't think it ever will completely, but lessens enough to breathe around.
"I need to see Declan." The exhaustion hits suddenly, bone-deep and overwhelming. "Need to tell him everything before I collapse."
"Can you make it to Greyfang Hollow or should I call him here?"
I consider my shaking legs, the way my hands won't stop trembling, the emotional whiplash of the past hour. "Call him here. I don't trust myself to walk that far without falling apart."
Freya pulls out her phone, typing quickly. Within seconds, it buzzes with a response.
"He's on his way. Should be here in five minutes." She guides me to sit on the chapel steps. "Want to go back inside?"
"No. I need air. Need..." I trail off, not sure what I need beyond fundamental things like safety and comfort and someone to tell me I'm going to survive this.
We sit in silence, the campus quiet around us. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hoots. Normal sounds. Normal night.
Except nothing about tonight is normal.
I learned my father murdered my mother while she was trying to communicate with him. Watched myself be systematically tortured with magic as a toddler. Witnessed seventeen years of psychological conditioning designed to hide his crime.
And in three weeks, he's going to try to kill me for becoming exactly what I always was beneath his suppression.
"Freya?" My voice is small. "What if I can't do this? What if seventeen years of conditioning is too much to overcome in three weeks?"
"Then you do it anyway. Because the alternative is death. For you, for Declan, for the pack. For fifty werewolves who are walking into a trap." She leans against me, solid and warm. "You don't get to give up. Not when you're the only one who can access power your father hasn't accounted for."
"No pressure."
"All the pressure. But you're not doing it alone." She points to a figure crossing the quad at speed. "See? Backup arriving now."
Declan reaches us in less than a minute, breathing hard like he ran the whole way. His eyes scan me—taking in the tear-streaked face, the shaking hands, the way I'm curled in on myself—and his expression shifts to something protective and furious simultaneously.
"What happened?" He crouches in front of me. "Freya said it was urgent but she wouldn't explain—"
"I showed her the truth," Freya says. "About Edmund. About the suppression. About everything."
Understanding dawns on Declan's face. "Oh. Oh, Vivienne."
He doesn't ask if I'm okay. Doesn't offer empty platitudes. Just pulls me against his chest and holds on while I finally, completely, fall apart.