Chapter 114 A Story Worth Saving
Wynter's POV
Jax opened the door with his knife ready, but the woman who entered looked nothing like a threat. She was perhaps sixty, with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a severe bun and sharp eyes that took in our little group with assessing intelligence. She wore simple traveling clothes, but something in her bearing spoke of better days.
Her gaze landed on me first, and I saw recognition flash across her face. "Arthur's daughter," she said softly. "You have his eyes. And his stubborn streak, I'd wager, if you're mixed up in this mess."
"You knew my father?" The words came out sharper than I intended.
"I met him once, years ago, when he came to Bloodrock on a diplomatic mission. He was kind to the servants—a rare quality in visiting dignitaries. I'm sorry for your loss, child."
"You said you could help," I said, gesturing to the ruined ledger. "Can you fix this?"
Mrs. Thorne moved closer, her eyes widening as she took in the burned pages. She breathed. "This is everything, isn't it? Everything Draven's done."
"It was," I said bitterly. "Before your people shot it with an incendiary round."
"Not my people," she corrected firmly. "I haven't been Bloodrock's for three years, not since Draven discovered I was helping servants escape his... attentions." She touched one of the charred pages gently. "But yes, I think I know someone who might be able to restore this. If you're willing to take a risk."
"What kind of risk?" Chase asked, his Alpha authority making the question a command.
Mrs. Thorne pulled a worn handkerchief from her pocket—pale blue silk embroidered with a child's clumsy stitches that spelled out "A.K." "Anne gave me this when she was seven years old. Made it herself in her embroidery lessons. She was so proud." Her voice caught. "I kept it all these years, even after Draven threw me out. Kept it because I knew someday I might need to remember that little girl who still had kindness in her, before her father broke her spirit."
She looked up at us, tears glinting in her eyes. "There's a witch who lives in Shadowfen Marsh. Morvanna the Archivist. She specializes in restoring damaged texts—magical or mundane. But she's... difficult. Refuses most clients. Hates Pack politics. She was nearly killed once for refusing to help an Alpha destroy evidence of war crimes."
"Why would she help us?" Jax asked skeptically.
"Because you're not asking her to destroy evidence," Mrs. Thorne said. "You're asking her to preserve it. To make sure the truth survives. And because—" she held up the handkerchief, "—she appreciates objects with stories. This belonged to Anne. It carries her scent, her magic, her history. If you bring this to Morvanna and tell her Anne's story—the real story of how she chose to betray her father to save innocent children—she might listen."
Through the Bond, I felt Chase's hope rising cautiously. "Where is this marsh?"
"Two days' travel northeast, in neutral territory. The journey isn't easy—Shadowfen is dangerous even for wolves. But if you want that ledger restored..." She let the implication hang.
I looked down at the ruined pages, then at Chase and Jax. "We don't have a choice," I said quietly. "This is our only lead."
"Then we leave at first light," Chase decided. He turned to Mrs. Thorne. "Will you come with us? If this witch is as difficult as you say—"
"No," she interrupted gently. "I've done what I can. If Draven's people are tracking you, I'm a liability—I'm too well known in these parts. But take the handkerchief. And when you meet Morvanna, remember: she doesn't care about your war or your politics. She cares about stories worth preserving. Make her understand why Anne's story matters."
She pressed the silk into my hands, and I felt the weight of it—not just the fabric, but the history it carried. A little girl's gift to a kind governess. A reminder that Anne had once been innocent, before Bloodrock's poison seeped into her life.
"Thank you," I whispered.
Mrs. Thorne nodded, then turned to leave. At the door, she paused. "One more thing. Draven knows you have the ledger. He'll send his best people after you—not regular soldiers, but his Cleaners. They're trained to hunt in neutral territory, equipped with anti-wolf technology. Watch for tracking spells. And trust no one you meet on the road."
Then she was gone, melting into the darkness outside.
We spent the rest of the night preparing for the journey, gathering supplies and studying maps of Shadowfen Marsh. Through the Bond, I felt Chase's determination mixing with his worry for me—my ribs still ached from the earlier fight, and the wolfsbane Kaelen had sprayed in my face had left my senses dulled and my throat raw.
"You should rest," Chase said as dawn approached, pulling me against his chest. "We have a hard journey ahead."
"I can't," I admitted, my fingers tracing the embroidered initials on Anne's handkerchief. "Every time I close my eyes, I see her face. The way she looked at us before Kaelen grabbed her. She was so scared, Chase. And we just... left her."
"We didn't have a choice," he said, but I felt his guilt through the Bond, sharp and cutting.
"I know. But that doesn't make it easier."
He held me tighter, and we sat in silence as the sun began to rise, painting the safe house walls in shades of gold and red that reminded me too much of fire, too much of burning pages and incendiary rounds and Anne's sacrifice.
We're coming for you, I thought, clutching the handkerchief. I promise. We're going to fix this, and then we're coming for you.
Through the Bond, I felt Chase echo the promise, his determination mixing with mine until I couldn't tell where his resolve ended and mine began.
"Let's go," Jax said from the doorway, his pack already shouldered. "Shadowfen waits for no one."
We left the safe house as the sun crested the horizon, three figures moving through the forest with purpose and desperate hope. Behind us, the ruined ledger rested in my pack, its charred pages a reminder of everything we'd lost and everything we still had to fight for.
And somewhere in Bloodrock's fortress, Anne waited in darkness, her fate tied to ours by bonds stronger than blood or magic—the bond of sacrifice, of choice, of a girl who'd finally found the courage to be brave.
Hold on, I prayed silently. Just hold on a little longer.