LIVING THE PAST

LIVING THE PAST
Arabella's point of view

The heavy wooden doors groaned open, their hinges straining under years of use. My breath stilled in my chest as the figure stepped inside.

Ares.

He carried himself like someone who had lived through too much and trusted too little. The set of his shoulders was defensive, but his gaze — sharp and assessing — searched the throne room as though he already knew its layout by heart.

One glance at his face, and the past hit me like a storm.

The strong jawline, the proud curve of his mouth — his father’s features, no doubt about it. But the eyes… gods, those eyes were Aeris’s. The same molten gold that could cut through armor and warm a frozen heart. My sister’s son.

Tristan had told me about him months ago, his tone measured, as though trying to soften the blow. But hearing about him and seeing him were worlds apart. Standing there, he was a living thread tying the present to a past I had tried so hard to lock away.

I remembered the night I learned Aeris had been on the run. I had been furious. She hadn’t returned to Mistefell, hadn’t even sent a word. For years, I thought she had abandoned us. My anger had been my armor. I’d convinced myself that she had chosen her own survival over ours.

But then… she met Tristan.

That was when I learned the truth. She hadn’t stayed away because she didn’t care. She stayed away because she feared the danger she carried would spill into our home. She stayed away because she loved us — loved this kingdom — enough to suffer alone.

Foolish, selfless girl.

And the truth? That hurt more than my misplaced anger ever had.

From that day, I began preparing for war.

It wasn’t just instinct; it was inevitability. The world was shifting, tensions brewing like a storm you could smell before it hit. I knew that sooner or later, Ares would come here. When he did, I intended for Mistefell to stand as his spine, not his shield.

But now that he was here, standing in the same room I’d spent my life guarding, the weight of that choice pressed heavily on my chest.

He didn’t speak at first. His eyes swept the banners hanging from the vaulted ceiling, the flickering torches set into carved sconces, the mosaics that told the history of our bloodline. His gaze lingered on the crest — the silver wolf crowned in laurel — as though searching for a piece of himself in it.

I found myself gripping the armrest of the throne, nails biting into the carved wood.

The silence between us wasn’t empty; it was sharp. Thick with unspoken truths.

Later, after he had gone, I found myself on the balcony outside my chambers. The sky was bleeding into evening, a wash of gold and violet across the horizon. From up here, the city of Mistefell sprawled below like a living tapestry — the market stalls closing for the night, the flicker of lanterns marking the winding streets, the distant clang of the blacksmith’s hammer still ringing out.

I leaned on the stone balustrade, feeling the cold bite of the wind in my hair. My mind was restless, turning over pieces of the future I could not yet assemble.

That was when Tristan appeared. His steps were quiet, but I had known him too long not to feel his presence before he spoke.

“What’s going through that head of yours?” he asked, leaning against the archway that framed the balcony.

I kept my gaze on the horizon. The storm clouds there were darker now, low and heavy. I could almost smell the rain they carried.

“I’m going to make Tessa into a new Aeris,” I said finally.

Tristan’s brows rose, though he didn’t look surprised — not entirely. “That’s a dangerous game you’re playing.”

“Maybe,” I admitted, “but it’s necessary. Ares will need someone who can anchor him, someone who won’t flinch when his monster shows. A mate can be the difference between a lycan who controls his strength and one who burns everything around him to the ground.”

“You think Tessa can be that?”

“I think she’s already halfway there,” I replied. “She has her own demons. And sometimes, it’s the broken ones who hold the fiercest loyalty.”

For a moment, Tristan was silent. His gaze slid away from me, fixed somewhere far beyond the balcony, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

“I miss Caspian.”

The ache that name carried lodged itself deep in my chest. “I miss him too,” I said. “We never spoke much when he lived here, but I knew he was a good king. Loyal to my sister. Devoted to her in a way few men are.”

“Devoted enough to die for her,” Tristan murmured.

I swallowed, the wind stinging my eyes. “Yes. And if Ares is anything like him, we’re going to need to make sure he knows exactly who he is and what’s coming for him.”

Tristan’s gaze returned to me then, sharper now. “You mean to tell him everything?”

“This time, yes. No half-truths, no omissions. He deserves to know his bloodline, his history, the enemies he inherited along with it.”

“That truth could break him.”

“Or it could make him unbreakable,” I countered. “I’m willing to take that chance.”

The first drops of rain began to fall, cool against my skin. The city below seemed to sink deeper into shadow, lanterns winking to life one by one.

In my mind, I could already see the lines of the battlefield — not the physical one, but the one we would fight in the hearts and minds of the people. I had been planning for this war for years, and every piece was moving into place.

Tessa would be forged into something stronger than she had ever imagined. Ares would learn to carry the weight of his name. And when the time came, Mistefell would stand — not as a shield, but as a spear.

I turned to Tristan, my voice steady despite the knot in my throat. “We start tomorrow.”

His jaw tightened, but he nodded once.

I looked out at the storm rolling in over the horizon, my pulse steady, my resolve sharper than ever. Ares had come home. And whether he knew it or not, the game had already begun.