Chapter 26 The Doom of Duty

Chapter 26 The Doom of Duty
Lena

Phone time is supposed to feel like relief, but for me, it never does. I never call for connection. I’m not calling loved ones. I’m reporting to duty. My uncle may be Alpha, but I haven’t spoken to him directly in years. My parents are rarely available. They’re always doing pack work–scouting, foraging, training….

I wait as long as I can until the servants’ corridor is quiet, until the others have finished their calls and drifted back toward their duties, their voices lighter, shoulders looser. I keep my expression neutral as I step into the small, stone-walled room set aside for phone calls, as if this is just another obligation rather than a line stretched tight between two worlds.

I dial the number from memory. It rings twice before someone answers.

“Report,” a voice says—not my uncle. It’s never my uncle.

I straighten instinctively. “I’m still embedded. No suspicion.”

“Good. Proceed.”

I glance toward the door and then lower my voice. “Kaelen Draven is exhibiting mate-bond behavior. Increased proximity. Emotional attachment. Protective instincts.”

There’s a pause on the other end—brief, but charged.

“You’re certain?”

“As certain as one can be without the bond being formally acknowledged.” I hesitate, but then add, “The connection is… strong. Observable.”

“Who is she?”

“A servant. Sierra Lark.”

That gets a reaction. I hear movement, the faint scrape of a chair. “Lark?”

“Yes. Her bloodline is compromised. Her pack fell some time back. She’s here under the guise of service.”

Another pause. Longer this time. “That will not be acceptable to the Dravens.”

“No,” I agree. “Which creates opportunity.” I lean my shoulder against the wall, already mapping consequences. “If Kaelen confirms the bond, it puts him one step closer to Alpha. But choosing her will fracture internal loyalties. His mother won’t support it. His father will see it as weakness. There’s potential for infighting.”

“And you?”

“I’m positioning myself between them,” I say carefully. “Encouraging hesitation, fear, and distance.”

“You’re confident you can drive a wedge?”

My jaw tightens. “I’m working on it.”

The truth sits heavier than I like. Sierra isn’t difficult to influence—she already doubts her place here—but Kaelen is another matter. The more time he spends with her, the less pliable he becomes. He’s not reckless or cruel. Maybe it’s worse—he’s sincere. That makes him dangerous in ways his father never has been.

“There’s another concern,” I add.

“Go on.”

“The bond is accelerating. They’re not just drawn to each other. They’re recognizing each other. If this continues, separation will become… volatile.”

“Then act faster,” the voice says coolly. “We need instability in the Draven Pack, not unity.”

“Yes,” I say. “Understood.”

The call ends abruptly. No reassurances. No questions about my safety. Just the steady hum of the line going dead. I replace the receiver slowly, my hands steadier than I feel.

The guilt begins to settle itself in my gut, once the phone line is dead and the role settles back over my skin like a borrowed coat. Betraying Sierra wasn’t part of the plan—not like this. I tell myself I’m nudging her away for her own good, that coaxing her to doubt the bond might spare her from what the Dravens do to people they can’t control. But that’s only half the truth, and I know it. The other half is selfish and strategic and sharp-edged: separating her from Kaelen keeps him unstable, keeps my mission alive. The problem is that both things can be true at once: The Dravens are dangerous. Loving one of them could ruin her. And yet, every step I take to pull her back feels like I’m pushing her toward a different kind of harm—one where she loses not just safety, but choice. I don’t know which betrayal will cost her more. I only know that either way, I’m already complicit.

I spot Sierra later that afternoon, working near the eastern gardens again. They seem to assign her there regularly, likely due to her obvious success with the plants. Kaelen is nowhere in sight, but his absence is loud. She moves with a softness she didn’t have when she first arrived, her guard lowered in small, precarious ways. There’s color in her cheeks now. Light in her eyes.

She’s falling–and it shows in the softening of her edges, in the way warmth begins to radiate in her eyes. That pink in her cheeks is subtle but undeniable, as if something long-dormant has remembered how to bloom. And Kaelen… whether he’s brave enough to admit it or not, whether he understands the depth of what he’s stepped into, is already bound to that light. He’s moving toward it instinctively, unable to turn away, even as it changes him.

The chemistry between them is no longer subtle. Servants whisper. Glances linger. Even those who pretend not to see it still feel it. Bonds like that don’t hide for long. They announce themselves. They demand acknowledgment.

Which means time is running out.

I tell myself—again—that this is necessary. That the Dravens have earned every fracture forming beneath their polished exterior after what they’ve done to so many packs, after the blood they’ve spilled and the lives they’ve erased. I remind myself that destabilizing their future Alpha isn’t cruelty—it’s strategy. If Kaelen falters, if his bond becomes a weakness instead of a crown, it could spare my pack from ever standing where the Larks once stood, broken and hunted into scattering.

And yet, the justification tastes thinner each time I repeat it. Because Sierra isn’t a symbol or a move on a board—she’s a girl learning how to hope again. And every step she takes toward Kaelen pulls me deeper into a lie I’m no longer sure I can live with. I like Sierra. In the quiet, uncomplicated way friendships are supposed to form–shared glances, small jokes, the comfort of being understood–we have developed the scaffolding to genuine connection. That’s what makes this so cruel. I’m caught between the girl I could stand beside and the role I’ve already agreed to play, and there’s no clean way out of the space between.

When she smiles at me later, when she thanks me for watching her back, something twists sharp and uncomfortable in my chest. Because I know how this ends for girls like her: hurt, at best. Broken—or dead—at worst. And with each passing day, the space where I might still change that outcome grows smaller.

Soon, I’ll have to choose which side of the wedge I’m really standing on–and whether friendship is something I can afford to keep.