Chapter 29 029

Chapter 29 029

Zelyne’s POV

Two days after Kael got back, he was tied up at the east gate, and Dominic had an elders meeting in the morning. Thanks to an odd bit of scheduling, I ended up having dinner alone with Dominic for the first time since the fight.

Total accident. Just how things shook out.

Petra set two places at the little table in the side room instead of the big dining table, and I walked in, sat down. Dominic showed up three minutes later, still in his work clothes, jacket slung over a chair, the day hanging on his shoulders. He sat across from me, barely glancing up.

We started eating.

Ten minutes of silence—bread, soup, the muffled sounds of the kitchen, the rest of the pack settling in for the night outside.

I said, “The elders. How’d it go?”

“Long.” He tore off some bread. “Three of them want to rehash the eastern patrol rotation. One wants to pick at succession protocols, which is—” He stopped. “Premature.”

“Premature, or just not welcome?”

He looked over at me. “Both.”

I almost smiled. “What did you tell them?”

“Told them the patrol rotation gets reviewed at the end of the month with the patrol captains present, and succession isn’t on the table right now.” He gave a slight pause. “Said it politely.”

“Really polite?”

“It was.” He shrugged. “Mostly.”

That got a real smile out of me. I looked down at my soup before he noticed.

We kept eating.

The side room felt tighter than the main dining hall—lower ceilings, only one window looking out on the courtyard. Honestly, it felt more like a place people actually lived than some room that tried to impress. I kind of preferred it.

I said, “Your grandmother’s collection—I’ve been digging through it.”

He looked over.

“She writes about the pack like she’s furious with it and loves it too. Every other note is this is amazing or these people are fools.” I paused. “Sometimes both on the same page.”

Something flickered across his face—real and unguarded, almost a real smile. Not the little half-grins I was used to, but something real, right there for a second before he tucked it away.

“That sounds about right,” he said.

“She had thoughts about the eastern border, too,” I said. “Turns out the boundary fight with the Crane pack’s been running for sixty years and it’s always the same argument.”

“It is the same argument.” He looked at the tabletop. “I said that to the Crane Alpha last month and he said his father used to tell my father the same thing, and so did his grandfather. It all loops.”

He paused. “I can’t tell if that’s comforting or just sad.”

“Comforting, I think,” I said. “Means things don’t get worse—they just run in circles.”

He looked at me. Really looked.

“Circular,” he said, like he was testing the word.

“Some things don’t resolve,” I said. “You manage them. They keep moving.”

Something in his face shifted at that. I let it be.

—

Second helpings. More bread. The kitchen noises faded as staff started to leave.

I said, “Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask.”

“That stone on your desk,” I said. “You said your grandmother gave it to you. How old were you?”

He had to think. “Seven. Maybe eight.” He looked out the window. “She found me in the garden—I’d had a bad day. Can’t remember what, just that I was hiding behind the rose bush, didn’t want anyone to see me.” He paused. “She never asked what was wrong. She just sat down next to me in the dirt, in her good dress, picked up a stone, pressed it into my hand and said what I told you. That the ground was still there.” He went quiet for a moment. “Then she got up, went inside. Never brought it up again.”

I let that settle.

“She knew you didn’t want to talk,” I said.

“She always knew what you needed,” he said quietly. “And what you didn’t.” He looked at me. “She’s the only person I’ve ever met who always got that right.”

It got quiet.

Somebody moved across the courtyard outside—steps fading away, night taking hold.

“My mother used to tie ribbons in my hair,” I said. I hadn’t planned on saying it. “Blue ones. She said they made me look beautiful.” I glanced at the table. “My father had me with the staff most days—hard work, early mornings. But every morning, before it all started, she’d come find me, slip a ribbon in, say that.” I paused. “It was the softest part of those days.”

He watched me.

“I wore one on my wrist the day I arrived here,” I said. “Still have it.”

“I remember,” he said.

I looked up.

“The blue ribbon on your wrist at the ceremony.” He said it plain, like it was just a fact. “I noticed.”

I looked at him, really looked, across that small table in that small room, and felt something move in my chest. Not my wolf—or not only that—something just mine, raw and blunt and a little terrifying in how clear it suddenly was.

I looked down.

“She sounds like she was good,” he said. “Your mother.”

“She was,” I said. “She did what she could.”

“That counts,” he told me. “When someone’s doing what they can, and that’s it—that matters.”

I didn’t answer.

Honestly, I couldn’t.

—

We finished eating.

Petra cleared the table, said goodnight. We stayed, the room quieter without her, sitting with our drinks and the leftover bread. Neither of us moved.

“The library,” Dominic said. “What you’re looking for in there.”

I watched him.

“You don’t have to tell me yet,” he said. “I’m not… I’m not asking for that. I just want you to know I see it. That you’re searching. And when you’re ready—” He stopped. Left it open.

I considered him a long moment.

The fight in the study: come to me when you know.

The garden the next morning, distance on the bench, the thing that shifted.

This—small table, small room. The blue ribbon. His grandmother in her good dress, sitting down in the dirt.

“Soon,” I said. “I’m close.”

He nodded.

Got up.

Paused at the door. “The eastern section,” he said. “That restriction—it’s lifted. As of this morning.” He looked at the doorframe. “Should’ve told you earlier.”

I just looked at him.

“Thank you,” I said.

He nodded—just once. Left.

I stayed in the little room after he was gone. Pressed my hand flat against my chest. My wolf was there—warm, loud, absolutely certain about something I was only now beginning to name.

I know, I told her.