Chapter 223 CHAPTER 223
The house had never felt this loud in its silence.
Hilda lay awake in her bed, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as shadows shifted faintly across it, cast by the restless branches outside. Sleep had come to her in fragments over the past few nights—thin, uneasy, and never enough—and tonight, it refused her entirely.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw them.
The faces.
The whispers.
The way the pack had looked at her.
Not with anger.
But with something worse.
Rejection.
Her chest tightened as the memory replayed itself again—the murmurs, the accusations, the way no one stepped forward to comfort her when she broke. The way even those who had once laughed with her now stood at a distance, as though her grief were something contagious.
As though she were.
Hilda sat up abruptly, her breath shallow.
No.
This was not something that would pass.
This was not gossip that would fade with time.
This was something that had settled into the bones of Silverpine.
And it would not let them stay.
Without wasting another moment, she pushed the covers aside and stood, her feet meeting the cold floor as she moved quickly toward the door. The house creaked softly beneath her steps, familiar and yet suddenly foreign, as though it no longer belonged to her.
She didn’t knock when she reached the next room.
She opened the door.
Anna stirred at the sudden movement, her brows knitting slightly as she blinked awake, confusion clouding her expression.
“Mother?” she murmured, pushing herself up slightly. “What is it?”
Hilda stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a quiet but firm motion.
“We need to leave,” she said.
Anna frowned, still caught between sleep and waking.
“Leave?” she repeated. “Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
That pulled Anna fully awake.
She sat up straighter, her confusion deepening.
“Why?” she asked, her voice edged with disbelief. “What do you mean we need to leave?”
Hilda stared at her for a moment, something incredulous flickering across her face.
“Why?” she echoed, her voice tightening. “After everything you saw over the last few days, you still ask me why?”
Anna hesitated, her gaze dropping briefly before lifting again.
“It will pass,” she said, though her voice lacked the certainty she wanted it to carry. “People are just talking. They always do. Give it time and they’ll move on to something else.”
Hilda let out a short, humorless breath.
“No,” she said firmly. “This is not something people forget.”
She took a step closer, her voice lowering but growing heavier with each word.
“This involves the entire pack,” she continued. “It involves the princess of Mooncrest—the same girl we treated like she was nothing. Do you really think they will simply forget that?”
Anna shifted uncomfortably, her fingers tightening slightly around the edge of her blanket.
“They don’t know everything,” she muttered.
“They know enough,” Hilda snapped, then forced herself to steady her tone.
“And even if they didn’t,” she added more quietly, “they believe enough.”
That was what mattered.
Belief.
Perception.
The way the story had already settled in the hearts of the people.
Hilda’s gaze hardened slightly.
“And do not forget,” she continued, “what they are saying about you.”
Anna stiffened.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“They think you were connected to Sarah,” Hilda said plainly. “They know you visited her. They know you were around her. And now, combined with everything else—your father in prison, what we did to the princess….”
She shook her head slowly.
“We are not coming out of this easily, Anna.”
The words hung between them.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
Anna swallowed, her confidence faltering just enough to show the cracks beneath it.
“So what are you saying?” she asked, quieter now.
Hilda exhaled slowly, forcing herself to think clearly.
“I have a relative,” she said. “Far from here. Beyond Mooncrest’s reach. She married into a farming village—small, quiet, forgotten. We can go there. Stay low. Wait until things… settle.”
Anna shook her head slightly, disbelief returning.
“You want us to run?” she asked.
“I want us to survive,” Hilda corrected.
That silenced her.
For a moment.
Then Anna’s gaze moved around her room—the familiar walls, the shelves, the small pieces of a life she had always known.
“My school is here,” she said. “Our home is here. Everything we have is here.”
Her voice wavered slightly now, no longer as steady as before.
“How are we supposed to just… start over?”
Hilda’s expression softened, but only slightly.
“We will find a way,” she said. “We will think of something. We will make do.”
Anna let out a small, frustrated breath.
“I don’t want to make do,” she said. “We’ve never had to make do. We’ve always been fine.”
“That was before,” Hilda replied quietly. “This is now.”
The difference settled heavily between them.
Anna looked away, her jaw tightening.
“And what about Father?” she asked suddenly. “What if the king changes his mind? What if he is released and comes back to find we’re gone?”
Hilda’s eyes dimmed slightly.
“That is not going to happen,” she said, not unkindly, but with a certainty that left little room for hope.
“And even if it did,” she added, “we would still need to leave.”
Silence filled the room.
Then, after a long moment—
“Pack your things,” Hilda said.
Anna didn’t move immediately.
But she didn’t argue again.
The house, once still, came alive with quiet movement.
Drawers opened.
Closets shifted.
Fabric rustled.
Hilda moved with purpose, her hands steady as she gathered what they needed—clothes, documents, small valuables—only what they could carry without drawing attention. She paused once, briefly, when her fingers brushed against something familiar, something tied to a life she was leaving behind.
Then she let it go.
Anna, on the other hand, hesitated.
More than once.
She stood in the middle of her room at one point, holding an item she didn’t truly need, her gaze lingering on it longer than necessary before setting it aside.
Each object felt like a question.
Each decision, a loss.
By the time they were done, the house no longer looked like home.
It looked like something abandoned.
Outside, Silverpine slept.
Unaware.
Unwatching.
Or perhaps simply unwilling to see.
The night air was cold as they stepped out, the door closing behind them with a soft click that echoed louder than it should have.
Anna paused.
Just for a second.
She turned, her eyes tracing the outline of the house—the windows, the walls, the life she had known.
Then she looked away.
Hilda did not pause.
She walked straight to the car, her movements decisive, her mind already set on what lay ahead rather than what was being left behind.
The engine started with a low hum, the sound cutting through the stillness of the night.
For a brief moment, neither of them spoke.
Then the car began to move.
Slowly at first.
Then faster.
The road stretched ahead of them, dark and uncertain.
Behind them, Silverpine faded into the distance.
And with it….
Everything they had once been.