Chapter 13 The thing that came back
Two days.
That was how long Elara had been still.
Not dead. Not sleeping. Just suspended. As though time had wrapped itself around her body and refused to move forward.
Ronan had not left her side once.
He sat beside the bed meant for a Luna who had not yet opened her eyes in it, shoulders hunched, elbows resting on his knees. The chamber was dim, curtains drawn to soften the light. The faint scent of herbs clung to the air, clean and sharp, barely masking the underlying smell of stone and magic. Beneath the bed, moonstone pulsed faintly, reacting to his presence.
Still, she did not wake.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
“Your Majesty,” a maid said gently. “The bath water has been prepared.”
Ronan did not look away from Elara. “Bring it in.”
The door opened quietly. Two maids entered, heads bowed, movements careful. They placed the bowl of warm water and folded towels beside the bed, then withdrew without a word. Neither lingered. Neither dared meet his gaze.
Ronan reached for the bowl himself.
His eyes traced Elara’s face. Pale. Too pale. Her lashes rested against her cheeks, shadows against skin that had lost its warmth. Her breathing was shallow but steady, the only proof she was still here.
His hand closed around hers.
Too small.
Her fingers disappeared inside his palm, fragile where his was scarred and calloused. His jaw tightened.
“I should never have let you go,” he murmured.
If he had known. If he had even suspected. He would have simply said he would leave with her rather than send her to fetch useless herbs.
He dipped the towel into the water, wrung it out, and wiped her arm carefully, slowly, as though any wrong movement might break something already fractured.
The door opened again.
Arwen stepped inside.
She paused, taking in the sight of her son seated at the bedside, shoulders rigid, eyes hollow with exhaustion as he tended to a woman who did not stir beneath his touch. For a moment, something like sorrow crossed her face.
“The Moon Goddess is cruel,” Arwen said quietly. “But even she does not explain herself.”
Ronan did not respond.
She moved closer. “The maids—”
“She’s cold,” he said, not looking up. “They don’t know how she reacts. Water too hot makes her skin red.”
Arwen exhaled and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m not speaking as Queen,” she said. “I’m speaking as your mother. You cannot pour everything into her and leave nothing behind.”
Ronan’s hand paused near Elara’s cheek.
“Before,” he said quietly, “I felt her. Always. Her fear. Her anger. Her panic Even when she didn’t know I existed.” His voice roughened. “Now she’s here and there’s nothing. It’s like she’s gone. But she’s not.”
Arwen closed her eyes briefly. “The witch warned us. Her soul withdrew to protect itself.”
Ronan shook his head. “I pushed her. I wasn't rational...” His voice cracked. “This is my fault.”
“It isn’t.”
“But it is.”
Tears slipped free before he could stop them, vanishing into the moonstone beneath the bed.
Arwen’s expression hardened, not unkindly, but firm. “Crying will not bring her back,” she said. “And the world will not pause while you grieve.”
Ronan said nothing.
“The Nosferus are stirring,” Arwen continued. “And the outer territories report movement. If we don’t respond—”
“I don’t care,” Ronan snapped, finally looking up. “I care about her.”
Arwen met his gaze steadily. “Then make this place safe for her before she wakes.”
The words landed.
“I’m not leaving her,” Ronan said. “You and Matthew can handle the palace.”
Arwen opened her mouth to argue.
“Please,” he said quietly. “Just this.”
She studied him for a long moment, then sighed. She stepped closer and brushed Elara’s hair back, her fingers catching on the strange silver sheen threading through the dark strands.
“Fine,” Arwen said.
Before she could say more, Matthew’s voice struck through the mindlink.
“Your Majesty.”
Ronan stiffened.
“Kael is back.”
A beat.
“But he’s not in one piece.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Arwen’s breath hitched once. Her fingers curled tightly at her side before she forced them still.
“Get the healers ready,” she said sharply. “All of them. And summon the war council.”
Then she looked at Ronan.
“Do not move,” she said.
And then she turned and left.
Fenrir surged, a low, furious growl vibrating through Ronan’s bones. "He failed, his wolf snarled. I’ll tear him apart myself."
“No,” Ronan said aloud, voice tight. “Something’s wrong.”
"If he couldn’t protect her—"
“He tried,” Ronan cut in. “Or he wouldn’t have come back at all.”
He rose slowly, eyes flicking to Elara. Still pale. Still breathing.
Relief cut sharp and painful, followed immediately by unease.
Kael was one of their best trackers. If he had returned broken, whatever he faced had been strong enough to nearly kill him and smart enough to let him live.
Fenrir stilled. He felt it too.
"You won’t leave her," his wolf said, quieter now.
“I don't plan to,” Ronan whispered.
But he couldn’t ignore this either.
Arwen returned minutes later, flanked by her two attending maids.
“Four injured,” she said immediately. “None dead. Kael took the worst of it.”
Ronan’s jaw tightened.
“They were hit fast,” Arwen continued. “From three sides. No panic. No chase. Whoever attacked knew when to strike and when to withdraw.”
Her gaze sharpened. “This was not rogue chaos. This was planned.”
Ronan exhaled slowly. “I need to see him.”
“You will,” Arwen said. “But not like this.”
She gestured around the chamber. “You are unraveling.”
“I can’t be in two places,” Ronan said quietly.
Arwen met his gaze. “No.”
“There is a way.”
Her expression changed, just slightly. “No.”
“I know the cost.”
“You don’t,” she snapped. “No one ever does.”
“I won’t leave her unguarded,” Ronan said. “And I won’t ignore a threat that could finish what it started.”
Silence stretched.
Fenrir growled low. This is dangerous.
“I am aware,” Ronan said.
Arwen’s shoulders sagged. “You are your father’s son,” she murmured. “Stubborn to the point of ruin.”
She turned to the maid on her left. “Summon the head witch. Now.”
The maid bowed and slipped from the chamber.
Ronan stepped back from the bed reluctantly, his fingers brushing Elara’s knuckles once before he pulled away. He said nothing. If he spoke, he might not stop.
The air shifted.
Cold crept along the stone.
Blue smoke coiled into existence at the center of the chamber, acrid and sharp. Symbols flared briefly, then vanished.
A figure emerged, wrapped in indigo robes, eyes glowing faintly beneath a shadowed hood.
“The Lycan King calls,” the witch said. “And breaks a law older than his crown.”
Arwen’s expression darkened. “You,” she said flatly.
Ronan didn’t flinch. “I need to be divided.”
The witch tilted her head. “For love,” she said lightly.
“For protection,” Ronan replied. “For time.”
Her gaze slid to Elara. “Ah. The bonded one. Tethering yourself to a soul already half-hidden. Dangerous.”
“Do it.”
Arwen stepped forward. “If he fractures—”
“I will bind him,” the witch said calmly. “But hear this, King. The longer you remain divided, the more each half will resist becoming whole again.”
Fenrir snarled. Meaning?
“One part of you,” the witch said, smiling thinly, “may decide it does not wish to return.”
Ronan did not hesitate.
“I accept.”