Chapter 40 The echo of forgotten things
The ballroom’s music became a rhythmic thrum in the distance, a heartbeat that Elara left behind as she stepped into the cold, sharp night of the Northwood outskirts. Here, the air didn't smell of expensive wine or enchanted lilies; it smelled of damp earth and rotting cedar.
She moved like a ghost, her silver-blue gown shimmering under the moonlight, a stark contrast to the jagged, unkempt ruins of the manor’s backside. This was the place where the finery stopped—where the prestige of the pack ended and the reality of their "discards" began.
Following a map etched into her mind by years of misery, she navigated toward the Old Burial Mounds. It was a stretch of land so neglected that even the weeds seemed to grow with a certain bitterness, choking the life out of the few stone markers that remained standing.
As she rounded a bend of crumbling masonry, the flicker of a lantern caught the edge of her mask. She ducked behind a thick-trunked pine, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Three patrol guards stood near a rusted iron gate that marked the entrance to the restricted burial zone. They were leaning on their spears, their breath fogging in the chill air.
“I’m telling you, the mood in the hall is a farce,” the first guard muttered, kicking at a loose stone. “Draven looks like he’s ready to tear someone’s throat out despite the celebration. He nearly lost his mind for months searching for that outcast girl. Scoured every ravine from here to the Lycan border.”
The second guard snorted, adjusted his leather spaulder. “Well, he’s clearly forced himself to move on. He’s announcing Cierce as the Luna tonight. A pack can’t run on an obsession with a ghost. It’s better this way. Cierce has the lineage, even if she has the temperament of a viper.”
The third guard, who had been silent, shifted his weight and hissed, “Watch your mouth, both of you. You remember what happened last moon? Draven nearly snapped Cierce’s neck again right in the middle of the training grounds just because she talked trash about the outcast. He didn't even shift. Just grabbed her until her bones started to creak.”
Elara froze. Her fingers dug into the rough bark of the pine tree.
"He did what?" she thought, her mind reeling.
"Why would Draven react that way?" she asked herself, a strange, hollow ache opening in her chest. "He hated me. I was a stain. Why would he defend the memory of someone he discarded?"
“Because he’s a monster,” Lyra snarled, her voice clawing at the back of Elara’s mind. “He didn't defend you out of love, Elara. He defends his property. He’s probably just pissed that he couldn’t have the satisfaction of breaking you himself.”
Elara’s lashes fluttered, her gaze dropping to the frosted grass. “I thought that too… but he said we were mates, Lyra."
“Mates don’t hurt each other,” Lyra countered with a biting edge. “So far, Draven has done nothing but break you into pieces, and Ronan… Ronan is the one picking up those pieces and turning them into something whole. Don't confuse a predator's possessiveness for a mate’s devotion.”
In her distraction, Elara’s foot shifted, snapping a brittle branch beneath her silk slipper.
The sound was like a thunderclap in the silence of the graveyard.
“Who’s there?” the lead guard barked, spinning around.
The three spears leveled instantly, the tips gleaming with a lethal, silvered light. Elara realized she had no choice. Slowly, she stepped out from behind the tree, her hands raised slightly, the moonlight washing over her ethereal form.
The guards gasped. For a second, they didn't see a trespasser; they saw a vision. The mask, the silver hair, and the gown that seemed to hold the essence of the moon itself made her look like a goddess who had descended into the mud of Northwood.
“I… I got lost,” Elara stuttered, her voice small and trembling. “The masquerade… I stepped out for air and couldn't find my way back.”
The guards stared, their eyes traveling over her masked face. They couldn't scent her but the sight of her was enough to induce a hesitant silence.
“The ballroom is half a mile back that way, My Lady,” the second guard said, his voice softer than before, clearly unnerved by her beauty. “This area is restricted. It’s… it’s a place for the forgotten. No place for a guest of the Lycan King.”
Elara swallowed hard. She could see the silhouette of a gnarled oak tree further into the mist. Hector was there. She knew it.
“I understand,” she said, her voice gaining a desperate edge. “But if you don't mind… would you let me pass? Just for a moment? I wanted to explore… I heard there were ancient trees here.”
The leader of the trio frowned, his grip on his spear tightening. “Trees? My Lady, there is nothing here but shadows and old graves. This area is forbidden by Alpha Draven’s direct decree. No one enters without his seal.”
“Please,” Elara begged, stepping forward. “Just five minutes. I won’t tell anyone. I just need to see…”
“No,” the guard said firmly. “Go back now, or we will have no choice but to throw you out of the premises ourselves. We have our orders.”
Elara’s jaw tightened. She looked at their grim faces and knew that no amount of pleading would work. These were men who feared Draven more than they respected a guest.
“Fine,” she whispered, her head bowing. “I’ll leave.”
She turned and began to walk back into the darkness, her heart heavy with a crushing sense of failure. She had come so close.
“Are you really going to give up?” Lyra’s voice was a mischievous spark. “I have a thought. It’s risky, but if you want to see the old man, you have to stop being a princess and start being a wolf.”
“What do you mean?”
“Go to the west side of the stone wall. There’s a pile of old lumber and an iron gate that’s half-fallen. Throw a rock, make a noise, draw them away from the entrance. When they go to investigate, I’ll help you scale the wall.”
Elara hesitated. “Draven will kill me if I get caught.”
“Well, do you have another choice?”
Elara took a deep breath. “No.”
She circled back through the thicket, her gown catching on thorns that tore at the enchanted fabric. She found the pile of lumber Lyra had seen. Picking up a heavy stone, she hurled it with all her strength against a rusted iron sheet.
CLANG.
The sound echoed violently through the hollows of the burial grounds.
“What was that? Over by the west wall!”
“Move! If someone’s trying to breach the perimeter, Draven will have our skins!”
The sound of their heavy boots thudded away, their lantern light swinging wildly as they ran toward the distraction. Elara didn't wait. She scrambled to the entrance, her fingers digging into the cold stone of the gatepost. With a burst of adrenaline-fueled strength, she hauled herself over the low wall, her gown fluttering like a broken wing behind her.
She landed on the other side, the damp grass muffling her fall. She didn't stop to catch her breath. She ran.
She navigated deeper into the abandoned land, her eyes scanning the mist. She was looking for the Great Oak—the ancient, twisted tree where she had sat so many nights, mourning the only father she had ever known.
But the further she walked, the more her heart sank. The landscape felt… wrong. The paths were gone, swallowed by briars. She walked for what felt like an hour, her feet aching, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
“Where is it?” she whispered, her voice cracking. “It should be right here.”
She stood in a clearing of grey mud and stunted shrubs. There was no oak tree. There was no grave. Just a flat, empty expanse of cold earth. Suddenly, the feeling of being watched gripped her.
“Paranoia,” she whispered to herself. “I’m just lost.”
But the sensation suddenly intensified. It wasn't the guards. It was something heavier. A presence that felt like a cold blade pressed against the back of her neck.
She spun around, her eyes wide. “Who’s there?”
Silence. Only the wind whistling through the dead grass.
She turned to run back toward the manor, her panic finally bubbling over. If Ronan found her here, or if Draven’s men found her…
Crunch.
A footstep. Not a wolf’s four-beat gait, but the heavy, deliberate step of a man.
Then another. Footsteps approaching from the darkness behind her.
She bolted, her silver skirts gathered in her hands, but she hadn't taken three steps before a shadow detached itself from a nearby cedar.
A massive, calloused hand shot out, catching her around the waist. Another palm, smelling of leather and old smoke, slammed over her mouth, stifling her scream before it could even begin.
She was hauled backward, her feet kicking uselessly against the air, and pinned firmly behind the broad trunk of an ancient tree.
“Be quiet,” a voice hissed into her ear. It was low, gravelly, and carried the weight of a ghost.
Elara froze, her eyes blown wide with terror. The scent of the man was familiar but it was masked by the smell of the forest and the damp earth.