Chapter One Hundred- Four – The Beginning of Her Undoing
Cass sat in the garden, the late afternoon sun warm against her skin, casting dappled shadows across the stone bench where she sat. Her fingers absently traced the seam of her gown as she stared at the rosebushes in front of her—pruned too perfectly, as if they too feared stepping out of line.
She didn’t hear him approach.
"They're too perfect, aren’t they?" Alder’s voice was soft behind her, not his usual commanding timbre—more wonder than words, like he wasn’t even sure she’d hear him.
Cass tilted her head but didn’t turn. "That’s the point," she replied, her tone edged with dry amusement. "If the roses are flawless, maybe no one will notice the weeds."
He chuckled under his breath. "I never took you for the gardening type."
"I’m not," she said, finally glancing at him. "But I am good at spotting what doesn't belong."
Alder grinned, easing down onto the grass nearby like he was settling in for a story. "Guess I’ll have to work hard not to stand out too much, then."
"Too late," she muttered, but her lips twitched.
Cass turned slightly, her shoulders tense, but she didn’t flee.
She looked away, expecting him to sit beside her—but he didn’t. He stood at a respectful distance.
"I know I’m not owed your time," he said carefully. "And I know I’ve given you every reason to doubt me."
Cass tilted her head. "Why are you here, Alder?"
He hesitated, then stepped forward—not too close—and crouched slightly, eye level with her seated frame. "Because I see you. Not just as Luna or mother of the future, but as a woman who has been pulled in every direction until she doesn’t know what’s real. And I need you to know something."
She blinked, unsure whether to brace or breathe.
"I never stopped believing in us. Even when I was a coward. Even when I let others guide my actions. I failed you. But I’m here now—ready to earn whatever sliver of trust you have left to give."
The silence stretched between them, heavy with unsaid truths.
"You think words can erase what you did?" she asked quietly, not looking at him. "They can't."
"I know. That’s why I’m not asking for everything. Just...a beginning. A small one."
He reached into his coat and gently held out a folded piece of parchment. Cass hesitated, then took it.
It was a sketch—one he’d drawn himself. Of her, holding the child, surrounded by wolves. But the wolves weren’t threatening. They were watching over her.
Cass stared at it for a long moment. Then:
"You drew this?"
"I did. Every night I thought I’d lost you, I sketched what I prayed you were safe enough to become."
Something flickered in her eyes. It wasn’t forgiveness. But it wasn’t hate either.
"You’re still manipulative," she said.
"Probably," Alder said with a faint smirk. "But hey, I figured if I’m going to manipulate you, I might as well do it out in the open now—transparency and all."
She smiled faintly and folded the drawing, tucking it into the folds of her skirt. "I’m keeping it," she said. "Don’t get a big head about it—it’s not bad for a first draft."
Her eyes flicked up, teasing. "Though I’m still not convinced you didn’t trace it."
He nodded, but didn’t step away. Instead, he moved to sit on the edge of the fountain nearby, keeping a respectful distance but clearly settling in. "I’ve got nowhere better to be," he said lightly, watching a bee flit between the roses. "Besides, someone has to make sure you don’t start talking to the flowers."
Cass cast him a sideways glance, lips twitching. "They make better company than most."
"Harsh," he said with a mock wince. "But fair."
"I’ll walk the gardens at dusk every evening," he said. "If you ever want to talk. Or just sit in silence."
Cass was quiet for a beat, then said softly, "Do you think a whore can be queen?"
Alder blinked, but didn’t interrupt.
"Do you think someone who’s only ever been passed around, used, discarded... can rule? Can be a mother?" She let out a breath that sounded like it hurt. "I didn’t grow up with a mother. I don’t know what love is supposed to look like. All I know is survival. And now I’m supposed to raise a child and wear a crown like I was born for it."
He didn’t speak. Just listened, the tension in his jaw the only sign of how much her words gutted him.
Cass smiled bitterly. "I’m not looking for pity, Alder. Just... a place to put the truth."
"Then put it here," he said gently. "With me. For as long as you need. I'm not scared of the weight of your truth."
He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to something softer, steadier. "Cass, you were never just what they called you. And you sure as hell were never what they did to you. You survived a world that tried to break you—and now you’re building something better. That’s more than most queens could ever claim."
She looked down at her hands.
"And as for being a mother..." he continued, "You already are one. Every time you protect that child with your body, your choices, your breath—you’re mothering. You didn’t need someone to show you how. It’s in you. It always has been."
His voice turned warm, reverent. "And if you ask me? That child will grow up loved and led by a woman who clawed her way out of the dark and still found the light worth chasing. That’s the kind of queen I’d follow. That’s the kind of mother every child deserves."
Cass huffed a quiet breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. "Careful, Alder. You offer a woman a place to rest and she might just fall asleep on your shoulder."
"Then I’ll make sure to sit comfortably," he replied, matching her dry tone.
Her smile was tired, but genuine. "I’m still not sure if I should slap you or cry on you."
"Both would be a step up from silence."
She looked at him then, really looked. Her eyes searched his face for the lies she’d grown so used to—but found only weariness. And waiting.
"I’ll let you know which one I choose tomorrow," she said at last.
"I’ll be here," he promised. "Every day you need me to be."
Something in her chest loosened, just a little.
She didn’t thank him. But she didn’t walk away either. And when she looked up at him again, her eyes didn’t hold fire—they held questions.
That, too, was a beginning.