[Ace's POV]
My gaze locked on Natasha. The woman wore her cruelty like a crown, a sickening smirk of satisfaction twisting her features as she watched the devastating effect of her words on Ovelia. My hands curled into fists at my sides, my nails biting deep into my palms. The sharp, grounding pain was the only thing tethering me to control. I was here for the truth—to understand the architecture of Ovelia's cage. But if this woman spoke one more word, if that smirk did not die, I was not sure I could keep Fenrir from bursting through my skin.
"Ovelia," Natasha began again, her voice syrupy with false reminiscence that couldn't mask the malice beneath. "When you were small, you were strange. You'd sit by the river and talk to nothing—laughing, whispering, like a madwoman. We told you to stop. We beat you to stop. But you never did. You insisted you had a friend." She shrugged—a gesture of cold dismissal. "That's one reason the strap came out so often. To beat the nonsense out of you." Her eyes gleamed with a perverse pride. "We also noticed how your bruises would fade overnight—like you were repairing yourself. For years, we wondered what you were. A werewolf-child? A witch's get? But as you grew, you never showed a flicker of power. A relief, really. We didn't want to raise a monster."
Ovelia had been speaking to someone when no one was there. The thought cut through my rage, leaving a cold trail of realization. The presence inside her—it had been there, even then.
Natasha's voice dropped, losing its theatrical edge and turning flat, final, and utterly cruel. "Let us be perfectly clear, Ovelia. We never loved you. Not for a single day. If you had been a boy in that basket, we would have tossed you into the current and been done with it. You were a girl. A tool. Nothing more."
A white-hot fury—pure and obliterating—surged through me. It was a physical heat in my veins. I was on my feet before I realized I'd moved, the world narrowing to the hateful woman before me. Fenrir was a roaring tempest in my skull, demanding release, demanding blood. My vision tinged with red. One step. One lunge. Silence her forever.
A hand clamped down on my shoulder like an iron band. Ray. He had risen silently beside me. "Don't." His voice was a low, vibrating command meant for my ears alone. His grip was unyielding, an anchor in the storm. "Not here. Not like this."
I forced air into my lungs—a ragged, shaky breath. The red haze receded a fraction, but the fire in my chest burned undiminished.
[Ovelia's POV]
Each word was a lash, stripping away another layer of the fragile fiction I'd built to survive my childhood. The pain was a deep, sickening ache that spread from my core to my fingertips. But despite the agony, my mind kept circling back to one question: Why was I found near the river?
I closed my eyes, focusing inward. "Lady Firera," I called out mentally, "do you know anything about this?"
A moment of silence stretched in the private space of my mind. Then her voice, calm and resonant. "I believe it is time you saw this as well."
An image—sharp and sudden—flashed behind my eyelids. Not a dream this time, but a memory. Crisp. Clear. Laden with emotion. A man with hair the color of moonlight knelt in a forest clearing. Before him, a basket. A baby's cries, thin and desperate. The man turned his head, his profile achingly familiar. Then his full face came into view as he looked down with worried silver eyes.
Ace.
He reached into the basket, his movements gentle. As his hands closed around the swaddled infant—me—a faint, ethereal light shimmered into being. A single, glowing string, the color of fresh blood, spun into existence, connecting his wrist to the baby's tiny hand.
My breath caught. I watched—a ghost in my own past—as the younger Ace gathered the basket and ran, his form a blur of urgency. He stopped at the familiar bank of the Timberline river, shoving the basket deep into the hollow of a massive, gnarled tree root. Then the memory dissolved, leaving me gasping in the present, kneeling in the dirt.
"So it was him. Ace is the one who hid me here." The realization was a seismic shift in my understanding of everything. "But the red string… what does it mean?"
"The red string is the bond of a fated mate, decreed by the Moon Goddess." Lady Firera's explanation was gentle, almost sorrowful. "Even as an infant, his wolf recognized you. It had already accepted you. That is the memory I took from them both. But now… now Ace and his wolf remember."
My eyes flew open, snapping directly to Ace. He stood tense beside Ray, his jaw clenched, his fury a palpable force. Is that why he holds my hand like I am something precious? Is that why watching him with Eliana feels like a wound that has nothing to do with friendship?
I didn't remember talking to anyone as a child. But if it was Lady Firera—sealed and silent within me even then—it made a terrible kind of sense. A companion only I could sense.
A strange, cold clarity washed over me. I had learned what I needed. The weight of their hatred was immense, but a new strength, born of shocking truth, began to steady my trembling limbs. I stood up. My legs felt weak, but they held.
I looked at Alessia and Natasha. The desire to hate them, to scream back, was a living thing in my throat. But a stronger impulse—one I didn't fully understand—pushed it down.
I wiped the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand and drew a shaky, deliberate breath. "Alessia," I said, my voice steady. "Thank you. You taught me that kindness is not always love—it is sometimes a tool. You were nice to me because you needed me docile. I will never forget that lesson."
Alessia's smug expression faltered. Her brows drew together in genuine confusion. A short, disbelieving laugh escaped her. "What did you say?"
[Ace's POV]
I stared at Ovelia, completely baffled. What is she doing? Is she thanking them? After all that?
Ovelia turned her gaze to Natasha. Her smile was small, bittersweet, and held a sadness so profound it was difficult to look at. "Mother," she said, and the title, now stripped of all warmth, was just a word. "I want to thank you. For keeping me alive. Even if the reason was to preserve your own daughter, you fed me, you housed me. I lived because of your… practicality."
Natasha's eyes bulged. Her face flushed a mottled red, the smirk vanishing into a rictus of outraged fury. She shot to her feet. "Are you mocking me, you ungrateful wretch?!" she shrieked, her hand flying up in a vicious, claw-like arc aimed straight for Ovelia's face.
I moved—but Ann was faster. A blur of motion, her hand snapped out, intercepting Natasha's wrist mid-air. Her grip wasn't just strong; it was brutal—a vise that made Natasha cry out in sudden, sharp pain. Ann's smile was pleasant, the smile of a woman who had done this before. "If you graze her," she said, her voice a honeyed murmur, "I will shatter every bone in this arm. And then I will start on the other one."
A flicker of grim admiration cut through my anger. The former assassin from Crimsonheart was a formidable shadow beneath the maid's uniform.
Ray let out a loud, exasperated sigh. "Enough." His voice dripped with contempt as he scanned the gathering crowd of gawking villagers. "We're leaving. This spectacle is beneath us and a waste of daylight."
As Ann released Natasha's wrist with a slight, disdainful push, Ovelia looked at me—her eyes a silent plea for escape. I gave a single, firm nod. Time to go.
[Ovelia's POV]
Before we turned, I had to say it—the final words, the lines that needed to be drawn in the dirt of this wretched place. I took another breath, the air tasting of dust and decayed hopes.
"Natasha. Alessia." I said their names plainly, without title or affection. "I will not call you mother or sister again. And please tell Lorence he is no longer my father." I met Natasha's furious gaze squarely. "Thank you for teaching me the hardest lesson—that kindness can be a transaction. That sometimes, people are nice not because they care, but because they need something from you. You needed a sacrifice. You were… very nice to me, for a while."
The words landed in the tense silence. I saw the fury ignite anew in their eyes—a helpless, seething rage. They were frozen, caught between their anger and the palpable, dangerous threat radiating from Ann, who hadn't moved, her eyes like chips of obsidian.
Ace's hand found mine again, warm and solid, ready to lead me away. But a new voice—rough and booming with outrage—cut through the square. "OVELIA! What in the hells do you think you are doing?!"
I followed the voice. My so-called father stood at the edge of the gathering, his face purple with rage, a string of freshly caught fish dangling forgotten from one hand. Alessia scurried to his side, her voice a theatrical wail. "Father! They're bullying us! They attacked Mother!"
"Bullying them?" Lady Firera's voice was a crack of disdainful lightning in my mind. "When you were a child, I was dormant. My memory was lost. I did not intervene. Part of me wanted you to feel such anger, such despair, that you would break the seal yourself to release me." Her tone shifted, now simmering with fresh, divine irritation. "But now, hearing them… seeing them… these insects irritate me profoundly."
I frowned slightly. I had no memory of her voice from my childhood either. The mystery of my own mind was a labyrinth.
Lorence opened his mouth to speak, but Ace moved. He took a single step forward, placing himself between me and the mayor. His posture shifted—no longer the restrained merchant, but something far more dangerous.
"You call yourself 'Mayor' of this backwater?" Ace's voice dropped to a low, lethal register. "That title is a joke. And so are you."
He stepped closer, and I watched—mesmerized and horrified—as his fingernails darkened, elongated, and curved into wickedly sharp claws that gleamed like polished steel. When his eyes flicked to Lorence, they held a feral, silver glow that was utterly inhuman.
"If you speak another word to her," he said, the words slow and deliberate, "I will kill your wife. I will kill your daughter. I will kill you—slowly. Do you understand?"
He didn't wait for a response. He simply turned—his hand still gently holding mine, his claws already receded—and led our group away, back toward the wagon.
Natasha had seen it. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with genuine, primal terror. "EVERYONE!" she screeched, the sound tearing through the village. "THAT MAN! HE'S A WEREWOLF!"
Pandemonium. Doors slammed. Shutters banged closed. The village square emptied in seconds, leaving only the echo of panic behind us.
As we walked, "Impressive restraint," Ray said, clapping Ace on the shoulder, a grim smirk on his face. "I was half-expecting you to leave the village in ashes."
"You held your own," Ace replied, his voice still tight but the terrifying edge receding.
Then Ace stopped. He released my hand and turned to face me fully. Before I could react, his arms went around me, pulling me into a firm, enveloping hug. I stood stiff for a moment, stunned, before melting into the unexpected shelter of his embrace.
"I don't understand," he murmured into my hair, his voice now soft, laced with bewilderment and a tender ache. "Why you chose kindness back there. It makes me think you are painfully naive." He pulled back just enough to look down at me, his silver eyes searching mine. "Or perhaps you are just… inherently good. It's alright. You can cry now. No one will see."
I wrapped my arms around his waist, holding on. The storm of emotions inside me—pain, revelation, shock—didn't feel like tears. "I don't know why," I whispered against his chest, "but I don't feel like crying anymore."
"Ahem." Ray's exaggerated cough shattered the moment. "Touching. Truly. But we have a schedule, and daylight is wasting. Save the heart-to-hearts for the wagon."
Ace released me, and I stepped back, my face warm. "Let's move," he said, his princely composure returning.
Just then, a wind kicked up—not a breeze, but a sudden, focused gust that ripped through the village center. It zeroed in on Lorence's house, whirling into a miniature cyclone. With a sound of wrenching timber and tearing thatch, the roof of the house was ripped clean off and flung into the adjacent field. In the distance, I saw the three figures—Lorence, Natasha, Alessia—staggering back, their faces masks of utter shock and terror. A strange, calm relief settled over me. They were unharmed, but humbled.
"I hate them." The words were not in my mind. They were carried on the wind—a whisper, a hiss, a word that tasted like rot.
"That voice… Wind?!" I gasped, staring at the settling dust.
The whirlwind died as suddenly as it had risen. An eerie calm returned.
"So, our elemental escort is still with us," Ace said, a genuine, charming smile breaking through the residual gloom on his face.
"Fascinating. I could detect no scent, no physical form. Just… moving air with a grudge," Ray mused, his scientific curiosity piqued.
"So it really is just… wind?" I asked, still trying to comprehend it.
Ray nodded, giving a slight, confirming gesture.
I looked at Ann, who had been staring silently at the damaged house. "Ann," I said. "You were incredible back there. I've never seen that side of you."
A bright, joyful smile broke across her face. "My apologies for the display, Lady Ovelia," she said, her tone proud. "But that is precisely why I am your maid and your shield."
As we reached the wagon, a ripple of relieved, slightly hysterical laughter passed between us. My heart ached—a deep, old wound freshly exposed—but it was no longer bleeding. I had left a part of myself in that dusty square, and I was walking away lighter. I still wanted to be kind. Their cruelty would not steal that from me.
We climbed into the wagon. As Ray snapped the reins and Timberline Village began to shrink behind us, I couldn't help but wonder what new trials the road to Meadowlark held.
"Ovelia." Ace's voice was quiet, etched with concern. He sat close beside me. "Do you regret coming here?"
I turned to him, offering a small, tentative smile that felt more real than any I'd managed in the village. "Not entirely. I was terrified—that they would cause a scene, that my return would be an offense. But now I see the box clearly. The lock. The walls. I see how it was built. And that makes it easier to leave."
Ray glanced back at me, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "But Ovelia," he asked, the question heavy in the air between us, "can you truly forgive them?"
I fell silent, looking out at the passing trees. The question settled in my heart, turning over. "I don't have a reason to forgive them," I said, my voice soft but clear. "The scars they gave me—they ache. The loneliness—it is still inside me. I can choose to be kind because that is who I wish to be. But forgiveness?" I shook my head. "Forgiveness is a door I cannot open. Not yet. Not for them. Some doors stay locked for a reason."
Ace nodded, his jaw firm. "That is more than fair. They deserve nothing from you."
Suddenly, Ray hauled back on the reins. "Whoa!" The horses snorted in protest, and the wagon lurched violently to a stop. I gasped, my body pitching forward—until Ace's hand shot out, gripping my arm and steadying me.
"Ray! What is it?" Ace's voice was instantly alert, his hand going to his sword.
Ray was staring ahead, his body rigid. His voice was flat with disbelief. "There's a man. Lying in the middle of the road. He's not moving… but he's not injured. And he's a werewolf."
A cold dread—sharper than any I'd felt in the village—trickled down my spine. Ace's expression hardened into one of grim determination. "Stay in the wagon," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. In one fluid motion, he was over the side, landing silently on the road. Ray followed, his sword already half-drawn, the air crackling with renewed tension.
"Be careful!" Ann's warning was a sharp hiss. Her body was coiled, her eyes scanning the dense foliage on either side of the road. "It could be a ruse! A bandit playing dead to lure you in!"
Dread coiled tightly in my stomach. The forest around us had gone preternaturally quiet, as if holding its breath.
Ray and Ace moved forward with deliberate, cautious steps, their forms tense and ready. I leaned forward, my heart hammering against my ribs, peering between them at the figure sprawled on the sun-dappled dirt.
He was utterly still. Why would a werewolf be lying alone in the road? Was he dead? Asleep? Waiting?
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Would he spring up when they reached him? Would others pour from the trees? The unanswered questions were a chorus of fear in my mind, louder than the stillness of the forest.