Chapter 36 - Inherited Truths
1298 Words
Night had settled across Draegon by the time Elara returned to the room.
The pack had slipped back into its usual rhythm after the council's visit. Warriors rotated through evening patrols while families gathered for meals before retreating indoors. Through the open window came the distant sounds of conversation, occasional laughter, and the steady hum of life continuing beyond the walls of the pack house.
Her thoughts refused to rest.
Andrea's discovery occupied much of her attention. Missing records. Missing years. An invitation to meet at the eastern border in three weeks.
The more she learned, the less certain she became.
She pushed open the door.
A lamp burned near the desk, casting a warm glow across the room. Thorne sat in one of the chairs with a report open before him, the soft light catching the angles of his face as he read.
His attention lifted almost immediately.
"You're staring."
Elara closed the door behind her.
"I'm thinking."
A hint of resignation crossed his expression.
"About what?"
The response almost drew a smile from her.
Almost.
She crossed the room slowly, her mind still caught between Andrea's words and everything that had happened since arriving in Draegon.
"What happened between the packs?"
The question broke the quiet.
Thorne looked up from the report.
"You know what happened."
Elara shook her head.
"No. I know what I was told happened."
That seemed to catch his attention.
Moonlight stretched across the floor between them while a cool breeze drifted through the open window.
"The more questions I ask, the less sense any of it makes."
He studied her for a moment before setting the report aside.
"What do you want to know?"
"The truth."
A short breath left him.
"If it were that simple, someone would have found it already."
Elara remained standing.
"What happened that started the war?"
His gaze held hers.
"Valamere wanted more land."
The answer came without hesitation.
"They wanted access to territory beyond the eastern border. Resources Draegon controlled."
"And Draegon refused."
"Yes."
The certainty in his voice made her frown.
That wasn't the story she had grown up hearing.
"That's what you believe?"
A flicker of irritation crossed his face.
"That's what happened."
Elara turned toward the window.
Lights from homes surrounding the pack house cast warm pools of gold across the territory. A pair of warriors crossed the courtyard below before disappearing between buildings. Somewhere in the distance a door closed, followed by the faint sound of voices carrying through the night.
For several moments she watched the darkness.
Then she looked back at him.
"Growing up in Valamere, it never looked that way."
His expression hardened slightly.
She continued anyway.
"Draegon always seemed like the aggressor. It was always Draegon crossing borders, Draegon refusing negotiations, Draegon escalating conflicts."
The room grew quiet.
Through the bond she felt a flash of frustration. It wasn't aimed at her. It came from the conversation itself, from old wounds and years of inherited resentment.
"According to Valamere."
"According to everyone I trusted."
The words hit harder than she intended.
Before she saw his reaction, she felt it.
Understanding.
A familiar ache.
The memory of trusting the people who raised him.
Hunter.
His warriors.
His pack.
The bond carried the recognition before either of them spoke it aloud.
Neither had lived through the beginning.
Both had inherited someone else's version of events.
Thorne leaned back slightly.
"Leave it alone."
The response caught her off guard.
"What?"
"The war."
His gaze drifted toward the darkness outside.
"It ended years ago."
Elara stared at him.
"You don't actually believe that."
A crease formed between his brows.
"The dead aren't coming back."
"No."
She folded her arms.
"They aren't. But that's not what this is about."
His attention returned to her.
"Then what is it about?"
"The truth."
The answer came immediately.
"Nobody can give me a straight answer."
She thought about Rowan, Rafe, Seren, and now Andrea. Every conversation added another piece to the puzzle, yet none of them fit together properly.
"The stories don't match."
"Of course they don't."
The response carried more edge than before.
"They're told by different people."
"That isn't what I mean."
Frustration slipped into her voice.
Immediately she felt his irritation rise through the bond in response. The connection made it impossible to hide what either of them felt.
"We're sitting here convinced the other side started the war."
Her heartbeat quickened.
"You believe Valamere attacked first."
"And you believe Draegon did."
Neither looked away.
"And somehow we're both certain."
The silence stretched longer than either expected.
A flicker of uncertainty moved through the bond before disappearing. Judging by the tightening of his jaw, Thorne realized she had felt it.
Annoyance followed immediately.
Elara nearly smiled.
"I felt that."
"You felt nothing." he immediatly countered.
Her smile widened.
For a brief moment he looked as though the bond itself had become a personal inconvenience.
The expression vanished almost immediately.
"So what did Andrea want?"
The change in subject wasn't subtle.
Elara let him have it.
For now.
She told him about the missing records. The references to documents that no longer existed. The gaps surrounding the years before the war. There was no reason to keep this from Thorne, keeping information hidden seems to be one of the reasons the war has gone on for so long.
As she spoke, his attention shifted entirely to her words.
That alone told her more than she liked.
"You already knew."
His silence lasted a fraction too long.
"I suspected something was wrong."
"How?"
Thorne looked toward the window again.
"Because stories don't fit."
Elara waited.
"The details change depending on who's telling them."
His voice had become quieter.
"The names change. The reasons change. The blame changes."
When he looked back at her, conviction filled his expression.
"The outcome never does."
No matter who told the story, it always ended the same way. Graves. Grieving families. Hatred that survived long after the fighting stopped.
Elara lowered herself into the chair opposite him.
Like every conversation she'd had since arriving in Draegon, this one left her with more questions than answers. The difference was that those questions no longer felt scattered. They seemed connected, as though they all led back to the same missing piece.
Draven's face surfaced in her thoughts.
The familiar ache followed immediately.
Did you kill him?
Did you order it?
Did you know who did?
The questions rose instinctively.
Then faded.
The answers still mattered.
She would never stop searching for them.
Yet the longer she remained in Draegon, the harder it became to believe the conflict between the packs had been as simple as she'd once thought.
Every conversation revealed another contradiction.
Every answer uncovered another gap.
She looked across the room at Thorne.
Doubt moved through the bond.
Suspicion followed.
Frustration.
Questions neither of them could answer.
The emotions weren't identical, but they were close enough to recognize in one another.
Hunter had shaped his understanding.
Draco had shaped hers.
Years of stories, warnings, loyalties, and grief had done the rest.
Somewhere beneath all of it, the truth still existed.
Finding it would be another matter entirely.
Draven still mattered.
Nothing would change that.
Yet for the first time, Elara found herself wondering whether his death belonged to a story that had started long before either of them were born.
Outside, the wind moved through the trees surrounding the pack house while the lamp crackled softly beside them.
The silence that followed felt different.
They still disagreed.
They still stood on opposite sides of a history neither fully understood.
Yet somewhere during the conversation, the argument had changed direction.
They were no longer defending what they had been taught.
They were questioning it.
And that felt far more dangerous.
- Writer
