The letter rode in Aria’s pocket all day like a small, warm stone.
She didn’t read it again. She didn’t have to. The important lines had already carved themselves into her:
Your name was not spoken.
It does not erase you.
I would rather hurt for a day than watch you live a whole life in a place that forgot how to see you.
Silvercrest had chosen neatness over honesty. Her mother had chosen her.
Aria spent the morning with the pups, stumbled through explaining fractions using slices of bread, then endured a volley of questions about whether wolves in the south had different numbers. By midday her head hurt in a way that had nothing to do with bonds.
When lessons ended, she wandered toward the training ring, half expecting to find it empty. Instead she found Rowan stacking rough‑cut pl
