Chapter 8
831 Words
Dawn came thin and grey, seeping under the curtains like a secret.
Aria lay on her back and watched the light crawl across the ceiling. She hadn’t really slept. Every time she closed her eyes she saw two frames: Aiden on the balcony whispering, Tomorrow, and Aiden on the dais saying someone else’s name.
Tomorrow had come. Just not the one she’d been promised.
Her small bag waited by the door. A couple of sweaters, worn jeans, sturdy boots, a jacket that smelled more like pine than pack. One battered book she’d read until the spine cracked. Everything that didn’t reek of him.
She dressed in layers, braid pulled tight, face bare. The girl in the small mirror looked paler, eyes darker. But not empty.
Downstairs, the house was too quiet. Her mother stood at the counter fussing with a thermos she’d already sealed twice. Her father waited in his coat by the door, arms folded.
“You’re early,” Aria said.
“You’re leaving my territory in someone else’s truck,” Richard answered. “I’m not trusting that to chance or your sense of timing.”
Her mother turned and shoved the thermos and a small wrapped bundle into Aria’s hands. “Tea. And something to put in your mouth besides sarcasm.”
“Thank you,” Aria murmured. Her throat was too tight for more.
Her mother cupped her cheeks for a heartbeat, thumbs brushing under her eyes. “If it’s awful there, you come back,” she said. “We’ll deal with the stares. With him. With all of it.”
Aria nodded. “I know.”
Richard opened the door. Cold air rushed in, sharp and clean. The yard was washed in blue‑grey; the sky just beginning to pale at the edges. A beat‑up truck idled near the side gate, exhaust smoking white.
A lone driver leaned against the door, gloved hands in his pockets. When he saw them, he straightened and dipped his head.
“Beta,” he said. “This her?”
“This is Aria,” Richard replied. “My daughter. Nightfall is expecting her.”
The driver’s gaze swept over her, practical, assessing—can she travel, will she break. He jerked his chin toward the cab. “She rides up front. It’s a long road.”
“Fine by me,” Aria said.
They stopped a few steps from the truck. Behind them, the keep was strangely still; the great hall hadn’t yet exploded into the day‑after bustle. No music, no laughter. Probably most of the pack was still sleeping off celebration.
Aiden was probably sleeping too. Or lying awake beside his chosen Luna, blissfully unaware that one wolf was leaving his pack because she couldn’t stand to watch him enjoy his perfect choice.
Good. Leaving without witnesses was easier.
“I won’t make this long,” Richard said. “You know what I think of what he did. You know you can come back if Nightfall isn’t what you need. I’ll always have work for you annoying the Council with me.”
A huff of something like a laugh broke out of her. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Her mother stepped in and hugged her hard enough to make her ribs creak. “Write,” she whispered into Aria’s hair. “And don’t fall for the first pretty Alpha you see there.”
It was already too late for that lesson, but Aria just nodded.
She hugged her father. He held on a fraction longer than usual.
“Stay alive,” he said into her shoulder. “Everything else we can sort out.”
“Deal,” she whispered.
The truck door groaned when she pulled it open. The cab smelled like cold metal, old coffee and distant forests. She climbed in, stowed her bag by her feet and buckled the belt.
“Ready?” the driver asked.
“No,” Aria said honestly. “But go anyway.”
He nodded, put the truck in gear. Gravel crunched under the tires as they rolled toward the gate. Through the windshield she saw her parents standing side by side on the porch: two dark shapes against the pale yard, watching her go.
The guard swung the gate wide. Beyond it, the road stretched north—toward the border forests and a pack she’d never seen.
As the walls of Silvercrest dropped out of sight behind them, the bond in her chest didn’t vanish. It still tugged faintly south, toward the wolf who’d chosen politics over her.
But the crushing weight eased, just a little. As if someone had taken one stone off her ribs, leaving the rest but giving her enough room to breathe.
Aria pressed her palm over her sternum, over the sore place where mate and reality no longer matched.
“He made his choice,” she whispered to herself, watching the trees blur past. “Now I make mine.”
- Writer
