Her Fractured Crown

Chapter 8 — Old Wounds

Jane's POV

Mance's response to my letter arrives four days after the Ashwood Binding, shorter than I expected, and considerably more measured than the boy who once stormed off after I threatened to make him regret his parents ever having him.

I'll meet you. Neutral ground, if that's acceptable — the old mill outside Green Valley's eastern boundary, the one we used to sneak off to as children before either of us understood what any of this would eventually become. Three days from now, if that suits your schedule.

I read it twice, something unexpectedly warm settling through the careful, businesslike tone — the choice of location deliberate, I think, a small acknowledgment of the history between our families that predates all the complications currently reshaping both our lives.

Xavier watches me read it a third time over breakfast, curiosity plain on his face. "Good news or bad?"

"Neither, exactly," I say, passing him the letter. "Just... complicated in a way that feels less hostile than I expected."

He reads it quickly, something thoughtful crossing his expression. "The old mill. That's meaningful, I take it."

"We used to play there as kids," I say. "Before either of us understood what our families actually were to each other, or what I'd eventually become. It was just a place to escape our siblings and our parents' expectations for a few hours."

"You want me to come with you?"

I consider the question carefully, appreciating that he asked rather than assuming. "No," I say finally. "I think this needs to be just us. Whatever Mance actually wants to say, I don't think he'll say it honestly with Blood Moon's Alpha standing beside me."

Xavier nods, something like genuine trust in the gesture rather than reluctant concession. "Take Sean's second escort, at least. Not because I don't trust you to handle Mance, but because I'd feel better knowing someone's within calling distance if the coalition's grown more hostile than we realize."

"That's fair," I agree, grateful for the reasonable compromise rather than either dismissive assurance or overprotective insistence.

The old mill sits exactly where memory places it, weathered wood and a slow-turning wheel that hasn't ground actual grain in decades, though someone's clearly maintained the structure enough to keep it from collapsing entirely. Mance is already there when I arrive, sitting on the same low stone wall we used to race each other across as children, looking older than the boy I remember, though not in the way most people age—something more like weathering, the particular toll of carrying a grievance long enough that it's become part of his posture.

"You actually came," he says, standing as I approach. "I half expected you to send a diplomatic envoy instead."

"I told you I wanted to talk properly," I say. "I meant it."

We settle onto the wall together, an odd, careful echo of childhood ease neither of us quite manages to fully inhabit, given everything standing between us now. For a long moment, neither of us speaks, the silence stretching until Mance finally breaks it.

"I owe you an apology," he says, surprising me. "Not for the grievance itself—I still think that's legitimate, whatever else is true. But for how I acted, back when we were teenagers. I was possessive and entitled and genuinely cruel to you, more than once, and I don't think I ever properly reckoned with that before everything else got tangled up in politics and coalitions."

"I appreciate you saying that," I say honestly. "Though I think we're both old enough now to understand that childhood cruelty and legitimate political grievance can exist in the same person without canceling each other out."

"That's remarkably generous of you," Mance says, something wry entering his voice. "Considering how much of a nightmare I was to deal with."

"You were," I agree, and he laughs, genuine surprise at my bluntness. "But I'm not here to relitigate our teenage years. I'm here because my father told me your family has a legitimate grievance about the Gamma position, and I think ignoring that just because our history is complicated would be exactly the kind of mistake I'm trying not to make anymore."

Mance's expression sobers, the humor fading into something more careful. "My father was overlooked two years ago. Passed over for someone with closer ties to your family, right around the time everything with you and the Blood Moon Alpha started unfolding. I don't think that timing was coincidental, whatever anyone tells you."

"I asked my father about it," I say. "He admitted he doesn't know for certain whether favoritism played a role. Uncle James made the decision, not him. But he didn't dismiss the possibility either."

Something shifts in Mance's expression—not quite surprise, but something close to it, like he expected more resistance than genuine acknowledgment. "That's more honesty than I expected from your family, if I'm honest."

"We're trying," I say. "Genuinely trying, not just performing it for political convenience. I can't promise you I'll be able to fix whatever happened two years ago. I don't have authority over Uncle James's decisions, and I'm not sure retroactively reversing a Gamma appointment would actually help your family more than it might create new resentment elsewhere. But I can promise you I'll actually look into it properly, instead of dismissing your concerns as old wounded pride."

Mance considers this for a long moment, watching the mill wheel's slow, patient turn. "Why does this matter to you? Genuinely. You're the most powerful woman in the werewolf world right now, married to an Alpha who could crush Ashenford's entire network if he genuinely wanted to. You don't need to sit here reckoning with my family's grievance."

I turn the question over honestly before answering, wanting to give him something true rather than diplomatically convenient. "Because I learned something important during the eclipse, and I've spent the past year learning it applies to more than just supernatural threats. Division—old grudges left to fester, legitimate grievances ignored because addressing them feels harder than dismissing them—that's not just politically inconvenient. I think it's genuinely dangerous, in ways that go beyond simple diplomacy."

"Dangerous how?"

I hesitate, weighing how much to actually share, before deciding that honesty, even uncomfortable honesty, is exactly the currency I'm trying to build here. "There's a threat resurfacing. Smaller than what we fought during the eclipse, but real. And the pattern we're seeing suggests it's specifically exploiting weak points in trust between packs—old grievances, unresolved tension, exactly the kind of thing your family's situation represents."

Mance's eyes widen slightly. "You're saying my father's grievance is somehow connected to an actual supernatural danger?"

"I'm saying the world seems to work in ways more interconnected than any of us fully appreciated before this past year," I say carefully. "Whether your family's specific situation is directly feeding whatever's testing containment along our borders, I genuinely don't know. But the broader pattern—division weakening the actual, magical safety of this world—that's real, and I'd rather address every piece of it I can, including the pieces that are just about basic human decency and fairness, than assume only the dramatic supernatural threats actually matter."

Something in Mance's posture shifts, the careful defensiveness he walked in with easing slightly into something more genuinely engaged. "That's not the answer I expected," he admits. "I thought you'd either dismiss my concerns as irrelevant to the bigger picture, or use the crisis as an excuse to demand my cooperation without actually addressing the underlying grievance."

"I'm trying not to be that person," I say. "I know it doesn't erase years of complicated history between us. But I'd rather try and fall short than not try at all."

Mance is quiet for a long moment, something working behind his expression before he finally speaks again. "The coalition's pressuring me to push harder," he admits. "Some of the more aggressive voices within Ashenford's network think my family's grievance is exactly the kind of leverage they need to justify more direct action against your alliance. I've been resisting that pressure, but it's not easy, especially when the people applying it aren't entirely wrong about the underlying concern."

"What kind of direct action?" I ask, alarm sharpening beneath the careful diplomacy of our conversation.

"Nothing violent, not yet," Mance says. "But there's talk of withdrawing from any oversight negotiations entirely. Treating your alliance as fundamentally untrustworthy rather than something that can be reformed through structures like the council you proposed. If that faction gains enough support, I don't think Corwin or Mira will be able to hold the more moderate position much longer."

The warning lands heavily, exactly the kind of escalation I'd hoped to prevent through today's conversation. "Can you help hold that back? If we actually address your family's grievance properly, would that give you enough standing to push back against the more aggressive faction?"

"Maybe," Mance says. "I won't promise more than that. But it would help. And honestly—" he pauses, something almost embarrassed crossing his features. "Talking to you like this, actually being heard instead of dismissed, that helps too. More than I expected it to."

"I'm glad," I say, meaning it fully. "For what it's worth, Mance, I don't think we ever needed to be enemies. I think we got caught in something bigger than either of us chose, back when we were teenagers, and neither of us handled it particularly well."

"No," he agrees, something almost like genuine warmth entering his voice for the first time since we sat down. "We didn't. Maybe it's not too late to handle it better now."

We talk for another hour, the conversation shifting gradually from politics into something closer to the easy familiarity of the children we once were, before either of us understood what our families would eventually become to each other. By the time I finally rise to leave, something has genuinely shifted between us—not friendship, not yet, but the foundation of something considerably more hopeful than the hostility that's defined our relationship for years.

"I'll speak with my father about the Gamma position," I say, as we part ways near the mill's entrance. "Properly, not just a diplomatic gesture. And I'll do what I can to make sure your family's grievance gets addressed fairly, whatever Uncle James's original reasoning actually was."

"Thank you," Mance says, something genuine in the words. "And Jane—for what it's worth, I'll do what I can to hold the line against the more aggressive coalition voices. Not because I owe your alliance anything. Because I think you're actually trying to build something better than what came before, and that deserves a fair chance."

I ride back toward Green Valley with something lighter settling through the exhaustion of a difficult, necessary conversation, though the warning about the coalition's more aggressive faction sits heavy alongside the relief of genuine reconciliation with Mance.

Dad meets me at the gate, reading my expression with the particular perceptiveness he's always carried. "How did it go?"

"Better than I expected," I say. "Though there's more happening within the coalition than I fully understood. Some faction pushing for more direct action, treating oversight negotiations as pointless."

"That's concerning," Dad says, leading me toward the house. "I'll bring it to Uncle James immediately. If the moderate voices are losing ground, we need to understand exactly how much time we actually have before this shifts from political tension into something more dangerous."

"There's something else," I say, hesitating slightly before continuing. "Mance's grievance about the Gamma position. Dad, I think we actually need to address it properly. Not as political strategy, but because it's genuinely the right thing to do, regardless of how it affects coalition negotiations."

Dad's quiet for a moment, something thoughtful crossing his weathered features. "I'll speak with James," he says finally. "I can't promise he'll agree to reverse the original decision. But I can promise you a proper investigation, this time, instead of the kind of dismissal that let this grievance fester for two years in the first place."

"Thank you," I say, meaning it fully.

We walk together toward the house, evening settling gradually over Green Valley, and I find myself thinking of Kira's insight from days ago—that the actual solution to this crisis might lie less in dramatic ritual and more in exactly this kind of patient, unglamorous work: addressing old grievances, rebuilding trust one difficult conversation at a time, choosing honesty even when dismissal would be considerably easier.

Whatever the coalition's more aggressive faction ultimately decides, I think, watching the last light fade over the valley that raised me, I'd rather have tried this path fully than assume conflict was inevitable simply because it felt like the easier story to believe.

Tomorrow, there will be more difficult conversations. Jo and Alaric's eventual reveal. The coalition's oversight council, still taking careful shape. Perhaps, eventually, confirmation of whatever the more aggressive faction actually intends.

But tonight, I let myself feel the quiet satisfaction of one old wound, at least, beginning to properly heal.