Clipped

Chapter 23.

​The air in the lower vaults of the Hall was a thick, intoxicating cloud of cedar, dried sage, and the sharp, crystalline bite of frankincense. For three weeks, Rhiannon had moved through these stones, her shadow lengthening as she grew stronger, her presence no longer a phantom but a steady, quiet hum.

​Sora sat opposite her at a heavy oak table, her nimble fingers stripping dried lavender from their stalks. The silver charms in the weaver’s hair chimed a soft, domestic rhythm. Over the last twenty-one days, the formal distance between them had eroded, replaced by a sisterhood forged in shared tea and the quiet work of hands.

​"This one, little fairy," Sora said, pushing a small wooden bowl of dark, sticky resin toward Rhiannon. "Close your eyes. Tell me what the mountain is asking for."

​Rhiannon obeyed. She leaned forward, inhaling the scent. With her magic slowly knitting back together, her senses had become hyper-acute.

"Myrrh," she whispered. "But it’s old. It smells of deep earth and... iron? No, blood. Dried blood on stone."

​Sora nodded, her expression solemn. "The Ancestor’s Resin. We burn it on the Solstice- the longest night, to light the way for those who ran these trails before us. A wolf without a lineage is a leaf in the wind, Rhiannon. We honor the blood so the blood continues."

​Rhiannon opened her eyes, her gaze drifting to the frost-patterned window high above. "And if the blood ended in a clearing ten years ago? If there are no trails left to follow?"

​Sora reached across the table, her hand warm as it briefly squeezed Rhiannon’s. "Then you are the First. Some of us are the end of a song, and some of us are the very first note of a new one. Fenris was the first of the Nightshades. He had no ancestors to guide him here, so he became the ancestor for everyone else."

​Rhiannon looked back at the resins, a bittersweet ache blooming in her chest. She thought of the mother’s song- the one with the melody she couldn't quite catch. She wondered if, on the Solstice, the spirits of the Whispering Woods would look toward the North and see a flicker of blue hair against the snow.

​But as the conversation turned to "continuing the blood," Rhiannon felt a familiar, cold shutter slam shut in her mind. Sora spoke of lineages and pups with the easy naturalism of a wolf, but to Rhiannon, the idea of "carrying on a line" required an intimacy that felt like a foreign language.

​The thought of a man’s hands moving over her with intent made her stomach twist into a hard, defensive knot. She had spent a decade learning that "intimacy" was a transaction, a theft of her agency. She had reconciled herself to the fact that she would likely be the last of her kind. She was a sanctuary of one; the door was barred, the key long since thrown away.

​"I don't think I have a song for the future," Rhiannon said, her voice small but firm. "I’m just trying to survive the night."

​"Survival is the root," Sora replied gently, noticing the way Rhiannon’s posture had suddenly guarded itself. "The bloom comes later. Don't worry about the forest, little fairy. Just focus on the herb in front of you."

​The heavy thud of boots echoed in the hallway, and the air in the room shifted instantly. Rhiannon didn't need to look up to know it was him. Her magic flared- a soft, neon-green pulse beneath her skin that she couldn't suppress.

​Fenris stepped into the room, his presence dwarfing the low-ceilinged vault. He looked at the mountain of herbs, then at Rhiannon. He noticed the slight tension in her jaw, the way she was meticulously separating the sage as if her life depended on the neatness of the pile.

​"The scents are reaching the Great Hall," Fenris said, his voice a low vibration that seemed to settle right in the center of Rhiannon’s chest. "The pups are already sneezing."

​Sora laughed, but Rhiannon kept her head down. She was acutely aware of the pull- that invisible tether that Sora called frequency. It made her feel exposed, as if the Alpha could look at her and see the fear she had tried to hide for years.

​"Rhiannon has a gift for the resins," Sora said, casting a knowing look toward Fenris. "She found the iron in the Ancestor’s mix."

​Fenris moved closer to the table. He didn't touch Rhiannon, but he stood close enough that his warmth acted like a cloak against the damp chill of the vault.

​"The Solstice is three days away," he said, his gaze lingering on the top of Rhiannon’s head. "The pack will dance, and the fires will burn until dawn. It can be... loud. If it becomes too much, the Silent Glen is always yours."

​Rhiannon finally looked up, meeting his blue-gold eyes. He wasn't asking for a dance. He wasn't asking for a lineage. He was offering her a way out- a sanctuary within his sanctuary.

​"I want to stay," she said, surprised by her own conviction. "I'll try atleast... I want to see how you honor the dead. Maybe... maybe I can find a way to honor mine, too."

​Fenris gave a slow, respectful nod.