Clipped

Chapter 12.

The next evening, ​the knock on the door was different from the heavy, resonant thud of Fenris’s fist. It was light, rhythmic- a polite inquiry rather than a guard’s announcement.

​Rhiannon, who had been sitting by the window watching the mist roll over the jagged peaks, felt the familiar prickle of apprehension. She moved to the door, her fingers hovering over the iron bolt. "Who is it?"

​"Sora," a melodic voice replied. "I’ve brought the fresh winter linens. The mountain air is turning sharp; you’ll need the heavier weave tonight."

​Rhiannon slid the bolt back. Standing in the hallway was a woman with skin the color of polished walnut and hair braided with small, silver charms that tinkled as she moved. She wasn't a warrior- she lacked the scarred knuckles and the predatory tension of the scouts, but she carried an air of quiet, unshakable authority.

​"May I?" Sora asked, nodding toward the bed.

​Rhiannon stepped aside, her arms crossed defensively over her chest. She watched as Sora moved with practiced efficiency, stripping the lighter cotton and replacing it with thick, cream-colored wool. The room was suddenly filled with the scent of dried lavender and sun-warmed grass.

​Instead of leaving once the task was done, Sora pulled a small, portable hand-loom from a woven bag at her hip. She sat on the rug near the fireplace, her movements fluid and unhurried.

​"My mate, Kael, says I have the persistence of a landslide," Sora said, her eyes twinkling as she looked up. "I can’t sit still without my hands moving. Would you like to see? It’s a simple pattern- the 'River’s Path.'"

​Rhiannon hesitated, then sank onto the edge of the bed. It was the first time she had been in a room with another woman where the air didn't taste of competition, desperation, or the looming shadow of a client. Sora wasn't looking at Rhiannon’s scarred back or her hollow cheeks; she was focused on the silver thread dancing between her fingers.

​"We Nightshades are an old bloodline," Sora murmured, the shuttle clicking rhythmically. "Before we were Alphas of the North, we were wanderers. We carry the memory of the tundra in our marrow. That’s why we’re so protective of our own. To a wolf, the pack isn't just a group- it’s a single soul divided into many bodies."

​Rhiannon watched the thread tighten. "The men downstairs... they look at me like I’m broken."

​"They look at you with caution because they don't know your frequency yet," Sora corrected gently. "But Fenris... he brought you here under the Ancient Peace. That means something to us. He doesn't make mistakes about who belongs here."

​Rhiannon looked at the fire, the warmth of the room making her limbs feel heavy. "Fenris said something the other night. He spoke about... a mate. He said a wolf only knows the wind, his mate, and the pack." She paused, the word mate feeling strange on her tongue- heavy and loaded with a meaning she couldn't quite grasp. "What is it?"

​Sora’s hands stilled for a moment. A soft, private smile curved her lips. "To humans, it is a choice. To fairies, I’ve heard it is a vow of the heart. But for a wolf? It is gravity."

​She looked at Rhiannon, her gaze steady. "It’s not a contract, and it’s not a cage. It’s a biological tether. When a wolf finds their mate, the world finally stops tilting. Everything clicks into place. Their scent becomes your air; their heartbeat becomes your rhythm. You don't just love them- you recognize them. Like a piece of yourself you didn't know was missing."

​Rhiannon felt a sudden, sharp chill that had nothing to do with the mountain wind. She thought of the "thrumming" she felt whenever Fenris was near. She thought of how her breath seemed to catch in sync with his footsteps, and how the "angry" trees only went quiet when he stood between her and the forest.

​"Does the other person always feel it?" Rhiannon asked, her voice barely a whisper. "The... the recognition?"

​Sora resumed her weaving, the click-clack of the loom a grounding pulse in the quiet room. "Usually. But sometimes, if a soul has been through too much, the senses go numb. The bond is patient, though. It doesn't scream; it just waits. It’s a song that plays in the background until you're ready to hear the music."

​Rhiannon looked down at her scarred palms. She thought of the static in her head and the way she had told Fenris she needed the rules.

​"I don't think I have any music left in me," Rhiannon murmured.

​Sora reached out, not to grab, but to offer. She held out a length of the soft, silver wool. "Music isn't just in the singing. It’s in the weaving, too. One thread at a time, until the pattern emerges."

​For the next hour, the room was silent save for the crackle of the fire and the steady work of the loom. Rhiannon didn't learn how to weave a masterpiece that day, but she learned the feel of the wool between her fingers. And for the first time in ten years, she sat in the company of another person and forgot to look for the lock on the door.

​As Sora finally rose to leave, she paused at the threshold. "Kael is a grump, and Fenris is a mountain of secrets and jagged edge, but the women of this pack? We see you, Rhiannon Deeproot. And we’re very good at keeping our own warm."

​When the door closed, Rhiannon didn't immediately slide the bolt. She stood by the bed, running her hand over the heavy, honest weave of the winter linens. She felt the gravity Sora had spoken of- a faint, persistent pull toward the Great Hall, toward the scent of pine and cedar, toward the man who sat on the outside of her door.