Heir of the broken sky

Held

The forest didn’t answer me.

I stood there long after my father left, long after the night grew colder, staring up at the sky like it owed me something. Like it had been watching all along and chosen silence anyway.

My life felt… staged.

Not fake.

Worse.

Curated.

Every memory twisted in on itself—every smile, every lesson, every warning suddenly heavy with meaning. I didn’t hate my father. I couldn’t. The thought didn’t even form properly. He loved me. That much was real.

But love didn’t erase lies.

Adopted.

The word echoed until my chest ached.

Blood-related—but not his.

My mother’s sister’s child. A woman erased so thoroughly even her name was treated like poison. Sin.

I laughed once. It came out broken.

“Was I ever mine?” I whispered to no one.

I thought of her then—my mother. Not the one who raised me. The one who bled for me. The one who carried me back to the very people who destroyed her and still trusted them with her child.

“Why?” My voice shook. “Why didn’t you stay?”

The sky stared back—vast, uncaring.

Something inside me cracked.

“Why didn’t you take me with you?” I shouted, tears burning hot as they fell. “Why did you leave me with people who were taught to fear you?”

Power stirred.

Not wild.

Not violent.

Terrified.

The air tightened around me, responding to my unraveling like a living thing unsure whether to protect or destroy. My knees buckled.

“I don’t even know what I am,” I whispered.

My breath hitched hard.

“And my father—” The word caught. “Why was he never mentioned? Why did the Alpha say he didn’t know?”

That was the lie that hurt the most.

Not because I needed the truth.

But because it meant someone had decided I was safer not knowing who I came from.

“What are you afraid of?” I asked the sky. “What am I?”

The world tilted.

The forest spun—not violently, but like it was slipping out from under me. My ears rang. My vision narrowed.

“I don’t want this,” I whispered. “I don’t want whatever you made me.”

My legs gave out.

The last thing I felt was cold earth against my palms—and then—

Darkness.

I didn’t know how long I was gone.

But he did.

The bond snapped tight, sharp and urgent, like a heartbeat slamming against my ribs from the outside.

Varlor.

I surfaced to motion—strong arms lifting me, wrapping around me like the world had finally decided not to let me fall through it. His scent hit first—pine, smoke, something grounding enough to anchor my spinning mind.

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice low, steady, threaded with fear he didn’t try to hide. “You’re safe.”

I tried to speak. Failed.

He didn’t ask questions.

Didn’t demand explanations.

He just held me closer and moved—fast, sure—carrying me through the trees as if distance itself offended him.

When I woke fully, I was warm.

Too warm to be outside.

Soft blankets. Firelight. Stone walls that breathed familiarity. His pack house. Not the Alpha’s hall. Not mine.

His.

I curled instinctively toward the heat beside me.

Varlor sat on the edge of the bed, one hand gripping mine like he’d been afraid I might disappear if he loosened his hold.

“You fainted,” he said quietly. “Your power spiked. Then it went still.”

Shame flooded me. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” he interrupted gently. “You don’t have to explain.”

My throat closed.

“I thought my life was real,” I whispered. “And now it feels like someone rearranged it without asking me.”

He didn’t correct me.

He brushed his thumb over my knuckles, grounding, patient.

“Whatever you are,” he said, meeting my eyes, “you are not alone in it.”

Something in my chest finally gave way.

I turned into him, pressing my face against his chest, breathing him in like safety was a language my body understood better than my mind.

For the first time that night—

The fear loosened.

Not gone.

But held.