Asrai

Chapter 15: Remembering old ways

This was a welcome‑back dinner in disguise, so I dressed carefully, making sure nothing about me looked unfinished. The enchanted might despise my human weakness, but they were relentless gossipers, unable to resist picking apart every detail. If they were going to talk about me, they could at least say my dress was pretty. I stayed in my room until the entire house seemed to pulse with expectation.

This was the kind of gathering where every glance carried weight, where every word was measured, second‑guessed, and twisted into assumptions with no real evidence behind them. I had to tread carefully.

I chose a deep royal‑blue halter gown, the fabric whispering over my skin like moonlight. It was crafted from fae silk—rare, coveted, and spun only by the elusive Silkwyren. The Silkwyren, a nocturnal fae creature hidden in the Forest’s upper canopies, bore the delicate wings of a moth and the lithe body of a wisp. From the glands beneath its wings, it wove floating nests that shimmered between branches under the full moon. Its silk could only be harvested once every three years, and even then, only in the smallest quantities.

I knew its strength well—especially after my failed Changing. The gown felt weightless, as if woven from air, yet beneath its softness lay an unnatural resilience. Fae silk resisted fire, water, even the sharpest blades. Wearing it felt like stepping into quiet magic, a kind of armor disguised as elegance. The Humani would kill for a scrap of it; most only ever saw tiny cloth remnants, traded at impossible cost. I still don’t know how Gran and my mother managed to make my clothes from it.

I wore the same outfit to school over and over, earning more teasing than I could stomach—but I wanted to stay alive. After witnessing accident after accident between Humani and the enchanted, I learned quickly: those hard, “accidental” shoulder checks left me aching, not broken. And still, I was required to walk the enchanted halls, even though my weakness could have gotten me killed among them.

After tying my hair back into a high slick ponytail. I added a crystaled hair piece. I made my way down the stairs. The sound of laughter and light conversation drifted up from the dining room, confirming what I already suspected—guests had started to arrive. My stomach fluttered with nerves, but the moment I stepped into the hallway and saw Vince waiting there, some of the tension melted away.

“Hey, cuz,” he greeted me with a sheepish smile. “Figured you might not want to walk in alone.”

Relief washed through me, and I hurried toward him with a laugh. “Thank Christ—you’re a saint, Vince.”

He chuckled and looped his arm through mine. “Yeah, I had a feeling you’d need backup. You ready? You look really pretty, by the way.”

My heart steadied at his words, and I smiled.

“Let’s go make an entrance,” he declared, and together we descended into the wolves.

As we reached the bottom of the staircase, the soft hum of conversation thinned into noticeable hushed conversation. The room was modestly decorated—elegant, but restrained. Candles flickered in crystal holders, casting warm light across polished wood and velvet accents. It was clear: everyone had arrived.

We stepped fully into the gathering, and eyes shifted toward us, even if only for a heartbeat. Many of the attendees were pack members—wolves of high standing. A flicker of distaste crossed more than a few faces before being smoothed over with polite, practiced smiles. No one would dare overstep tonight, not with Gran present.

Vince guided us through the room, offering light greetings to everyone we passed. I simply smiled, silent and distant. I had no intention of engaging in conversation. I noticed several representatives of the Fae Alliance scattered throughout the room. It's current leader, Lord Sylien stood poised like a carved statue, his silver‑threaded robes catching the candlelight. He watched me with the quiet intensity of someone measuring time itself. No doubt he’d try to ask about my time away—fishing for some rare insight into the world beyond our borders. Best to avoid him entirely.

Lady Nyssara lounged nearby, languid and unreadable, her violet eyes half‑lidded as though she were dreaming the moment rather than living it.

Brayle thorn was impossible to miss—arms crossed, a permanent sneer etched across his face, his thorn‑stitched cloak dragging along the floor. I rolled my eyes before I could stop myself.

From the Royal Lycan side, the presence was just as formidable. Nyra Vex, one of the strongest royal female warriors in the town, stood sharp‑eyed and smirking, the daggers at her hips glinting with every shift of her stance.

Bram Ironhide offered me a warm nod, his smile genuine—one of the few in the room.

Mr. Tallis Greythorn was already scribbling in a leather‑bound tome, barely glancing up. He was one of Gran’s closest confidants; I’m fairly certain he and my grandfather were cousins.

And then there was Kira Dustclaw, another warrior—silent, watchful. Her golden eyes flicked from face to face like a predator patiently waiting for the slightest sign of weakness.

The room seemed to hold its breath, suspended in anticipation. I could feel every gaze hovering at the edge of my awareness, as if even the air had grown watchful, waiting for my next move.

Vince guided me through the crowd with practiced ease, but we didn’t get far before a cluster of female wolves intercepted him—Vianna’s friends, of course.

The girls didn’t bother pretending they hadn’t been waiting for us. Their smiles were too sharp, their eyes too bright, the kind of friendliness that felt like a blade pressed flat against the skin—harmless only if you didn’t move.

They closed in around Vince with practiced ease, forming a loose semicircle that conveniently left me on the outside. A social maneuver. A message. I wasn’t one of them, and they wanted me to feel it.

“Vince,” one of them purred, brushing a hand along his arm as if she had every right to touch him. “We were wondering when you’d show.”

Another let her gaze sweep over me—gown, face, then away again—with the faint, dismissive air of someone unimpressed by a trinket they hadn’t asked for.

“Oh. I see your cousin is back.”

She spoke around me, not to me, her tone treating my presence like an inconvenient object cluttering the space rather than a person standing in it. Her tone carried the faintest curl of disdain, the kind that only wolves of high standing could wield without consequence.

Vince stiffened beside me, subtle but unmistakable. “Yes—my cousin, Asrai,” he said evenly. “She’s back. And doesn’t she look nice? As do all of you, ladies.”

A few of them exchanged glances—tiny, silent assessments that spoke louder than words.

There it was again: the weighing, the measuring, the quiet judgment they pretended not to indulge in. After a beat of uncomfortable silence ,a chorus of “Oh, yes, of course,” followed, their agreement wrapped in forced sweetness.

One of them tilted her head, offering a smile that didn’t reach her eyes nor mines.

“You do look very nice tonight, A...Asrai.”

I kept my expression neutral, the polite smile I’d perfected over years of surviving these rooms. Inside, though, my pulse thrummed. I could feel the old instinct rising—the urge to shrink, to disappear, to avoid giving them anything to latch onto.

But the fae silk at my shoulders reminded me of its strength, and mine.

So I lifted my chin a fraction. Not enough to challenge. Just enough to say:" Thank You"

One of the wolves—Mariella, Vianna’s closest shadow—leaned in toward Vince. “We were just talking about the mating hunt next moon. You’ll be there, won’t you?”

Her eyes slid to me again, pointedly this time.

A reminder: I would not be.

Vince squeezed my arm gently, a silent apology. “We’ll see.”

Vince had avoided mating runs like the plague, always insisting he wanted to establish his place in the Pack before even thinking about taking a mate. And honestly, I couldn’t blame him. The mate bond was consuming. The runs were a brutal, animalistic tradition—one the Pack clung to despite Gran’s attempts to civilize it with mating balls.

Because of the limited number of wolves, chosen mates were inevitable. The ritual began with a full Pack run, the energy wild and electric, and then the females would scatter some into the woods, some into townsquare. The males followed soon after, hunting by memory and scent, tracking down the one they wanted.

If a male found a female, she had the right to accept or deny him—a right only granted because Gran had fought for it. But if two males chose the same female, the old rule still held: they fought, and the victor claimed her. Even the already claimed mates did the chase at the end we would have a huge open gathering . Cooks of every household or pack would be busy that day preparing for the night party.

The group laughed lightly at something pulling me from my thoughts. Idid't have a wolf anyway. I will help cook per usual. They had already pulled him into their orbit. And though he kept me close, I could feel the shift—the subtle exclusion, the unspoken hierarchy settling back into place.

Wolves in their element.

And me, the anomaly they tolerated only because Gran demanded it.