The revelation
530 Words
Chapter 6: The Revelation
Freya paced the length of her cell, bare feet making less than a whisper of sound on wet stone. The dungeon was confining—each breath filled with the reek of wet soil and rusted iron. She'd been in here for days, trapped without explanations. No answers.
Something had altered.
Since then, with Alaric—the gloom that had darkened his golden eyes when she'd told him he had no idea what she was—there'd been a change in the atmosphere between them. He hadn't come back to see her. Not once. But she had no doubt he was watching.
She felt him.
And then, as if summoned by her thoughts, the heavy door at the end of the corridor groaned open. The flickering torches cast long shadows as Alaric stepped through, his towering frame blocking out everything else. His presence was a storm—thick, suffocating, impossible to ignore.
Freya clenched her jaw and forced herself to stand still as he approached, his gaze unreadable.
“You’ve been quiet,” he said, his voice low, measured.
"I didn't know I was supposed to amuse my captors."
His mouth curled, but he remained silent. Instead, he pulled something from his coat. A thin silver chain hung from his fingers, a pendant shining faintly in the low light.
Freya's breath was caught in her throat.
The pendant was unmistakable. A symbol she had seen elsewhere, hidden in the pages of forbidden books.
A mark of an ancient bloodline.
Alaric c****d his head to one side, his eyes fixed on her reaction. "You know it."
Freya gulped, crumpling her fingers into her palms. "Where did you get that?"
Alaric's golden gaze signed hers. "It was on you."
Her thoughts were reeling. Impossible. She had never seen that pendant before, never carried anything like it.
Unless—
Her heart thundered. The dreams. The voice calling her here. Had it left something behind?
"What does it mean?" Alaric demanded.
Freya faltered. If she told the truth, she was putting herself in greater peril. But a falsehood would be no use to her either.
She took slow breaths. "It belongs to a bloodline that has no right to exist."
Alaric's expression did not shift, but something flickered behind his eyes. "Yours."
Freya shook her head. "I don't know." And the frightening thing was—that something about the pendant seemed right. As if it had always been hers.
Alaric drew a quick breath and ran a hand through his hair. "There are stories of witches who disappeared centuries ago," he said softly. "Witches who could do things that no one else could."
A shiver traveled up Freya's spine.
Alaric leaned in, his hand curling around the bars between them, his voice whispered nearly.
"What are you, Freya?"
The air between them grew heavy. Freya met his gaze, her heart pounding.
"I don't know," she replied.
For the first time since she had known him, Alaric looked truly upset.
And that terrified her more than anything.
Because if even the King of Werewolves was frightened of what she might be—
Then she was in more danger than she ever suspected.
- Writer
