Damien's Point of View
I didn’t go to her angry. That realization followed me down the corridor like a quiet accusation. I had expected anger because anger was familiar. Anger was loud, reactive, and easy to justify. Anger would have let me blame her without questioning myself. But there was none of it in my chest.
My wolf was silent too. That frightened me more than rage ever could. My mother waited in the east wing, exactly where I knew she would be. She always chose places that reminded people of their own scale, how small they were in comparison to her, how insignificant their objections sounded when swallowed by space, light, and legacy. The windows rose behind her like judges. She stood straight, composed, hands folded as if she were already mourning something rather than responsi
