The Shadows of the Past
1078 Words
The following morning, the golden haze of the suite was replaced by the cold, gray reality of the Grayville hierarchy. Ethan had been summoned to an early tactical briefing, leaving Love to face the Pack House alone.
As Love walked through the corridors, the atmosphere was a thick, suffocating reminder that while her rank had changed, the memory of the Pack was long. The black mourning drapes that had hung for months were finally being removed in preparation for the wedding, but the way the Elders looked at her suggested they would rather be draping her in them.
She passed the Council Antechamber, the heavy doors slightly ajar.
"She has the Alpha’s heart, but she has a murderer's hands," the voice of Elder Silas drifted through the gap, sharp and unyielding. "Ethan believes he is healing the Pack by crowning her. He is merely putting a bandage over a gangrenous wound."
"He is the Alpha," another voice countered, though it sounded weary. "We must follow the blood."
"The blood is tainted," Silas spat. "Every time I look at her, I see the roots. I see the Queen we lost. Four months is not enough time to forget the smell of the Luna’s blood on the marble."
Love tightened her grip on her skirts, her jaw set. She was a Hybrid Queen, a woman who had survived the High Peaks and the shadow-beasts, yet the whispers of old men still felt like needles under her skin. They didn't see the woman who saved Ethan; they saw the variable that destroyed their predictable, cruel world.
She descended to the lower kitchens, a place she once knew better than the sun. The air here was warm, smelling of yeast and roasted meats for the coming feast.
In the corner, a young girl, no older than fourteen, was struggling with a massive crate of silver polish. Her uniform was two sizes too big, and her hands were raw, trembling as she tried to lift the heavy box.
Love stopped. The girl looked up, her eyes wide with a terror that Love recognized in her very marrow. It was the look of a thing that expected a blow for simply existing.
"Let me help you," Love said softly, stepping forward.
"N-no, my Lady," the girl stammered, dropping to her knees and bowing so low her forehead touched the dusty floor. "I’m sorry. I’m slow. Please don't tell the Head Housekeeper."
"I’m not going to tell anyone," Love said, her heart twisting. She reached down, placing her hand on the girl’s shoulder. The girl flinched, and for a second, Love saw her own past reflected in those terrified eyes.
Love focused a tiny, controlled spark of her magic—not the destructive force she used in the mountain, but the gentle, restorative light of a healer. The warmth flowed into the girl’s raw hands, sealing the cracks in her skin and easing the ache in her muscles.
The girl gasped, looking at her palms in wonder. "It... it doesn't hurt."
"Keep the crate small next time," Love whispered, her eyes glowing a soft gray. "And if anyone tells you that you are nothing, remember that the woman standing before you was once in your shoes. They don't own your soul, little one."
Love stood up, leaving the girl staring after her in a daze of hope and confusion.
I will change this place, Love promised herself, though her hand went instinctively to her stomach. If I can’t change it for me, I’ll change it for them.
Before leaving for the coast, Love made one final stop. The West Wing was silent, the air smelling of stale whiskey and stagnant grief. This was the Alpha’s retirement suite, where Marcus had retreated into a living tomb.
The curtains were drawn tight. Marcus sat in a leather armchair, staring at a portrait of the Luna. He looked as though he had aged twenty years in four months. His skin was sallow, his hair a shock of thin white, and the dominant Alpha Aura that once shook the mountains was a flickering, dying ember.
"She’s gone, Ethan," Marcus murmured, his voice a ghost of a rasp. He didn't even turn his head. "The silence is so loud. Every beat of my heart is an insult to her memory."
"It’s Love, Alpha," she said quietly from the doorway.
Marcus stiffened, his head turning slowly. The hatred in his eyes was muted by a profound, hollow exhaustion.
"The Kingslayer," he whispered. "Come to check on the progress of the rot?"
"I came to see if you needed anything," Love said, ignoring the barb. "The wedding is tomorrow. Ethan wants you there."
Marcus let out a dry, hacking laugh. "A bond broken by death is not a wound, Love. It is an amputation. I am half a soul. I don’t belong at a wedding. I belong in the earth with her."
He looked back at the portrait, his eyes glassy. Love knew the folklore of the Pack—when a Mate was taken with such violence, the survivor often followed within the year. The grief was a poison that no magic could cure.
"He is your son," Love said, her voice firming. "He is trying to build a future out of the ruins. He needs his father, not a ghost."
"He has his Queen," Marcus spat, his voice suddenly sharp with a flash of the old venom. "He has the magic and the silver hair. He has forgotten the woman who gave him life. Now go. Your presence smells of the mountain. It smells of the end."
Love walked away, the weight of the old man’s grief pressing down on her. The Pack was a house divided—the Elders clinging to the past, the Alpha dying of a broken heart, and the Prince building a throne on a foundation of secrets.
She stepped out into the courtyard, where the SUV was waiting to take her to the coast. She needed to see Lulu. She needed to breathe air that didn't taste like a funeral.
She looked back at the dark windows of the West Wing, a chilling thought crossing her mind. Elara was right. The cycle doesn't stop because a witch died. It just waits for the next sacrifice
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