CHAPTER EIGHT
1072 Words
Liora realized something was wrong before anyone said a word.
It wasn’t fear this time.
It was quiet.
Blackridge was never quiet—not really. Even in the early hours, there were footsteps, murmurs, the low hum of a pack always watching itself. But this morning felt hollow, as if sound itself had been pulled away.
She stepped outside her room slowly.
No one met her eyes.
That was worse than hostility.
She walked toward the well, her senses stretching outward without her permission. She could feel the land now—the tension pressed into the soil, the way the trees leaned inward like they were listening.
Something was being planned.
Behind her, footsteps approached.
“You shouldn’t be wandering alone.”
Rafe’s voice was low, careful.
Liora turned, surprised. “I’m never not alone.”
He gave a brief, humorless smile. “Today, that might be a problem.”
Her stomach tightened. “What’s happening?”
Rafe hesitated—then sighed. “The elders have called a closed council.”
Her breath caught. “About me.”
“Yes.”
That single word settled heavy between them.
“Kael?” she asked.
“He’s arguing,” Rafe said honestly. “Which means they’re desperate.”
Desperation, she had learned, made people cruel.
The council chamber smelled of smoke and old stone.
Liora stood just outside the entrance, hands clenched in the sleeves of her dress. She could hear raised voices inside—Moru’s sharp and insistent, Kael’s controlled but strained.
“You do not get to decide this alone,” Moru snapped.
“I do when a life is at risk,” Kael replied.
“A life built on lies!” Moru shot back.
Liora’s heart stuttered.
Lies?
The doors creaked open suddenly.
All conversation stopped.
Kael turned first. His eyes met hers, and something unreadable flickered across his face—surprise, concern, and something close to regret.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly.
Moru’s gaze followed his. Pale. Assessing.
“On the contrary,” the elder said. “She should hear this.”
Liora stepped inside.
The elders sat in a semicircle, their faces carved from judgment and history. She felt very small standing there—but she did not lower her head.
“What lies?” she asked, voice steady despite the tremor in her chest.
Silence stretched.
Then Moru spoke.
“You were not found alone,” he said.
The words struck her like a blow.
“What?” she whispered.
“The night you were brought to Blackridge,” Moru continued, “you were not the only child at the border.”
Her vision blurred.
“There was another,” he said. “A boy.”
Kael’s breath hitched sharply.
Liora swayed slightly but remained standing. “What happened to him?”
Moru folded his hands. “He did not survive.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“Because of me?” she asked.
“No,” Kael said immediately. “Stop.”
But Moru raised a hand. “Let her hear the whole truth.”
Liora’s chest burned. “Please.”
Moru’s eyes were cold. “The boy was already dying when we found him. Injured. Weak. He had been used—drained by rogues experimenting with bloodlines.”
Kael’s jaw clenched.
“And you?” Moru said, looking at Liora. “You were untouched.”
Her breath came in shallow gasps.
“They assumed I did it,” she said softly.
Moru nodded. “It was… convenient.”
The word hollowed her out.
“You needed someone to blame,” she whispered.
“And you needed a place to stay,” Moru replied. “The arrangement worked.”
Kael stepped forward sharply. “You let a child carry that burden for thirteen years.”
“She lived,” Moru said flatly. “Many would not have.”
Liora laughed then—a quiet, broken sound. “You let me believe I was a monster.”
“No,” Moru corrected. “We let the pack believe it.”
The difference mattered.
Too much.
Liora left the council chamber without another word.
She didn’t run.
She walked.
Every step felt heavy, but clear—like the fog inside her had finally lifted, leaving only truth behind.
Kael followed.
“Liora,” he called gently.
She stopped at the forest’s edge but didn’t turn.
“They watched me suffer,” she said quietly. “On purpose.”
Kael stood a few steps behind her, careful not to crowd her. “Yes.”
“And if you hadn’t come,” she continued, “they would have kept doing it.”
“Yes.”
Her hands trembled. “Why didn’t anyone stop them?”
Kael’s voice was low. “Because fear is easier than responsibility.”
She finally turned.
Tears streaked her face, but her eyes were clear.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” she asked. “With the truth?”
Kael met her gaze steadily. “Decide who you are now that it’s yours.”
She pressed her palm to her chest.
The hum there answered—stronger, steadier.
For the first time, it did not hurt.
That night, Blackridge changed.
Not outwardly.
But beneath the surface, something fractured.
Whispers spread—not about curses or omens, but about lies. About elders who had chosen convenience over justice.
Moru watched from the shadows, his expression dark.
“She’s dangerous now,” he muttered.
Another elder shifted. “Because she knows?”
“No,” Moru said. “Because she’s no longer afraid.”
Liora sat beneath the moon, knees drawn up, the broken wooden charm in her hand.
She pressed the pieces together.
They didn’t fit anymore.
She exhaled slowly and let them fall apart.
Some things, she realized, weren’t meant to be repaired.
They were meant to be left behind.
Behind her, footsteps approached.
“You don’t have to carry this alone,” Kael said quietly.
She didn’t look at him. “I’ve been alone my whole life.”
“Yes,” he said. “But not anymore.”
She closed her eyes.
For the first time, she believed him.
And somewhere deep within the land itself, the moon watched—not as a judge, but as a witness.
Because the girl who had survived had finally become a woman who could choose.
And Blackridge would never be the same.
- Writer
