When silence becomes a sentence
1026 Words
Elowen woke to the smell of herbs and old stone.
For a moment, she did not know where she was. Her body felt heavy, as if she had been buried beneath layers of wool and sleep. The pain that had struck her down in the corridor had dulled into a deep, throbbing ache that wrapped around her chest and spine.
She blinked slowly.
Moonhaven Infirmary.
The high arched ceiling glowed faintly with enchanted moonlight. White curtains billowed softly around her bed, and the air hummed with the quiet pulse of healing magic. Her fingers twitched against the linen, and instinctively, she reached inward.
Lyra.
There was a presence now. Faint. Fragile. Like a heartbeat heard through water.
Tears slid silently into her hair.
“You should not have walked away like that,” a gentle voice said.
Elowen turned her head. Seraphine Moonweaver stood beside the bed, her silver hair braided down her back, her eyes heavy with concern and something that looked dangerously like guilt.
“I did not collapse on purpose,” Elowen murmured.
Seraphine sighed. “Your body is failing faster than we anticipated.”
The words landed with a quiet finality.
Elowen stared at the ceiling. “How much time.”
Seraphine hesitated. Too long. Too carefully.
“Months,” she admitted. “Unless the bond is stabilized.”
Elowen closed her eyes.
Stabilized meant marked. It meant Alaric.
It meant hope she could no longer afford.
“He does not believe you,” Seraphine said softly.
“No,” Elowen replied. “He does not want to.”
Silence settled between them, thick and uncomfortable.
“You should remain here,” Seraphine continued. “At least for a few days. Your collapse was severe.”
Elowen shook her head. The movement made her dizzy, but she pushed through it. “No. If I stay, it becomes real. And if it becomes real, he will come. Not for me. For damage control.”
Seraphine’s lips pressed together. “You are his mate.”
“I am his inconvenience,” Elowen corrected.
When she insisted on leaving, Seraphine did not stop her. Instead, she pressed a small vial into Elowen’s palm.
“For the pain,” she said. “Do not abuse it. Your body cannot endure excess.”
Elowen nodded and slid from the bed. Every movement felt deliberate now. Measured. As if her body were a fragile object she could no longer trust.
By the time she returned to the Luna quarters, word had already spread.
Servants watched her with widened eyes. Whispers trailed behind her like shadows. Someone had seen her collapse. Someone had seen the healers rush her away.
Perfect Lunas did not faint in corridors.
Perfect Lunas did not c***k.
Elowen shut the door behind her and leaned against it, breathing hard. Her reflection in the mirror startled her. The woman staring back looked thinner. Sharper. Less polished.
Good.
She changed out of the ceremonial white and chose a dark blue gown instead. No moon sigils. No embroidery. Her hair, once meticulously arranged, was left loose down her back.
When she stepped into the main hall later that evening, the reaction was immediate.
Gasps were swallowed. Eyes darted. Conversations stalled.
Alaric stood near the hearth, speaking with two council members. His gaze lifted, and for the first time in months, it stopped on her.
Truly stopped.
Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise, perhaps. Or irritation.
“What are you wearing,” he asked once the council members excused themselves.
“Clothing,” Elowen replied calmly.
“This is not appropriate attire for a Luna.”
“I am unmarked,” she said. “By tradition, I am not yet Luna.”
His jaw tightened. “Do not split hairs with me.”
She met his gaze, unflinching. “Then do not bind me with titles you refuse to honor.”
The words hung between them.
“You are drawing attention,” Alaric said quietly.
“Yes,” she agreed. “I am.”
He studied her, searching for something. Manipulation. Tears. Weakness.
He found none.
“This behavior will not continue,” he said.
Elowen smiled. It was small, slow, and entirely unfamiliar. “We shall see.”
That night, she did not attend the usual dinner beside him. She ate in the eastern wing instead, laughing softly with junior pack members who had never dared approach her before.
The next morning, she skipped etiquette lessons.
The following day, she interrupted a council meeting to question a trade agreement publicly.
By the end of the week, the pack was restless.
“This is not like you,” Alaric said when he cornered her in the gardens. “People are talking.”
“Good,” Elowen replied. “Let them.”
“You are embarrassing yourself.”
She stepped closer. Close enough to feel the heat of him. Close enough to remember nights she had imagined his touch.
“I am embarrassing you,” she corrected. “And that is the point.”
His eyes darkened. “You are playing a dangerous game.”
“I have nothing left to lose.”
Something about that unsettled him. He watched her walk away, her steps steady despite the tremor he did not see.
That night, Elowen stood on the balcony of the Luna quarters, the cold air biting into her skin. She swallowed a drop of the healer’s tonic and waited for the pain to ease.
Lyra stirred faintly. Not awake. Not gone, Just listening.
“If I cannot be free,” Elowen whispered into the night, “then I will become unbearable.”
Behind her, unnoticed, a shadow lingered at the edge of the balcony doors.
Alaric watched her stand alone under the moon, her dark hair loose, her posture defiant, and for the first time, a question crept into his mind.
What if she was telling the truth?
Before he could step forward, Elowen swayed, the vial slipping from her fingers as her knees buckled once more, her body giving in to the quiet war tearing her apart.
And this time, Alaric was close enough to catch her.
- Writer
