THE FORSAKEN LYCAN PRINCESS.

CH 11..

The freezing night air bit into the raw, open blisters on my neck the moment I cleared the heavy wooden threshold of the lower wood store. The icy mountain wind felt like needles driving into my scalded skin, but I welcomed the brutal cold. It dulled the blinding fire on my back, forcing my mind to stay sharp, clear, and hyper-vigilant.

I pressed myself flat against the rough log exterior of the timber shed, my left arm locked violently over my ribs like an iron clamp. My right hand, bound in dirty, blood-crusted burlap, throbbed with a heavy, sickening pulse, but my fingers were clenched into a tight fist.

The grand fortress above us was dark, save for the flickering torches along the high stone parapets. The heavy iron bell’s twelfth toll was still vibrating through the freezing mist when a dark shadow detached itself from the side of the supply wagon thirty yards away.

Gerald stepped into the dim moonlight. He was dressed in a dark, unadorned wool cloak, his steel patrol armor replaced by quiet leather. He moved with the fluid, silent speed of a trained tracker, his eyes scanning the surrounding tree line before locking onto me.

"Elara," he breathed, gliding across the frosted gravel to my side. He took one look at my pale, ghost-like face and the dark, wet stain soaking through the back of my tunic. His jaw tightened in a silent storm of anger, but he forced it down.

"The perimeter watch just changed shifts. My brothers are at the eastern gate. We have twenty minutes before the high patrol loops back."

"I am ready," I rasped out, my voice thin, raspy, but unyielding.

Without another word, Gerald took the lead, guiding me through the deep, shadowy alcoves of the lower timber yard. We moved like ghosts along the fringes of the Silverwood fortress, avoiding the main torchlit thoroughfares where Beta Marcus’s enforcers roamed. Every step across the frozen ground sent a jolt of agony through my bare, bruised feet, but the memory of my mother's soft hazel eyes in the archive register powered my legs forward.

We crossed the boundary of the inner ring, slipping through a rotting break in the old wooden palisade, and plunged into the dark, silent pine forest of the lower timber line.

Here, far beneath the dominating shadow of the main pack house, the air was dense with the scent of pine needles, wet earth, and ancient cedar. Nestled in a quiet clearing surrounded by towering white pines stood a small, round cottage built of heavy river stone and dark timber. Moss clung to the thatched roof, and a thin, gentle curl of sweet woodsmoke drifted from the stone chimney into the starry sky.

Gerald stepped up to the thick oak door and gave three quiet, rhythmic knocks.

For a long, agonizing moment, there was only the sound of the wind howling through the pine canopy. Then, the heavy iron bolt slid back with a soft clack.

The door creaked open, spilling a warm, amber glow of hearthfire across the frosted grass.

Standing in the doorway was an old man. His frame was broad and heavily built, though stooped with age and old battle scars. A thick mane of silver-white hair framed a weathered, leathered face carved by decades of grief and harsh winters. He wore a simple tunic of dark green wool, his right sleeve pinned up empty where his arm had been severed at the shoulder long ago.

His gray eyes, sharp and clear despite his age, fell first on Gerald, then shifted slowly to me.

The moment Jonas’s gaze locked onto my face, he froze.

The old warrior gasped, a sound so raw and choked it seemed to tear straight out of his chest. His single hand reached out, trembling violently in the warm doorway light, his fingers hovering in the air as if he were looking at a ghost stepping out of the underworld.

"By the Goddess..." Jonas whispered, his voice cracking into a ragged shudder.

"Evelyn..."

"Father," Gerald said softly, stepping between us to guard the threshold.

"I brought her. I brought Princess Elara."

Jonas’s eyes welled with sudden, heavy tears that spilled unchecked down the deep furrows of his weathered cheeks. He didn't look at my threadbare, filthy tunic. He didn't look at my split lip or my bloodied right hand. He looked at my eyes, my jaw, the shape of my brow, seeing the dead Luna resurrected in the darkness of the forest.

"Come inside, child," Jonas choked out, leaning back and sweeping his single arm wide.

"Come inside out of the cold. Quickly."

I stepped across the threshold, and the heavy door shut behind us, locking out the freezing wind and the terrifying pressure of the Silverwood fortress.

The cottage was small, warm, and filled with the gentle, crackling light of a massive stone fireplace. The air smelled of drying lavender, elderberry tea, and old polished wood. It was a warmth I hadn't felt in twenty-three years, a warmth that had nothing to do with Alpha aura, but everything to do with peace.

"Sit, please," Jonas urged, frantically pulling a soft, sheepskin-draped wooden chair right beside the hearth. He looked at Gerald, his voice trembling.

"Lock the bar, son. Watch the window."

Gerald nodded, sliding the heavy iron bar across the door before taking his post near the front shutter, his hand resting on the hilt of his hunting knife.

I moved stiffly toward the hearth, but as I tried to sit, the raw, blistered skin on my back brushed against the sheepskin. A sharp gasp tore from my throat, my knees giving out as a wave of dizziness swept over me.

Jonas moved with surprising, battle-tested speed. His single arm caught me under my left shoulder, supporting my weight with immense, steady strength before I hit the floor. As he stabilized me, his keen old eyes caught the scorched fabric of my back and the bloody burlap bound around my right palm.

"Goddess in heaven," Jonas breathed, his face twisting in profound horror and grief.

"What have they done to you? What has Raymond allowed them to do to her?!"

"Victoria's work," Gerald muttered grimly from the window, his jaw clenched.

"And Tanya’s."

"Sit forward, child. Do not lean back," Jonas instructed gently, his voice softening into a fatherly tenderness that made my eyes burn with fresh tears. He reached for a small clay pot of soothing herbal salve on the mantle and a bowl of clean water.

"Let me dress these wounds. Please."

I knelt on the rug before the fire, my left arm still pinned tight over my ribs, and let the old warrior carefully dab the cool, soothing herbal paste onto the blistered ruin of my neck and back. The relief was instant, cutting through the liquid fire like a cool rain.

"Jonas?" I whispered, my voice trembling as I stared into the flickering flames of the hearth.

"Yes, my Princess?" he asked softly, his hand working with incredible gentleness.

"Gerald said... he said you were the Captain of her Guard," I choked out, tears finally spilling over my lashes, reflecting the orange light of the fire.

"He said you knew her. Please... I don't care about the pain. I don't care about the pack. I just want to know who she was. My father calls me her murderer. The pack calls me a curse. Tell me about my mother."

Jonas stopped his work for a brief second. A deep, heavy sigh escaped his chest, carrying the weight of twenty-three years of silence. He set the jar down, walked around to the side of the hearth, and dropped to one knee so he was eye-level with me.

"Your father is a fool, Elara," Jonas said, his gray eyes burning with an intense, fierce conviction that cut straight through the dark lies I had lived with my whole life.

"Alpha Raymond is a man blinded by a grief he was too weak to bear. You are no curse. You were the light of her life before you ever drew your first breath."

To be continued…