Kaelen’s POV

The door swung open.

Finnian Morrison stood in the frame, sleeves rolled to his elbows, expression mild as pond water. Behind him, the hallway stretched warm and golden with firelight.

"Kaelen." He said my name like I was an old acquaintance dropping by unannounced. No fear. No surprise. Just polite acknowledgment. "It’s late."

"Where is she?"

"Where is who?"

I stepped forward. He didn’t move. His shoulder filled the doorframe, casual but deliberate, blocking the entrance with his body.

"Don’t." My voice came out low. Scraped raw. "Don’t play this game with me, Morrison. I heard her voice. Through the door. I heard her."

Finnian blinked. Once. Slowly. Then he glanced over his shoulder toward the living room, where a faint glow flickered.

"Ah." A sheepish smile crossed his face. "The memory stone. My mother insists on those frontier comedies before bed. The actress has this high, sharp voice—honestly, half the town’s complained about it."

"That wasn’t an actress."

"With respect, Kaelen, it was." He leaned against the doorframe. Relaxed. Open. Not a single tell in his posture. "You’re welcome to come in and see for yourself, but I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed."

I searched his face. Every line. Every flicker of his eyes. Every micro-expression I’d been trained since boyhood to read.

Nothing. Absolute stillness behind those blue eyes. Like staring at a frozen lake.

The sovereign inside me stirred. Dark. Restless. Furious.

Weeks. Endless days of tracking every rumor, every whisper, every report of a silver-haired woman traveling alone. I’d sent riders to every province. Deployed scouts along every trade road. Personally interrogated innkeepers, merchants, stable hands. Nothing. She’d vanished like smoke through my fingers.

And now—standing on this doorstep in a border town so small it barely appeared on imperial maps—I’d heard her voice. I was certain of it. That particular pitch. That cadence. The way her vowels softened at the edges.

"Step aside."

"Kaelen, I understand you’re—"

I let the pressure loose.

Not all of it. Not even half. Just enough sovereign command to flood the hallway like a tide of black water. The air thickened. The candle flames behind Finnian bent sideways, guttering. The floorboards groaned.

Finnian’s knees buckled. His hand shot to the doorframe for support. The muscles in his neck corded tight, veins standing out as his wolf instinct fought against the overwhelming compulsion to submit. Sweat broke across his forehead.

But he didn’t drop. His jaw locked. His eyes squeezed shut. He braced himself like a man leaning into a gale.

Impressive. His resistance was remarkable.

I pushed harder. The pressure doubled.

Finnian’s legs gave. He caught himself on one knee, breathing ragged, but his arm still blocked the doorway.

"You can... crush me flat..." he ground out through clenched teeth. "Won’t change... what’s inside."

I held the pressure for another heartbeat. Then released it.

He sagged. Drew a shuddering breath. Slowly pushed himself upright using the doorframe.

I stepped past him.

The living room was small. A memory stone sat on a low table, its surface dark and cool. The embers of a fire glowed in the hearth. Two armchairs faced the stone, positioned close together.

I stopped.

Two warm impressions in the cushions. Both chairs. As if two people had been sitting there moments ago.

I touched the nearest cushion. Still warm.

"Ela."

My voice cracked on her name.

I called louder. "ELA!"

The shout tore through the house. Somewhere deeper inside, a crash—a bowl or plate hitting the floor.

An old woman appeared in the kitchen doorway. White hair pinned under a cloth. Flour dusted her apron, her hands, the tip of her nose. Her eyes were wide.

"Merciful Moon—" She pressed a flour-coated hand to her chest. "Young man, you’ll wake every soul on this street."

Behind her, a silver-haired man emerged. Tall. Weathered. He said nothing. Just stood at his wife’s shoulder and watched me with careful, unreadable eyes.

I barely registered them. My gaze swept the room. The hallway. The stairs.

"My lord." The old woman’s voice had gentled. She was looking at me the way one looks at a wounded animal. "There’s no one here but family. What are you searching for?"

I didn’t answer. I was already climbing the stairs.

Three doors on the upper landing. I threw open the first.

A guest room. Simple. A narrow bed, neatly made. A wooden wardrobe. A washstand with a basin.

I inhaled. Deep. Pulling air through my nose and mouth, tasting it, dissecting every layer of scent.

Cedar. Linen. Old wood. Soap.

No winter roses. No parchment. No her.

I opened the wardrobe.

Women’s clothing hung from the rail. A soft cardigan in dove gray. A linen dress. A cotton blouse with delicate stitching at the collar.

My hands were shaking. I reached for the cardigan. Lifted it to my face.

Laundry soap. Cedar from the wardrobe. Nothing else.

The comb sat on the washstand. Several long strands of hair were tangled in its teeth. Silver. Pale as moonlight.

My heart stopped.

I held the comb under the lamplight. The strands caught the glow. Silver. Fine. The exact shade of—

"Those belong to my nieces."

The old woman had followed me upstairs. She stood in the doorway, hands clasped in front of her flour-dusted apron. Concern creased her face, but her voice held the firm patience of a woman who’d raised sons.

"My sister’s girls visit often," she continued. "The eldest has the family coloring—silver-blonde. Like my mother." She gestured at the wardrobe. "They keep a few things here for when they stay."

I stared at the comb. At the strands of silver hair.

"I need—" My voice broke. I tried again. "The scent. There should be a scent. Winter roses and—"

"My lord." She stepped closer. Carefully, as if approaching a cornered wolf. "I washed those things recently. Everything in this room has been laundered. If there was a scent, it’s long gone."

The comb clattered from my fingers onto the washstand.

I searched the second room. A storage closet, half-full of preserved goods and old furniture. The third was Finnian’s bedroom—unmistakably male, smelling of iron and woodsmoke.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

I came back down the stairs slowly. Each step cost me something. Some fragment of the furious certainty that had driven me to this door.

Finnian stood by the hearth, arms crossed. His parents flanked him. Three faces watching me with varying shades of wariness and sympathy.

I couldn’t maintain the sovereign’s posture anymore. It fell off me like a cloak slipping from shoulders too exhausted to hold it.

"If she contacts you." My voice didn’t sound like mine. Hoarse. Small. "If she sends word. If she passes through. Anything."

Finnian’s expression shifted. Something moved behind those careful eyes. Something that might have been pity.

"Tell her—" I swallowed. The words scraped like glass. "Tell her Valerius asks for her every night. He stands at the window and waits. And the baby—Lyra—she has Ela’s eyes. She’s so small. She needs her mother."

The silence in the room pressed down like a physical weight.

"Tell her I’m not going to stop. I will look for her until I have nothing left. Until there’s nothing left of me. Just—tell her that."

The old woman’s hand covered her mouth. Her eyes glistened in the firelight.

Finnian uncrossed his arms. He looked at me for a long moment. Then he nodded once.

"If I see her," he said quietly, "I’ll tell her."

I held his gaze. Searching. Desperate. Finding nothing but that same impenetrable calm.

I walked out.

The night air hit me like a wall of ice. Stars burned cold above the rooftops. The street was empty. Silent. A carriage waited at the curb, its lantern casting a weak circle of amber light.

Brenna stood beside it. Her arms were wrapped tight around herself. She straightened when she saw me, her face pale.

"Did you—" 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

"Nothing." I leaned against the carriage, my legs suddenly giving out beneath me, unable to support my body.