Chapter 5

When I returned to the estate, night had already settled over the packlands. The torches along the stone walls burned low, their light trembling in the wind like fading spirits. I crossed the threshold of the great hall with Evander’s moonstone urn still held carefully against my chest, as though the world itself might try to take even that last remnant of him from me.

I had barely stepped into the foyer when Viktor appeared.

There was no warning. No question. Only the sudden blur of movement, and then his hand struck my face with such force that my head snapped to the side. My shoulder collided with the carved doorframe, and for a moment the world went white and distant, as if I had been pushed halfway into the spirit realm. A ringing filled my ears, sharp and disorienting, but even then my arms did not loosen.

The urn remained pressed against me.

Instinct more than thought. As if my body understood that if it fell, something far more final than death would occur.

“Have you lost your mind?” Viktor’s voice thundered through the hall, echoing off the stone pillars. “How dare you speak so disgracefully to my parents in their own hall?”

I slowly lifted my gaze to him, though my mouth had not yet found words.

“They told me everything,” he continued, his eyes blazing with anger. “That you insulted them, that you spat in their tea like some feral thing, that you even threatened them under their own roof. What kind of woman have you become?”

Before I could even draw breath to answer, his hand came down again.

The second strike was worse than the first. My head turned sharply, and the taste of blood filled my mouth where my teeth had bitten into my lip. My knees nearly gave way, but I did not fall. I did not cry. Not then. Not yet.

Pain bloomed across my face, but my heart remained strangely still, as though it had already been buried elsewhere.

“Viktor,” Nyra’s voice drifted from the side of the hall, soft and carefully measured, as if she were trying to appear concerned. But there was something carefully hidden beneath it, something almost pleased. “Please don’t. She’s clearly not in her right mind. It’s better to let her calm herself.”

Viktor turned toward her immediately, as though her presence alone soothed the fire in him.

“Do not concern yourself, my love,” he said, his tone softening in an instant. “This has always been her way. She distorts everything, plays the victim, and expects sympathy for it.”

He glanced back at me, cold again. “You have always been too indulgent toward her,” he added, as if explaining something obvious. “That is why she believes she can behave however she wishes.”

Nyra lowered her gaze with practiced fragility, leaning lightly against the wall like a delicate thing that might break if touched too harshly. Her eyes flicked toward me only briefly, but the disdain in them was unmistakable.

On the couch nearby, Elric sat with his wolf-ear charms still hanging loosely from his neck. One of them slipped as he tilted his head, but he did not fix it. He did not ask questions. He only watched with faint amusement, as though the hall itself had become a spectacle meant for his entertainment.

Around the edges of the room, the servants had gathered, silent as statues. Yet even silence has a voice in a pack house. I heard them whispering anyway.

“She is still holding the urn…”

“She didn’t even defend herself…”

“Poor thing… she looks like a hollowed spirit now.”

“I heard she went to the sea shrine with it… the boy’s ashes…”

Their words drifted, but I did not turn to them. I could not afford to.

Then Viktor’s eyes fell to my arms again, to the pale moonstone urn I held so tightly that my fingers had gone white.

“What is that?” he asked, as if it were nothing more than a forgotten object. Before I could step back, he reached for it.

“No,” I said, too quietly, too late.

He took it from me anyway.

For a moment he simply stared at it, turning it slightly in his hand. Then a faint, disgusted laugh left him.

“You are unbelievable,” he said. “You truly went out into the world carrying this like some tragic offering? What is this supposed to be? Another performance for pity?”

He gave it a slight shake, careless and thoughtless. My stomach dropped at the sound it made against his grip.

“An urn?” he sneered. “Whose ashes are you pretending to mourn now? Your dignity?”

Behind him, Nyra covered her mouth as if to hide a laugh, her shoulders trembling slightly. Elric let out a quiet chuckle, as though it were all some amusing tale he had been told.

I stood frozen, my cheek burning, blood drying on my lip, but my voice came out steady despite everything breaking inside me.

“Give it back.”

Viktor lifted it higher.

“Why?” he said. “Tell me who it belongs to first. Or is this another one of your lies?”

My gaze did not waver.

“It is Evander,” I said.

The word fell into the hall like a death sentence.

Everything stopped.

Even the torches seemed to still.

Nyra’s expression changed first, the faint amusement fading. Elric looked away almost immediately. The servants no longer whispered.

For the first time, Viktor’s smirk faltered.

He looked down at the urn again, slower now, as if hearing something only just reaching him. His grip loosened slightly, but he did not speak.

I did not move.

I could only stand there, empty and shaking, waiting.

Then it happened.

The urn slipped.

It struck the stone floor and shattered with a sound like bone breaking beneath a wolf’s teeth.

For a heartbeat, there was only silence.

Then the ash rose.

Not like dust. Not like anything ordinary. It scattered across the floor in a pale, drifting cloud, as though something sacred had been torn apart and scattered by careless hands.

And in that moment, I understood what had just been done.

Evander was on the floor.

Not memory. Not object.

Evander.

I screamed.

It tore out of me without warning, raw and broken, as I dropped to my knees. My hands moved frantically, trying to gather what could no longer be gathered. Ash clung to my fingers, to the cracks in the stone, to everything I touched. I could not tell what was fragments of the urn and what was him anymore.

I only knew I had lost him again.

Behind me, Viktor exhaled sharply, as though inconvenienced.

“Stop this screaming,” he said coldly. “You are embarrassing yourself. No one killed anything here.”

I could not even look at him.

My hands kept moving, trembling as they tried to gather impossible pieces.

Then his voice came again, closer now, harsher.

“I spoke to the healer’s den this morning,” he said. “Evander is alive. He is recovering. They even sent word and confirmation.”

My hands stilled for the briefest moment.

Then resumed.

Because I knew what I had held.

“You are lying,” he continued. “You have gone completely mad if you think I will believe you faked his death for attention.”

My voice came out fractured, barely more than breath.

“He died,” I whispered. “I held him… I felt him leave this world.”

But the hall no longer belonged to truth.

Nyra moved then, kneeling beside Viktor with slow, careful grace. Her hand rested lightly on his arm as she spoke, voice soft as spun silk.

“Perhaps she blames me,” she said gently, eyes lowering. “Perhaps she thinks if she causes enough pain, I will understand what she feels.”

Her gaze drifted toward the ashes.

“I would not be surprised if she wished something like this upon me as well,” she added softly, pressing a hand to her chest as though moved by sorrow. “To be scattered and forgotten… like this.”

And then she began to cry.

Not quietly. Not simply.

It came in waves, trembling and dramatic, as though grief itself had been taught to perform. She leaned against the couch as if her strength had failed her entirely.

And Elric watched. Quiet at first.

Until she reached for him.