Elara’s POV

The morning light felt too bright.

I lay in bed staring at the ceiling long after Lyra’s first cry had pulled me from restless sleep. My body ached in places that had nothing to do with injury. A deep, marrow-level fatigue that never fully lifted anymore. The kind that came from carrying grief in your bones.

Kaelen had left early. Some military briefing. But before he’d gone, he’d sat on the edge of the bed and pressed his lips to my temple.

"Tomorrow," he’d said quietly.

I’d blinked at him, still half-asleep. "What about tomorrow?"

"It’s been one year since you agreed to be my mate." His dark gold eyes had softened in a way that still made my chest ache. "Come to the palace. My office. Around six. Let me do something for you."

"Kaelen—"

"Just dinner. That’s all. You and me." He’d tucked a strand of silver hair behind my ear. "Let me remind you who you are, Elara Frostfang."

Then he was gone.

Now I sat on the edge of the bed with Lyra in my arms, replaying his words. Let me remind you who you are.

The problem was, I wasn’t sure I knew anymore. The very thought of facing Sylvia Vance at my former desk gnawed at me, sending my anxiety into a deep spiral.

I changed three times.

The first dress was too formal. Court-appropriate silk that hung off my frame like it had been made for someone larger. Someone who used to fill it out with the dense, supernatural muscle that came with a wolf spirit. I pulled it off and dropped it on the floor.

The second was too casual. A simple cotton thing that made me look like exactly what Sylvia Vance had assumed I was—a mortal nanny running errands.

The third was a compromise. Deep blue. Fitted enough to suggest I still had a shape. Long sleeves to hide the thinness of my wrists.

I stood in front of the mirror and tried to see what Kaelen saw.

Ice-blue eyes. Hollow cheeks. Silver hair that used to shimmer with an inner light—Moonlight’s light—now just... hair. Pretty, maybe. But ordinary.

"You look beautiful."

Brenna stood in the doorway, Lyra already settled against her hip. My daughter had her fist tangled in Brenna’s dark hair and was trying to eat it.

"You’re lying."

"I’m not. The blue suits you." Brenna shifted Lyra to her other hip and gave me a look. Steady. Firm. The look she’d been giving me since we were young and I’d spiral into self-doubt. "Go. Have dinner with your mate. Be a woman for a few hours instead of just a mother."

I crossed the room and kissed Lyra’s forehead. She smelled like milk and soap and something faintly sweet. She gurgled. Reached for me with sticky fingers.

"Mama will be back soon," I whispered against her silver hair. "Be good for Auntie Brenna."

"She’s always good for me," Brenna said. "It’s you she terrorizes."

I almost smiled.

Almost.

---

The palace hadn’t changed.

That was the cruelest part. The soaring granite walls. The enchanted lanterns that burned with pale blue flame. The carved wolf insignia above every archway, eyes inlaid with amber crystal. All of it exactly as I remembered.

But I had changed.

The guards at the gate waved me through without incident—Kaelen must have added my name to the clearance list. But their gazes lingered. Not with recognition. With curiosity. The way you’d look at any unfamiliar mortal wandering the imperial grounds.

I kept my head down and walked.

The main corridor leading to the administrative wing was busy. Pages hurrying between offices. Junior clerks hauling scrolls. The sharp, purposeful energy of an empire running on schedule.

I’d made it halfway down the hall before the first voice caught me.

"Ela?"

Michel from the treasury department stood near a water basin, parchment tucked under one arm. His round face split into a grin.

"Ela! It is you!"

He crossed the distance in three strides and clasped my hand. His grip was warm. Firm. The grip of a wolfblood who had no idea how fragile mortal bones felt now.

"Look at you," he said, studying my face with open concern. "You’ve gotten so thin. Are you eating enough? We heard about your leave of absence but nobody told us—"

"I’m fine, Michel."

"When are you coming back? Your replacement is competent but she doesn’t have your eye for—"

"I’m not sure yet."

"David! David, come here! Look who it is!"

David from the legal division appeared from an adjacent doorway. Tall. Spectacled. He smiled when he saw me, but the smile faltered quickly as he took in my appearance.

"Ela. Good to see you." His voice was careful in a way that told me he could sense exactly what I was. Or rather, what I wasn’t. "You look... well."

The hesitation before well was a knife.

"How’s the little one?" Michel pressed on, oblivious. "And Valerius—is he getting tall? He must be getting tall. When are you coming back to work? Janet was just saying the other day—"

"Janet?"

As if summoned, Janet from personnel rounded the corner with Tom from operations trailing behind her. They both stopped when they saw me.

"Ela!" Janet’s voice was bright. Too bright. "Oh my goodness, we were just talking about you! Are you back? Please tell me you’re back. The filing system has been a disaster since—"

"I’m just visiting," I said. My throat was tight.

"Visiting?" Tom frowned. "But you’re coming back eventually, right? Your position is still technically—"

"I don’t know." The words came out sharper than I intended. Four faces stared at me. Concerned. Confused. Kind.

That was the worst part. They were being kind. And every kind question—when are you coming back, are you eating enough, you’ve gotten so thin—was another reminder of everything I’d lost. They remembered Ela the senior archivist. Ela with the sharp instincts and the supernatural stamina who could work through the night without tiring. Ela whose wolf aura commanded quiet respect in every room she entered.

This version of me confused them.

"I should go," I managed. "I’m expected upstairs."

"Of course. Of course." Michel squeezed my hand again. "Don’t be a stranger, Ela. We miss you around here."

I nodded and turned away before my expression could betray me.

---

The top floor was quieter.

Polished stone. Thick carpets that muffled footsteps. The faint hum of enchanted ward-crystals embedded in the walls. The executive level. Kaelen’s domain.

I used to belong here.

The reception area outside his office had been rearranged. New desk. New filing system. New crystal displays arranged with geometric precision. And behind the desk—

Sylvia Vance.

She looked up as I approached. Recognition flickered in her eyes, followed by something I couldn’t quite name. She set down her quill and folded her hands on the desk with practiced composure.

"Good evening," she said. Polite. Professional. "How may I help you?"

"I’m here to see Kaelen. He’s expecting me."

"His Majesty Nightfire is currently in a closed session." She glanced at a schedule crystal on her desk. "May I ask who’s calling?"

"Elara."

The name landed. Sylvia’s expression didn’t change, exactly. But something shifted behind her eyes. A tightening. A recalculation.

"Ah. Yes, Elara." Her polite demeanor shifted into open disdain. "His Majesty Kaelen’s mortal nanny."

The word nanny hit the same bruise it had hit the night before. I felt my spine stiffen.

"I’m his mate."

"Of course." She said it the way someone says if you say so. "Unfortunately, His Majesty Nightfire’s session is running long. I can’t have you waiting in the reception area—security protocols for the executive level have been updated. Unauthorized civilians are not permitted to remain in common spaces unescorted."

Unauthorized civilians.

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

"But I do have somewhere you can wait comfortably." Sylvia rose from her desk with fluid grace. "Follow me, please."

She led me down a side corridor I knew well. Past the conference chamber. Past the archives room where I’d spent countless hours. Past the break room where I used to make tea at midnight during late sessions.

Then she stopped at a door I’d never had reason to open.

A cramped, dusty storage closet.

She pulled it open with a pleasant smile. Inside were piles of parchment scrolls, mundane office supplies, and broken magical printing crystals that had gone dark. And in the middle of the clutter, a single narrow, uncomfortable chair.

"It shouldn’t be too long," Sylvia said, her tone bright and helpful. "I’ll let His Majesty Nightfire know you’re here once his session concludes."

She stepped aside. Gestured inward.

I stared at the chair. At the dust motes drifting through stale air. At the broken printing crystals stacked like discarded bones.

And I walked in.

Because what else could I do? Make a scene? Demand better treatment? With what authority? I had no title. No aura. No wolf. I was exactly what she saw—a mortal woman with no power and no place.

The door clicked shut behind me.

I lowered myself onto the narrow, uncomfortable chair. It creaked under my weight. A stack of rolled parchment slumped sideways and knocked against my knee.

The silence was thick. Dusty. Humiliating.

I sat there alone among the piles of parchment scrolls, mundane office supplies, and broken magical printing crystals, feeling exactly like one of them—a piece of discarded inventory.