Kaelen’s POV

"Three relay stations, Your Majesty. After that—nothing."

Marcus stood at rigid attention. His scarred jaw was set. Behind him, Tyler and Jack flanked the doorway like statues carved from discipline and dread.

I stared at the map spread across my desk. Three red marks. Three relay stations tracing a jagged line southwest from the capital. And then the trail went cold.

"Explain."

Marcus cleared his throat. "She was spotted at each station wearing a hooded cloak and a veil. Paid in gold coin—untraceable currency. No name given. No luggage checked. She switched coaches at every stop."

"Scent?"

"None, Your Majesty. She left no scent trail at any of the stations. We believe she used something to mask it. An herbal compound, possibly. The station attendants couldn’t recall anything about her beyond the cloak."

Of course they couldn’t. Because she’d thought of everything. Every single detail. The hood. The veil. The gold. The coach switches. The scent masking.

She hadn’t run in panic. She’d executed a tactical withdrawal with the precision of a trained scout.

My mate had studied me. She’d watched how my empire tracked people, how my knights hunted, how information moved through relay networks—and she’d built her disappearance around every weakness in the system.

"Jack," I said.

He stepped forward. "Your Majesty."

"The roads between stations two and three. How many branching routes?"

"Numerous major forks, Your Majesty. Several minor trails suitable for foot travel. She avoided the main highways entirely. Tyler and I confirmed that with the coachmen."

Tyler nodded once. "She asked to be let off between stations. Not at them. The last coachman said she stepped out at an unmarked crossroads and walked into the treeline."

Into the treeline. On foot. Alone. Without her wolf.

My chest constricted so violently I had to press my fist against the desk.

Marcus hesitated. A dangerous thing to do in front of me right now, and he knew it. But he did it anyway.

"Your Majesty... she’s had nearly two days. If she continued on foot through the forest network—"

The growl that ripped from my throat made all three men drop their gazes to the floor.

"She could be anywhere." My voice came out as a lethal, sovereign whisper. The kind of voice that made hardened soldiers flinch. "That’s what you’re telling me."

"We will find her, Your Majesty."

"You will check every inn. Every tavern. Every roadside farmhouse and shepherd’s hut between the capital and the southern border." I leaned forward. My knuckles were white against the wood. "You will check every single one. And if she has crossed into another territory, you will follow. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," all three said in unison.

"Go."

They filed out. The door closed. Silence filled the study like floodwater.

The communication stone on my desk pulsed.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I snatched it up so fast I nearly knocked the ink well off the edge.

The sigil glowing on its surface wasn’t hers. Of course it wasn’t hers. She didn’t have a communication stone. She’d left everything behind. Everything except the clothes she’d packed and whatever gold she’d hidden away and the quiet, devastating certainty that she wasn’t coming back.

The sigil belonged to a border garrison commander requesting supply approvals.

I hurled the stone at the wall.

It shattered. Fragments of enchanted crystal scattered across the floor like broken teeth. The sound was sharp, violent, satisfying for exactly half a second before the emptiness rushed back in.

A tentative knock.

"Your Majesty of the Nightfire." Sylvia’s voice, carefully neutral through the door. "Your four o’clock appointment with the trade delegation—"

"Cancelled."

A pause. "Shall I reschedule for—"

"Cancel everything. I’m going home."

Another pause. Longer. I could practically hear her recalculating behind that polished facade.

"Of course, Your Majesty."

---

The palace corridors blurred past me. Guards snapped to attention as I passed. Servants pressed themselves against walls. I saw none of them.

The nursery wing was quiet. Late afternoon light slanted gold through the tall windows, catching dust motes that drifted like tiny, aimless ghosts.

I heard him before I saw him. The rapid thud of small feet. Then the door at the end of the corridor burst open and Valerius came hurtling toward me at full speed, arms pumping, dark curls bouncing.

"Daddy!"

He crashed into my legs. I caught him. Lifted him. He wrapped his arms around my neck with a fierce, uncomplicated strength that made something inside me splinter.

"Hey, buddy." I pressed my face into his hair. Breathed him in. He smelled like soap and honey cakes and that particular warmth that only children carried. "How was school?"

"We learned about constellations! Miss Petra says the Wolf Star is the brightest one in winter. She said if you make a wish on it, the Moon Goddess might hear you." He pulled back, his gold eyes huge and earnest. "Is that true, Daddy? Does the Moon Goddess really listen?"

"Yeah." My voice cracked on the word. I cleared my throat. "Yeah, sweetheart. She listens."

"Good. Because I wished for Mommy to come home."

The silence that followed was a physical thing. It had weight. It pressed against my sternum like a stone.

"Mommy’s coming back soon," I said. The lie tasted like ash. "She just had some things to take care of. Remember?"

He studied me with those ancient, unsettling eyes.

"You said that yesterday."

"And I meant it."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he wriggled in my arms. "Can I show you my constellation drawing? Miss Petra said it was the best one."

"Absolutely. Show me everything."

I carried him to the sitting room and sat on the floor while he spread crumpled parchment across the carpet and explained each star with breathless authority. I nodded. I asked questions. I made all the right sounds in all the right places.

And inside, I was screaming.

After he’d been handed off to his evening tutor, I went to the nursery. Lyra was asleep. The nursemaid curtsied and stepped out when I entered.

I stood over the crib. Lyra’s chest rose and fell in that impossibly delicate rhythm. Her silver hair—her mother’s hair—was a pale wisp against the pillow.

I reached down and lifted Lyra into my arms, holding her small, warm weight against my chest. She didn’t stir.

Behind me, Elara’s rocking chair sat empty by the window. The cushion still held the impression of her body. A blanket she’d been knitting—unfinished, needles still threaded—lay draped over the arm.

I sat in the chair, still holding my daughter. It creaked under my weight. It wasn’t built for me. It was built for her—for those quiet hours after midnight when she’d rock Lyra against her chest and hum songs I pretended not to hear through the walls.

I sat there. In her chair. In her absence. And the grief ate through me like acid through parchment.

After gently placing Lyra back in her crib, I left the palace. I drove my carriage for fifteen minutes through the city streets until I reached Brenna’s apartment building.

---

Brenna’s apartment building was modest. Red brick. Narrow stairwell that smelled like cooking oil and old wood. I climbed the stairs and stopped at the third floor.

Apartment 3B. The door was painted green. A small woven mat lay in front of it. Cheerful. Ordinary.

I knocked.

Footsteps inside. A chain rattled. The door opened a crack.

Brenna’s face appeared. Dark hair pulled back. Sharp brown eyes that went wide the instant she recognized me.

"Your Majesty—" She fumbled with the chain, pulled the door open fully. She was wearing an apron over a simple dress. Flour dusted her hands. "What—is Elara okay? Is something wrong with the baby?"

The hope in her voice. The immediate, reflexive assumption that I’d come bearing news from her best friend, that Elara was somewhere reachable, somewhere knowable—

"Can I come in?"

She stepped aside. The apartment was small. Clean. A kitchen table covered in baking supplies, a window overlooking the street below. She closed the door behind me and turned, wiping flour on her apron, her expression catching the gravity in the room and swiftly morphing into alarm.

"What’s happened?"

"Elara left."

The words dropped into the small room like stones into still water.

Brenna blinked. "Left? What do you mean, left? Left where?"

"I don’t know. She packed her clothes. She left a letter saying she felt inadequate for us. She disappeared yesterday and my knights have lost her trail."

The color drained from Brenna’s face. It happened slowly—a tide of warmth retreating, leaving her skin grey and tight.

"No." She shook her head. "No, that’s not—she wouldn’t just—"

"She did."

"Why?" Brenna’s voice pitched upward. "Why would she leave? She has the baby, she has Valerius, she has—" Her eyes locked on mine. And something shifted behind them. Something dark and hot that moved like a gathering storm. "What did you do?"

"Brenna—"

"What did you do to her?"

She closed the distance between us in two strides. She was a full foot shorter than me. It didn’t matter. Her hands shot up and seized the front of my dress coat with both hands, fists twisting into the fabric, knuckles white, and she shook me—or tried to, because I was twice her weight and didn’t move, but the fury behind the gesture was staggering.

"That woman survived torture." Brenna’s voice broke on the word. Tears streaked down her cheeks but her grip didn’t loosen. "She lost her wolf. She lost everything that made her one of you, and she stayed anyway. She gave birth as a mortal—do you understand what that means? She nearly died on that table. She did all of it because she loved you. So tell me—" Her voice cracked into a raw, crying scream. "What could you have possibly done to her? Why is my best friend out there alone and brokenhearted, believing she doesn’t deserve her own family?!"