The Forgotten Pulse of the Bond-Chapter 20: The Voice That Isn’t Her Wolf

The moon had long since slipped behind the mountains when Magnolia returned to her chambers, but the weight of it still clung to the sky.

She didn’t light the lantern.

She didn’t need to.

The room was dim and cold, shadows gathering in the corners like silent witnesses. She dropped her coat on the floor, left her boots near the window, and stood barefoot on the stone heart still racing from the confrontation she’d overheard between Rhett and Ivy.

She hadn’t meant to listen.

She hadn’t planned to hide in the gallery alcove like a girl eavesdropping on gossip.

But when Ivy’s voice had cut through the stone like a blade, she hadn’t moved. Couldn’t.

Then I’ll burn with her.

Rhett’s voice still rang in her ears.

She had no right to the way it made her feel.

And yet there it was. A warmth in her chest, beneath the chaos, beneath the mark. A steadying force she hadn’t realized she still wanted.

But comfort was a lie tonight.

Because the moment she peeled off her gloves and dropped to her knees before the hearth, the mark on her palm began to pulse again harder now, stronger.

Demanding.

She opened her hand.

The crescent had changed shape.

No longer a sliver of light it was now a full ring, scorched into her skin like something trying to escape from beneath.

"Not now," she whispered.

The mark burned hotter.

She staggered back, her shoulder hitting the edge of her bed.

The room began to bend.

Not physically but perceptibly.

The space tilted, as though gravity had been rewritten. Her breath shortened. The fire flickered out without wind. And the silence turned thick viscous, sentient.

She wasn’t alone.

"Show yourself," she said, voice low, her claws prickling under her nails.

No answer.

But the mark pulsed again.

And then

A voice.

Soft. Male. Ancient.

But not her wolf.

"You were never meant to hold it."

She flinched.

"Who are you?"

No answer.

Only the wind outside picking up, circling the window like fingers against glass.

Her pulse raced.

"You’re not mine," she growled. "You’re not part of me."

But the voice didn’t rise.

It didn’t rage.

It only repeated:

"You were never meant to hold it."

She stepped toward the mirror.

Her reflection didn’t move.

Not wrong, not twisted but late.

Half a second behind.

Her eyes narrowed. "This is a trick."

"It’s truth."

Her reflection smiled.

She didn’t.

The mark flared white-hot. She gasped, dropping to one knee. Her breath came ragged, her mind spinning. Behind her, shadows crawled up the walls, dancing without light.

"Get out of me," she hissed.

"I was never in you. I was bound to you."

"For what?"

"To finish what Camille began."

The sound of her sister’s name made her flinch harder than the pain.

The fire behind her reignited on its own white-blue flame roaring to life.

Her reflection began to melt.

Not disappear.

Transform.

The face became longer. Sharper. Less hers.

Less human.

More... divine.

More old.

"She was the gate. You are the blade."

Her throat closed.

She’d heard that before.

In a dream.

In a prophecy Elara had refused to explain.

She grabbed the side of the mirror with bloodied fingers, dragging herself to her feet.

"I won’t let you in."

"Then you’ll die breaking."

The reflection shattered.

Without warning.

Without a touch.

Just a scream.

Not hers.

The glass exploded, shards tearing across the room in every direction.

She dropped instinctively, covering her face.

When she looked up, the mirror was dust.

And the voice?

Gone.

But her palm?

The mark now glowed like an ember beneath her skin.

And worse

She could feel her wolf again.

Not stirring.

But cowering.

She didn’t sleep that night.

She sat in the corner of her room, knees to her chest, hand bandaged again.

Not to hide the wound.

But to hide the proof.

She was losing pieces of herself in ways no one could fix.

And no matter how close Rhett was...

No matter how steady Beckett stood...

No matter how many truths Elara or Ivy tried to twist...

This?

This was hers alone.

The bond hadn’t just changed.

It had chosen.

And she no longer knew if that choice was salvation

Or war.

The morning air came sharp and restless. Grey clouds hung over the estate like a second roof, casting everything in a veil of unease. Nothing about the day felt right.

Magnolia hadn’t slept since the voice.

She didn’t tell anyone not Beckett, not Elara, and especially not Rhett. Not when the whisper still echoed every time she closed her eyes. She wasn’t afraid of ghosts. She was afraid of what they were leaving behind.

She wrapped her palm tight beneath layers of cloth, donned her wolf-hide coat, and walked the halls as if nothing inside her was unraveling.

The courtiers she passed bowed quickly, their greetings more clipped than usual. The guards didn’t hold her gaze. Even the younger Omega girls moved aside when she came through the corridor leading to the strategy wing.

She kept her face calm. Her steps even.

But inside her blood buzzed.

Her stomach churned.

And beneath her ribs, the bond pressed like a fist.

Don’t react. Don’t waver.

If she showed weakness now, Ivy would bury her.

Her vision blurred once at the base of the north stairwell, but she ignored it.

Twice more, at the arched gallery.

Still, she walked.

It wasn’t until she passed beneath the stained-glass window depicting the original Alpha and Luna casting their vows to the moon that the world tilted sideways.

A second too long.

Then everything went black.

She didn’t remember hitting the floor.

Just the crack of her knees. The sharp breath that never finished. The feel of cold stone against her cheek.

And the silence.

A silence so deep it felt like drowning.

Then

"Luna!"

Hands grabbed her shoulders.

Another pair caught her head before it struck again.

"Call for the Alpha now!"

Voices echoed far and wide, but they were waterlogged, meaningless.

She couldn’t move.

She couldn’t breathe.

The bond inside her chest surged upward like a second heartbeat gone rogue. It clawed at her throat, her spine, her wrists. The mark on her palm burned through the cloth, igniting the bandage.

And then she heard it again.

"One bleeds. One burns."

No lips moved.

But the voice was there.

As if it had nested inside her.

Her back arched.

Someone shouted again.

She was lifted off the ground strong arms around her. Warm. Familiar.

"Magnolia. Stay with me."

Rhett.

She knew that voice anywhere.

And for a second, she wanted to answer. To tell him what was happening. To say she was sorry.

But her throat refused.

And the darkness pulled harder.

The next time she opened her eyes, she was somewhere else.

Warmer.

Darker.

Soft linen wrapped her body. A fire crackled to her left. The scent of pine and iron filled her nose.

Not the infirmary.

Not her quarters.

She blinked hard.

A shadow passed in front of the fire.

Then a voice low, female, unfamiliar.

"She’ll need bloodroot and moonstone dust. No spellwork. Let her body regulate."

"She doesn’t have time for regulation," Rhett said.

"She won’t survive forced balance either," the woman snapped.

Magnolia stirred.

The room shifted again.

She tried to speak, but her lips cracked before the words formed.

A glass was pressed to her mouth.

"Slowly," Rhett said. "Just a sip."

The water tasted of herbs and metal.

She coughed, and her palm flared again.

"Mark’s active," the woman said.

"Still?" Rhett’s voice sharpened. "It hasn’t faded?"

"No. If anything... it’s deepening."

Magnolia turned her head weakly. "Where am I?"

Rhett crouched beside her.

His face was drawn. Jaw clenched. Eyes burning.

"My rooms," he said. "I carried you out of the corridor. You were "

She winced. "I remember."

"Do you remember what happened before?"

She hesitated. "The window."

He nodded. "You stopped breathing for twelve seconds."

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t know how.

The woman behind him stepped forward, setting down a vial of dark liquid.

She was older. Maybe sixty. Skin the color of forest bark, hair bound in a silver braid.

"I’m Isolde," she said. "Your Alpha asked me to treat you off-record."

"Why?" Magnolia asked.

"Because if the council knew what I just saw in your pulsework, they’d exile you."

Rhett tensed.

Magnolia didn’t blink. "Tell me."

Isolde sighed. "Your mark isn’t passive. It’s not just bond memory. It’s... channeling."

"Channeling what?"

"Something old."

Rhett looked up. "Magic?"

"More than magic. Consciousness."

Magnolia’s pulse quickened.

Isolde leaned closer. "When Camille drowned and returned, she came back tethered. You were there when the gate closed. Whatever was anchoring her... didn’t vanish. It split."

"I took part of it," Magnolia whispered.

"Not took," Isolde said. "It took root in you."

Silence.

Then Rhett: "What does that mean for her?"

Isolde didn’t answer right away.

Then she said, "If she stays here, it will feed on the Pack’s bond network. That could end in war. Or worse."

Rhett stood. "Then we isolate her."

Magnolia caught his wrist.

"No."

"Magnolia "

"No isolation. No exile. No hiding."

Rhett stared at her. "You almost died. You’re bleeding out magic you don’t understand."

"Then help me understand it."

She sat up slowly, pain lancing through her side.

Isolde didn’t stop her.

"You said it’s channeling," Magnolia said. "Can it be severed?"

"Not safely," the healer replied. "Not unless you want to leave pieces of yourself behind."

"I’d rather break than become something else."

Rhett crouched again.

"No one’s letting you break."

She met his gaze.

And for a moment they just breathed.

Two people caught between duty and something worse.

Hope.