I lift my gaze to meet his, my brows knitting together. “Then what happened? Everything I believed... it feels meaningless now.”
“I want you to see something.” He stands and helps me to my feet. His paw is firm. It anchors me when I feel like I’m falling back down again.
Theron turns to the others and commands, “Stand on guard. We’re entering the house.”
Glancing around, I notice Kaël, his face streaked with tears. Zephyr stands beside him, his paw resting on Kaël’s shoulder. Right. Everyone here is my family now. I can’t let my pain consume me. I can’t turn it against them.
I look back at Theron and take his paw in my hand. His expression softens, there is reassurance in his eyes. “When I entered the home, I was searching for answers,” he says. “And I think you need to see what I found.”
I nod, overwhelmed with both dread and hope. Together, we move toward the house.
It’s undeniably a vólkin home, both inside and out. The structure is grown from the surrounding trees, their trunks and branches weaving together to form walls and beams. Yet, it’s not entirely wild—it feels welcoming, designed for human comfort. Father made this for my mother.
Father.The word feels strange but comforting, it’s something I’ve longed to say my entire life. To finally know who he was, to piece together the parts of him that Mother never shared. She never spoke of him, never explained why. But now, I understand. It was too hard for her, too painful to put into words.
Elder Aïna told me he was an honorable male, and standing here, I believe it. This home, this place, is proof of his love for her. My mother deserved the best of everything, and he gave her that. I’m grateful to him for growing this place for her.
The living area is spacious and open, with what looks like a kitchen. Wooden cabinets line one side, along with a sturdy table and matching chairs, all grown from the same trees. My chest tightens as I imagine her here, making trinkets the way we used to in Tárnov.
A faint scent draws me toward the cabinets. Fresh herbs.
How? It’s been over twenty-five years.
I inhale deeply. My heart races as I begin opening the dark cabinets, searching for the source. “Theron,” I call, “do you smell the herbs?”
His brows furrow as he scents the air. “When I was here before, there were no herbs. But now I do scent them, my mate.” He moves toward the higher cabinets and pulls one open. “It’s from here,” he says, reaching in and removing a small object.
A trinket?
My fingers tremble as he hands it to me, and I lift it carefully to my nose. The smell is so familiar it nearly brings me to tears again. “This... this is just like the trinkets my mother used to make,” I whisper. “To shield us from illnesses.”
I turn the small silk bundle in my hands, the red string binding it tightly. “Rosemary and salt. Tied in silk cloth.”
Theron’s gaze darkens. “It is a shield ritual, my mate,” he says. “But not from illnesses. It’s meant to ward off unwanted visitors.”
“What do you mean by ‘unwanted visitors’?”
“If you burn rosemary, it temporarily wards off unwanted visitors, but for a more lasting effect, scattering rosemary around the house works better. Adding salt and tying it in silk keeps it fresh longer, and binding it with red string seals the ritual with greater strength.” He pauses, then says, “Those who are unwanted by the creator of the ritual won’t even be able to see the house it protects.”
I blink. Is that why no one ever came to our home?Mother, you continue to surprise me. How much more did you know?
“So,” I say, turning the trinket over in my hands, “if this is still so fresh, and we’re able to see this house...”
“The one who created it knows of us,” Theron says, finishing my thought.
We continue walking through the house, and with every step, more questions churn in my mind. Mother had a mate. She buried him here, in this place, and then she left—moved to Tárnov. But where was she from before that?
She always told me her parents, my grandparents, were long gone. That their graves couldn’t be found.
I remember searching the burial grounds in Tárnov, going through every section—military, citizen, rebel—combing through names etched in stone. Dirt and silence greeted me, rows of graves bearing names of people I’d never known.
Were they buried in another village? Did Mother leave more behind than I could ever guess? Or... are their bodies truly missing?
Theron and I walk into the bedroom. In the center is a massive nest, layered with furs and twigs. My eyes sweep across the space, and that’s when it hits me. There’s no dust here. Not anywhere.
Could the person who left the trinkets also be cleaning this place? Who are they? Who is doing all this?
Why would she leave this place, so full of life and love, for the harshness of Tárnov? What danger could be so great that even this home wasn’t enough to keep us safe?
