She’s trying to do what’s right, just as I am. But we’re pulling in different directions, and that’s a problem. Two leaders clashing over thoughts and beliefs. This is dangerous.
“We’ll keep Gregor locked up,” she says after a moment. “But we’ll also question him. Find out what he knows.”
It’s a compromise, but it doesn’t sit right with me. “Fine. But if he so much as breathes wrong, I’ll deal with him.”
Noël nods. There’s no clear victory here, only the sense that something is shifting, something neither of us can fully control. And that’s what scares me the most.
She made her choice. And I made mine. But I can’t shake the feeling that one of us will regret it.
My mate has been gone for some time now, and I can’t leave things as they are. I close my eyes and filter out all the scents around me to focus on hers.
My paws lead the way, and my soul warms as I approach the cliff I showed her yesterday. Is she in the cave?
I keep walking, and finally, I find her again. She stands on the top of the cliff, shoulders tight, fury simmering beneath her skin. In her hands, she grips a wooden branch three times the width of her arm and far heavier than any human should be able to manage with ease. Then I see her move.
Noël whirls with the branch like it’s an extension of her arm, in perfect control. Each strike cuts through the air. Her motions are precise, but also elegant. I wonder how many times she’s done this before.
She brings the branch down on a massive rock with a crack that echoes through the forest. The ground shakes with each blow. She strikes again, and again, faster, harder, until dust clouds rise around her and the rock begins to chip.
She is fascinating.
With a final groan, she lifts the branch high and slams it down with such force that it snaps in two. The broken endsplinters in her hand, but she doesn’t pause, she drives what’s left of it into the rock, shoving until stone gives way with a grating crunch. A hole—no, a crater—carved into its middle. “Not enough,” she breathes.
“Why not?” I ask.
My mate turns her head to me and throws the broken wood.
“Noël.”
She walks to the edge of the cliff, facing Ávera. “We had our first fight. I feel uneasy about it, but... what else can I do?” A deep sigh escapes her.
I come to stand beside her, watching Ávera too.
“Gregor’s a man caught between power and horror. I feel like I understand him. He’s endured so much, been thrown into a harsh reality he never asked for... just like me. I’ve seen what power can do, how it twists and corrupts. I know it all too well. All I want is to bring this place into a new era, where children can grow up free, surrounded by nature. Where women can live their lives on their own terms.”
“It is as though you read my soul, my dove. I, too, wish for all of it, except for Gregor. He may be your kind, and you may feel those feelings, but you’ve left your old life to start a new one. In this life, everything changes.” I rest my paw on her head and caress her gently.
She leans into my touch, and my soul sings. We turn to face each other fully.
“We will go with your decision, and we’ll interrogate Gregor. We’ll find out what’s going on, and we’ll restore balance. And after we fulfill our purpose, we’ll finally rest and spend the rest of our days in a new world. A world where children run freely between the trees, where women are safe and those who dare to go against us bleed to nothingness under our wrath. My Noël, my sweet dove,” I say, crouching to be as close to eye level with her as I can. “I wish for us to fulfill that dream.”
Noël cups my face with both hands and looks into my eyes. “If we die in war??—”
“Then they will bury our bones together,” I complete her sentence.
She smiles and leans toward my snout. “I just wish we were one.”
47
THE OUTSIDER'S EYES
“The best chains are not forged from iron or steel. The best chains are built from pity. Make them pity you, Gregor, and you will never need to beg for power again.”
—Bard, during Gregor’s final lesson
Gregor
Isit on the cold ground, my back pressed against a wall that feels alive, like the wood itself is breathing. I’m trying to process everything I’ve just seen. Ávera.
