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Hands shaking, Daxen starts flipping through the pages. After a few minutes searching through it—pausing twice to read a handwritten annotation—he gingerly wraps both hands around it and brings it to his chest.

He stands there, muscles coiled tight, and Tolkien pressed to his chest in a death grip so tight his knuckles are white. He looks like a scared little boy, holding tight to his favorite fairy tale in hopes it’ll keep the monsters away.

He turns in a slow circle, surveying the empty room helplessly. Part of me—the part that loves my brother and wants to shield him from pain—fucking hates this.

But I shove that part of me as far down as I can. Ignoring it the same way I ignored my own instincts about Idril. The same way Daxen ignored all my doubts and concerns. The same way we both ignored every fucking moment of every fucking day that Idril spent suffering right in front of us

It’s really no wonder why Idril never complained when we put her in the attic. She had a pillow and blanket—more, even, than she had here. We provided her with clothing—more than she had here. And not once did she ask for alternatives. Not once did she whine or demand more.

Fuck, she probably thought that if she complained, we’d take away what little we’d given her. It makes sense, and the realization pierces like a blade through my chest.

“Calder said she was in the late stages of CSDD,” Riven says, finally speaking up. “It makes sense now. Why she was trying so hard to Nest with her clothing that day in the library. For an Omega who’s never had a Nest, or anything to Nest with, the closest fabric to hand was her clothing.”

He sighs, shaking his head. “Poor girl. She’s been living like a prisoner her entire life. With an Alpha even meaner than you.”

Dax doesn’t take the bait. He groans, running a hand through his hair.

“This is… fuck.”

Like someone sucked all the air from a balloon, he deflates. Turning, he makes his way back toward the balcony, one hand clenched into a fist at his side, the other holding tight to Idril’s book like it’s now his entire reason for existing.

What is it about that book that shook him up so badly?

The doors shake so hard when he swings them open that the glass rattles in its frame. His shoulders are strung tight as bowstrings, and the back of his neck is so red it looks like a sunburn.

“Is he about to throw himself off that balcony?” Riven asks, but makes no move to stop him.

I bite my lip, consider the possibility, then shake my head. “Nah. He just needs some time away from everything. To process in total silence.”

A roar rips out of Dax that’s so loud I scream and jump backward, tripping over my own feet in the process. Birds startle, scattering from the trees of the forest in flocks.

Dax is still screaming, still making that horrible sound. It’s so fucking despondent, so full of grief and agony, desolation and raw, unbearable disillusion.

I wonder if this is what a star sounds like when it dies.

I turn wide eyes toward Riven, and we launch into action, sprinting across the room. As we get closer, I slow to a stop and put a hand up for Riven to do the same.

My Packmate is… wrecked.

He’s leaning over the balcony, holding onto it with one hand like it’s the only thing keeping him on his feet. His expression is fucking anguished, lungs heaving, head thrown back, veins throbbing along the sides of his neck.

In all our centuries spent together, I’ve never heard him make a sound that even comes close to the one he just made.

It’s horror. Trauma. Pure, unadulterated guilt.

It’s the sound of Daxen’s world shattering into a thousand pieces.

When his lungs finally run out of air, he doubles over, shaking. His shoulders heave, muscles straining in the aftermath.

Next to me, Riven clears his throat awkwardly. I ignore him, but he does it again, louder this time. Annoyed, I turn to him with a scowl.

He lifts his brow. “So… do we need to discuss the definition of ‘silence,’ or…”

“Nope.” I shake my head. “No. Thank you. Nope.”

With an awkward pat on the shoulder, he strolls forward to join Daxen on the balcony.

“Well,” I mutter, planting my hands on my hips. “On the bright side, everyone within a fifty-mile radius knows with absolute certainty that Daxen fucking feels bad.”