Evening light filtered through the cottage windows, pale and thin like watered milk.
Violet sat at the table, a bowl of soup steaming in front of her. The broth smelled of root vegetables and dried meat—simple, familiar, the kind of warmth that settled deeper than the stomach.
She lifted the spoon slowly. Her hand trembled only slightly now.
Maria watched from across the table, pretending not to stare. Every third or fourth bite, her eyes would flick up, checking Violet's color, the steadiness of her breathing, the way she held herself.
Garrett ate in silence, methodical as always. But his gaze kept drifting to the window, then back to Violet, then to his bowl. He hadn't said much since this morning.
"You look better," Maria said finally, voice careful.
Violet nodded. "I feel better."
A lie she was getting used too...
The poison still coiled through her veins like cold wire. But the concoction had dulled its edges enough that she could sit upright, could eat, could pretend.
"Good." Maria's relief was palpable. She reached across the table and squeezed Violet's free hand. "You scared us."
"I'm sorry." Violet smiled, the edges of her smile was small...
"Don't be sorry. Just... be careful." Maria looked away, she knew her better than her...
Violet squeezed back.
They ate in quiet rhythm after that. The scrape of spoons. The creak of the old wooden table. The soft whistle of wind through the shutters.
It felt normal.
Almost.
Violet finished her soup and set the spoon down gently. "I'll need to go soon."
The words landed like a stone in still water.
Maria's hand stilled. "Go where?"
"Just... away. For a little while." Violet didn't meet her eyes, she can't do that everytime, it felt shameless and betraying them...
Garrett finally looked up. His eyes were steady, measuring. "Do you need anything?"
Violet shook her head. "No. I'll be fine."
Maria's brow furrowed. "Violet, you just—this morning you were—"
"I know." Violet's voice was soft but firm. "But I have to."
"Why?" Maria clenched her dress...
She couldn't answer that. Not truthfully. Not in a way that wouldn't shatter everything.
"I just do." Violet looked at him.
Maria looked at Garrett. He looked back. Some wordless conversation passed between them—years of marriage compressed into a glance.
Finally, Maria sighed. "Then at least take your cloak. And the medicine I made. And don't push yourself. If you feel even a little—"
"Mama." Violet held her hand,
"—a little dizzy or cold or—" Maria kneeled and rubbed her head,
Without any words she hugged her, the visit of Calla was enough to make her realise that they living in the house of cards...
Maria stopped. Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Promise me you'll be careful."
"I promise."
Garrett stood. "I'll walk you to the door."
They moved through the small cottage together. Violet pulled on her cloak, wrapped the vial of Maria's medicine in a cloth, tucked it into her satchel.
At the threshold, Garrett rested a hand on her shoulder.
"Whatever you're doing," he said quietly, "don't do it alone if you don't have to."
Violet looked up at him. His face was lined with worry and exhaustion, but underneath it all was something fiercer—trust.
"I won't," she said.
Another lie.
He nodded and stepped back.
Maria hugged her tightly, pressing her face into Violet's hair. "Come back soon."
"I will."
The door closed behind her.
Violet walked until the cottage was out of sight, until the trees swallowed the path, until only the cold and the dark remained.
Then she stopped.
Her breath misted in the air. The poison pulsed faintly in her chest—a dull, persistent ache that would take weeks to fully fade.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a single white feather.
It glowed faintly in the moonlight.
She closed her eyes and thought of the tent—canvas walls, the smell of smoke and pine, the faint sound of voices beyond.
"Kanum."
The world lurched.
***
When her eyes opened, she was standing inside the tent.
The air was warmer here. Drier. The scent of burning herbs drifted through the space.
She blinked, steadying herself as the disorientation faded.
Then she heard footsteps.
The tent flap opened.
Kael stood there, silver eyes locking onto her immediately.
His expression didn't change. But the air around him shifted—sharpened.
"This isn't a wayhouse," he said, voice low and cold, "where you can come and go as you please."
The words carried weight. Anger simmered beneath them, controlled but unmistakable.
Violet bowed her head. "I'm sorry."
Kael stepped inside, letting the flap fall shut behind him. The space felt smaller with him in it.
"Where were you?" he asked. "And no roundabout answers. I want the truth."
Violet's hands curled into fists at her sides. She kept her gaze down.
"I had to go home," she said quietly. "Someone from the capital was coming. I needed to be there."
Silence.
Then Kael moved.
Fast.
His hand shot out and grabbed her by the throat, lifting her slightly off the ground. Not hard enough to choke—but enough to make his intent clear.
"Did you meet with someone from the capital?" His voice was a growl now, barely human.
Violet's breath hitched. "Yes."
His grip tightened.
"Give me one reason," he said softly, dangerously, "why I shouldn't kill you right here."
Violet met his eyes.
"If you want to, you can," she said, voice hoarse but steady. "If you don't... I'll die anyway. By the hands of the Fifth Princess."
The truth.
Kael stared at her.
Then he dropped her.
Violet stumbled, coughing, one hand bracing against her knee as she tried to catch her breath.
Before either of them could speak again, the tent flap burst open.
Vael stood there, eyes wide, fists clenched.
He looked at Violet, then at his father.
"Why did you hurt her?" His voice cracked with anger and confusion.
Kael didn't turn. "Get out. This doesn't concern you."
"No." Vael stepped forward. "She's—"
"Vael." Violet straightened, holding up a hand. "Go."
But Vael didn't move.
His eyes burned.
"A wolf does not abandon its packmate," he said, voice trembling with fury. "Even when the alpha commands it."
Kael's jaw tightened.
Vael lunged.