Selena.
After I turn away from Loretta's door, I do not return to my room, my feet move without direction.
I needed space to think. I walk down the corridor slowly, my thoughts loud in my head.
The laughter I heard still clings to me. The sight of them together keeps replaying itself in my head.
I didn't realize where I was going or how far I had walked until I suddenly stopped and realized where I was.
My father's office.
The heavy wooden door stands at the end of the hall, just as it always has. Unchanged. Waiting. I stare at it, my breath catching in my throat.
I had not meant to come here.
In my first life, I avoided this place after my father's death. Not because I was forbidden, but because I was afraid. Afraid that if I stepped inside, the grief would crush me completely.
I loved my father so much, he was my best friend.
I had told myself I was not ready.
Even now, my hand trembles as it lifts toward the handle.
For a moment, I consider turning back. Going to my room. Pretending this pull does not exist.
The hesitation settles in my chest.
I expect pain. I expect tears. I expect my legs to give out beneath the weight of everything I lost.
But something steadier rises instead.
Curiosity.
If my father left anything that could help me while he is gone, it would be in his office.
Slowly, I wrap my fingers around the handle and open the door.
The office smells the same.
Old wood. Leather. Ink. A faint trace of pine that always clung to my father's clothes. The curtains are drawn back, letting sunlight spill across the floor in long, quiet lines. Dust floats in the air, untouched.
Everything is exactly as he left it.
The large desk stands near the window, dark and solid. Shelves line the walls, filled with books, maps, and carefully labeled files. A sword hangs above the mantle, polished and ceremonial. It has not been moved.
My eyes drift to the chair behind the desk.
His chair.
The one he sat in every night, reading reports while pretending not to notice me curled up on the couch with a book. The one he used to spin slightly when he was thinking, tapping his fingers against the armrest when something troubled him.
I stand there longer than I mean to.
Then, slowly, I walk forward.
The chair creaks softly as I lower myself into it. I wait for the tears. For the sharp ache in my chest. For the grief to crack me open.
Nothing comes.
Instead, there is a strange calm.
The desk feels solid beneath my hands. The chair supports my weight without complaint. For the first time since my father died, I do not feel like a child standing in his shadow.
I feel steady.
The thought surprises me.
I straighten slightly and look down at the desk. Neatly stacked papers sit to one side. Old files are organized in careful rows, each labeled in my father's precise handwriting.
Without fully deciding to, I begin to read.
At first, I skim through familiar things. Trade agreements. Patrol schedules. Council reports. Matters of land and law. Things my father handled daily, quietly, without complaint.
Time slips by unnoticed.
Nothing seems out of the ordinary.
Then my fingers brush against a thinner folder, tucked beneath several heavier ones.
It looks older. The edges are worn. The label is faded, as if it has been handled many times.
My breath slows as I read the title.
Banishment Records. Twelve Years Prior.
My heart gives a small, uneasy twist.
I pull the file free and open it.
Inside are documents detailing the trial and banishment of three pack members. The ink is darker, the handwriting more severe. Charges are listed carefully, formally.
Attempted assassination of the Alpha Princess.
Me.
My grip tightens on the paper.
I remember the story. Everyone in the pack does.
I was young. Barely ten. I was attacked near the eastern border while I was playing in the field with some maids. Chaos broke out. The two maids were killed. I remember fear. I remember shouting. I remember falling.
Then Silas and his father arrived. They fought the attackers off. They carried me back, bleeding but alive.
The attackers were captured. Tried. Banished beyond the borders.
Heroes were praised. Villains were cast out.
That was the story.
I read on.
Their names were not included, though, it was initially, but it seems to have been carefully wiped out. It was only written that they were between the age 13-15.
They were children as well.
No images are attached. No personal details beyond rank and origin. Just cold facts and official decisions.
I swallow.
Something about this feels wrong.
I search for my father's signature at the bottom of the pages.
It is not there.
I flip through the file again, more carefully this time.
Every document is signed.
But not by him.
The signature belongs to one man.
Beta Derion Sinclair. My father's Beta. Silas's Father.
My pulse quickens.
That makes no sense.
My father was alive then. Strong. Present. He would never allow a decision of this magnitude to pass without his direct approval. Especially not one involving minors.
I stare at the paper until the letters blur.
Why would my father Beta sign in his place?
Why would my father allow it?
It didn't make any sense.
A cold thought settles deep in my chest.
What if the story I grew up believing was never the full truth?
What if Silas did not save me that day?
The idea makes my skin prickle.
I try to remember more. The attack. The faces. The voices. But my memories are fragmented, blurred by time and fear. I remember pain. I remember Silas's arms lifting me. I remember trusting him.
What if that trust was built on a lie?
What if he had been planning my death long before the mountain?
My eyes drifted to the space where the names were before they were erased.
I wonder what happened to them. It must have been hard to be banished from the pack and sent out as rogues at such a young age.
Did they survive the wild, or had the forest freely taken what was given to them.
I remember hushed whispers among the pack warriors about three vicious rogues. They are said to be the type who left fear and terror in every place they stepped.
Could they be the same people who attacked me that day?
I was still in my thoughts when the door suddenly opens.
I look up sharply.
Beta Derion steps inside.
He stops short when he sees me seated behind the desk.
For a brief moment, surprise flashes across his face. His eyes flick to the chair. To me.
Then his expression smooths.
"Princess Selena," he says, bowing his head respectfully. "I did not expect to find you here."
I watch him closely.
Every movement. Every shift of expression.
"Why not?" I ask calmly. "Is this office off limits to me?"
His brows knit together slightly. "Of course not. You are always welcome here. I only meant that you have not been inside since your father passed."
That is true.
"I was missing him," I say quietly. "I thought coming to his office might help."
The lie comes easily.
Something unreadable passes through his eyes.
"I understand," he says after a moment. "Grief takes many forms."
He gestures toward the desk. "If you need anything, I will be just outside."
"Thank you," I reply.
He hesitates, then turns and leaves, closing the door softly behind him.
I remain still until his footsteps fade down the hall.
Only then do I look back at the file.
My heart is pounding now, but my thoughts are clear.
I cannot take the entire folder. That would draw attention. That would raise questions I am not ready to answer.
Instead, I carefully remove a single page.
The one listing the brothers' age and the charges against them. I fold it neatly and slip it into my sleeve.
Then I return the file exactly as I found it.
Before leaving, I take one last look around my father office.
"I will find a worthy person to sit on that chair father, even if it is the last thing I do." I quietly vowed.