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‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐌 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒. In that time, the province at war fell into silence. With the aid of witches' spells, the terrans vanished into thin air taking Ronyn along with them, leaving behind the dead to rot in were meadows.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen huddles in the corner, her arms wrapped around her chest as a way to keep warm. Seeing so many lost lives made her lose her appetite and ability to feel warmth. Even Ember tried to reverse the chill in her bones by encapsulating her in a warming embrace. Instead, her glassed silver hues only watch the were that survived take their brethren out of the sanctum to be dealt with properly.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She feels so useless, so out of place, just like the day when she first arrived.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The sword strapped to her belt doesn't belong to her. It belonged to Wyett, a gamma who lost his life when the terrans infiltrated the palace. Her thoughts latch onto images of Valentina lying dead in the alleyway, knowing that the same fate could've belonged to her, or worse, Morrow.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎That same fate could be Ronyn, now lost in the clutches of the terrans.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Ember taps the bottom of Elowen's chin, forcing her glassed vision to meet her kind blue gaze. "It's hard to see, isn't it?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"To think this is how my ancestors died just years ago by the terrans," Elowen gulps. "Now it'll be the same for the were."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"We all made a grave mistake when Reovell fell to the terrans," Ember mutters. "I was hardly a teenager at the time when word spread of the bloodshed. The fae didn't want to intervene for fear we'd be overthrown just like the wyng. I think all the provinces feared it."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I never had to see the bloodshed happen, though." The memories scathe by her vision, of her mother urgently ushering her into the wild before the cannonfire struck the mountainsides of the highlands. "I was lucky enough to flee before I saw it firsthand. Now, it's like I'm the only one."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"But you're not."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I'm all that's left of Reovell, aren't I?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I find that hard to believe that no other wyng are alive. I bet they're in hiding, just like you once were before the were found you. Hell, Morrow's got wings on him too and you're mated to him! That should be a sign, shouldn't it be?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen's creature scampers around under her skin at the mention of Morrow, although his condition his hardly to be desired. When Arion and Elowen arrived at the sanctum, Thorn and a few were physicians managed to get him sedated. Thorn simply carried that large wolf in his arms, harnessing his immeasurable fae strength, and brought him back to his bedroom. No one can touch him for risk of getting the blight. Even Thorn will become a risk.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Ember weaves her dainty fingers between Elowen's. "You should visit him. He is your mate, and the were value that type of thing. Your presence might help him."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She should visit him. Morrow's shifts into his wolf form are rare, so she's been told. She's only witnessed it once before, but she knows she can calm him back into his human form. She knows how to tame the wolf that wants to tear everything and anyone that gets in his way. With nothing more than a silent nod, she agrees to follow Ember.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The fire nymph skips down the hallway up towards Morrow's private chamber. The space used to be so secluded, so isolated, but now bustles with the surviving were and fae soldiers. She wishes she were alone without their prying eyes, because she knows they study her, the girl their alpha keeps in close tow.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Morrow's bedroom door remains wide open. It's never open. He always keeps his collection of musical instruments and personal trinkets hidden from the sights of the world. At his doorway stands Thorn, Arion, and Oleander, the three men sour-faced and grimacing as they study the large sedated were-wyng laying on the quilts of the bed, a sheet pulled over his black fur.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The three men silence themselves when they notice Ember approaching with Elowen. Of the three, Arion is the only one to dip his head towards her, a bow of authority. He must've seen the mark on Morrow's neck, one that'll protrude through his fur as a sign that he belongs to her.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎In the blink of an eye, she's become the luna of Tabrien, the empress of the province.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎They back away from the doorway to let Elowen see her mate.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"He's got a few scratches, but he's fine," Thorn speaks, his voice so unfamiliar to her as it echoes off the cathedral ceilings. "You just gotta wait it out until he transforms out it. Until then, we need you to have a clear mind."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎But her mind isn't clear, and she's not sure if it ever will be. Ever since she discovered her ancient's blood, her train of thought has been mangled in a disarray of wild emotions and blood and him. So much has changed, and for a moment, she wishes it could all just come to a rapid stop.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"What if he has the blight?" Elowen breathes.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎If he has the blight, then this could be the beginning of the end. Her creature screams inside of her at the thought of losing him, of him decaying in the wild and crazed from the oil in his blood.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Then we'll deal with it then," Thorn says. He gently takes her shoulder, squeezing it before helping her turn around to face the rest of them. "Alistair agreed to a ceasefire until the full moon rises in two weeks, which means we have to figure out how to stop this without wasting any time."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"My fae are ready for orders whenever you're ready to give them," Oleander says, his navy hair falling into his matured eyes. Although it feels like he speaks to Arion, the fae king's right hand looks at Elowen.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"We'll need all the help we can get at this point," Arion mutters. "Cordea should be on her way back here with another battalion of fae and were. As for those that remain, our numbers are minimal. If Alistair decides to break the ceasefire and attack before then, we'll be fighting on the thin margins."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Then we prolong it as much as we can."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Arion nods, then tips his head to the direction of the corridor exit. "We're in your debts, Oleander. You can show the fae to the guest wing. Make yourselves at home there."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Oleander bows his head before extending his arm over to Ember. Ember takes it with a giddy smile, then waves her hand goodbye as the two disappear down the corridor. Despite the war, she's grateful the fae lended a team of warriors to the were, even if the two provinces don't always see eye to eye.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Right now, her thoughts are eons away from the province's politics. It's with her mate, her partner given to her by the fates.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Every fibre inside of her desires to be next to her mate until he awakens. She longs to lay beside him, to scratch behind his wolf's ears so he can sleep soundly until dawn. She wishes to be the antidote to all his inner demons that poison him. Oh, if only she could be his cure.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Arion clears his throat to get her attention. "You good?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen keeps herself silent as her gaze falls back to the were-wyng on the bed. It's then she notices that his violin has somehow found its way back to his room, placed carefully against his bedpost. He loves that violin, loves the music he can control when his bow crosses against those strings.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Most of all, Elowen loves the freedom it gives him, a freedom he feels he doesn't have.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"If we knew Alistair would start using witches' spells," Arion begins, "we'd have changed our tactics long ago, but there's been a new development in the war for us. That would be you, bean bag."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen breath runs shallow. "Me?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Thorn told us what you are," the beta smirks. "If you can get your magic to work, then you'll be more powerful than all of us combined."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Most of us," Thorn says with a wink.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"You're all wrong," Elowen sneers, her white wings bristling in disbelief. "I don't have any magic in me. If I did, it would've surfaced long ago."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Ancient magic is different than fae magic, kid. It doesn't just come out when summoned, not when you're untrained."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"And how would you know this?" Elowen hisses.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Thorn crooks a brow. "It's not because I studied ancient magic in texts. I know this because I've been where you are. Frustrated. About to tear my fucking body apart just to get it out."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"You're fae."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Thorn barks out a harsh laugh, then shakes his head in disbelief. "The fae and the ancients don't look so different. It's what allowed us to be so covert when we crossed from Pailon into Yestrea. We're both provinces that rely on magic, although ancient magic is a thousand times stronger than a fae's. It's what gives our secret away."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"You mean..."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎How could she not have seen it?

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He crossed the borders into Yestrea, despite holding a handful of that coveted power. He concealed it, dismissed any hints of his abilities off as fae. He certainly looks the part, but perhaps the fae and the ancients aren't so estranged. Thorn's immense strength against Morrow couldn't have been a fluke of fae magic, but something much older threaded into dusted prophecies.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Thorn is an ancient, much like her.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎More importantly, she's read about his kind in a lost book found in the fae libraries. He's no ordinary fugitive from his lands. He's an envoy, sent long ago on behalf of the ancients.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen longs to rip herself away from the two men. Just because Thorn is the closest she'll get to a mentor, it doesn't mean he's the godsend she's been looking for. She's not sure to be enamoured or betrayed.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Arion raises his brows. "We're not gonna scorn you for being an ancient, but we need those powers if we're gonna win this war. It's bigger than our fucking heads right now."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"To kill Alistair and save Ronyn?" she breathes.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Not exactly," Thorn drawls, taking another look at Morrow. "I've never met someone so fucking determined to cure the blight, to find the one that's responsible for killing his kind. But despite how ludicrous his plans are, it'll never be enough to upheave the darkness lying within Pailon."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"And what's that?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Thorn wanders into Morrow's room, coaxing Arion and Elowen into the sacred space. It doesn't feel right to have it filled with other bodies. These walls are meant for Morrow, and perhaps Elowen if the alpha finds himself in the right mood. Not them.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Rhimme," the name hardly makes a sound on Thorn's tongue. "He's a wielder of darkness, a god born in the depths of hell that no amount of light can destroy him, at least none that have been born within Aelethia. He's the culprit to this mess, sitting on his fucking throne in Pailon waiting for Aelethia to crumble so he can call these lands his home."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Wielder of darkness..." Elowen mumbles, brows furrowing at the familiar language. It sounds quite similar to the magic that Thorn told her about back in his home. He said it was a rare fae magic, a coverup to the truth that it's actually ancient. He spoke of those able to wield light and darkness, abilities tipping on the scales of redemption or destruction. "You're saying that what you told me back at your home about wielding light and dark is..."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"True," Thorn answers. "While most wielders of dark have hope at that redemption, Rhimme has gone too far to ever be saved. He is darkness and deceit wrapped up in one entity."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Arion's inner wolf releases a curdling growl from his lungs. "Then we kill him. If he's the one causing the blight, then we can lure him out of his fucking cave in Pailon and put him on a stake."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Ha! And you think that'll do the trick?" Thorn heckles this, his laughter echoing off the ceilings. "I'm not sure Rhimme cannot be killed unless an ancient is born as a purebred celestial, a light wielder that can never be turned to the darkness unless under severe temptations. There hasn't been one in millenia. The most we can do is get him to go somewhere else to conquer."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"And what about them, the ones in the other land he'll take over?" she asks, her mind buzzing at the sheer mass of an ancient they're suddenly pitted against. To her, Rhimme will make Alistair look so small, but in order to stop Rhimme, she'll need the beta imprisoned by the terran overlord. "If not us, they'll lose their lives because of him."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Thorn's weathered expression fades from such a burdening question. "We need to focus on Aelethia, not the beyond. It's for your pack."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The pack. It's strange hearing such a statement from Thorn's lips, considering it's Morrow's wish and not his own, but Elowen understands that the pack has always been her mate's priority. First Ronyn. Then the pack. That is, if she can even find the courage and powers locked away inside her soul, powers that make her a mockery of the ancient blood in her veins.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Arion crosses his biceps. "So how do we convince Rhimme to go elsewhere?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Across the lands, there are several torches that host an eternal flame, a light that eliminates the presence of the blight. In Aelethia, the main torch is secured in Pailon by a guardian who wields light in order to keep it burning for eternity. Only, that guardian has either fled like a coward or killed. This flame is the cure to the blight, and that bastard Rhimme snuffed it out."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Arion clenches his jaw when he hears this, his brow furrowing. "So we reignite the flame."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Again, not so simple. Not any ordinary wielder of light can reignite the flame."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Are you fucking kidding me? Is ancient magic always this complicated?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Yes," Thorn retorts with a roll of his grey eyes. "But you don't need to look far."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The ancient man snaps his fingers, a flicker of blue and orange fire licking at his fingertips. The light radiates a strong warmth and heat, as if his finger were the wick to a candle—

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎A candle, much like the candle in Thorn's dining room. Back in his abode, his dining room thrived with life and light, leaving Elowen with a sense of solace. All the flora and fauna gravitated towards that forever burning candle because it held a glimpse of that eternal flame. No blight could ever kill anything within a close radius of that fire.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Thorn shakes his hand, snuffing the light out that once danced from his fingers.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"So you reignite the flame," Arion sneers.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Again, not as easy as you think. Right now, only two of us can enter into Pailon, and the other ancient in the room can't use her fucking magic."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I'm trying!" Elowen jeers, holting another laugh from Thorn.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Either way, we need to settle this predicament with the terrans before we try something absolutely out in left field to get rid of Rhimme. Besides, I'm not even certain I'm offering my services to go to Pailon again."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Arion clenches his fists. "But you're the fucking key to saving the kingdom!"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I know, but I'm also not fond of dying. Speaking of dying," Thorn switches his grey eyes to Elowen, tilting his head towards the were-wyng. "Keep your eyes open for signs of the blight. If he has it, it'll slowly devour him whole, so you better enjoy whatever time is left."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"What about the terrans? And Rhimme?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"I'll say this again, enjoy the hound while you can and leave the terrans to us."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen wanders to his bedside. All she longs to do is touch him, to let her fingertips scour through his matted midnight black fur. Even in this form, she reads the agony stitched between his brow. The last he witnessed was his best friend in chains, torn away from him once more as the terrans vanished into thin air with the help of witches' spells.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎But she can't. Else, she'll die too.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Let's leave her be," Thorn mumbles to the other beta. Despite Arion's protesting growls, he saunters out of Morrow's room. He has duties to perform and plans to scheme. With Morrow in his current condition, Ronyn captured, and Cordea in Yestrea, its Arion that's taken charge, one that weighs him and runs him into the ground.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Thorn takes a hold of the door handle, pausing before he pulls it shut.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"There's one more detail I should mention about your ancient's blood," he smirks.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen scowls, not liking the silver lining of giddy his smile wears. "And that is?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"You're immune to the blight."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Then he shuts the door.

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*

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‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐀𝐓 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐇𝐄 lies in Morrow's bed, she thanks the stars that she's been given the blessing of immunity to the blight. If these are Morrow's final fleeting moments, then she'll be with him through thick and thin. Screw her ancients blood and magic that fails to rise within her. Somehow, her priorities have shifted from fleeing to flying next to the were-wyng.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎But would that be his desire for her? To drop every hint of potential she has just for him to find comfort in the embrace of his mate? All those times he's caved into her allure have always been followed by pangs of guilt that swallow their matebond whole. He's said it a thousand times before.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎It's about the pack. It'll always be about the pack, about Tabrien.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎But perhaps the pack doesn't need a saviour woven from the Killian bloodline. It needs to see their alpha ridding himself of the curses he wears. The were need to see him shedding his duties to the witches and fists and claws of blood, and exchanging that for prosperity and hope.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎They need to see Morrow happy, something she's not certain anyone has ever witnessed.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen lets her fingers scratch behind his wolfish ears. Despite his sedation, a low pleasured growl rumbles from his large lycan body, warming up Elowen's body as she huddles close to his heartbeat. He knows who those scratches come from, knows who lies next to him.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Somewhere at some forsaken morning hour, the midnight wolf coat Elowen embraces transforms into sculpted skin of the Morrow she's come to know. Her eyes flicker open, golden skin dancing with familiar scars in the shape of runes carved by brutal blades.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She kisses his brow as a fully shifted and naked Morrow drifts deeper into his slumber. She traces his wings, then lips, then down the column of his throat where she left her mark. She draws her fingertip the veins wrapping within the muscles of his bicep and forearms, down towards his no longer ring-clad knuckles—

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎She stops when she meets his fingertips, only to find them scorched by the disease she feared he contracted. It's an image that burns into her vision.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎It's then, her world crashes down upon her.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Morrow Killian is dying from the blight, his final life.

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i feel like this chapter was a MEGA info dump, but also an info dump with a lot of SHOCKING news!! yes, thorn is an ancient and has always been an ancient, and yes, he and elowen are immune to the blight. but you know who's not immune? morrow. yep. i went there. our boi is dying.

thanks for your patience with me for this chapter! can't wait to give my sparrows (that's what i'm gonna unofficially call my readers now) another taste of this story!

ivy <3