Chapter 33

"Who the bloody hell leaked our location?" Timothée snarled, shoving back a snarling werewolf as the pack closed in. He hurled me towards a crumbling alley, his muscles straining against the onslaught.

"From the build, Timmy—I'd recognise that backstabbing bastard anywhere," I hissed, venom sharpening my whisper.

"Who do you reckon it is?" Timothée barked, parrying a clawed strike while steering me through the chaotic ruins of Grand Avenue. The stench of blood and damp stone clung to the air as more shadows lunged from the dark.

"I can't think straight right now, Timmy. Let's just end this," I said, my fingers brushing the necklace Fae Aurora—my mother—had given me. I scanned Grand Avenue's rubble-strewn corners, but she was nowhere in sight.

"Has she already left?" I asked Timothée, dread clawing at my throat.

"Looks like she and Dwarf Altairs cleared out," Timothée muttered, eyes darting as he parried another snarling attacker.

Our search shattered as a figure materialised—silver dagger aimed at Timothée's heart.

Instinct flared. A sigil burned into my mind, raw magic surging through my veins. My body shimmered oddly, weightless—as if gravity had released its grip. The blade froze mid-lunge, quivering against the glowing barrier.

Our attacker let out a frustrated groan and lunged at us again, determined to strike. Without a second thought, I summoned another magic sigil, sending them flying even further back. 

"Barbara, are you alright?" Timothée asked, his voice thick with concern as he turned to check on me. But his attention quickly shifted to the assailant, who now lay motionless, face down in the dirt, showing no signs of movement. 

Timothée's eyes flicked from me to the figure on the ground, a mix of relief and suspicion crossing his face.

"This feels too staged," he muttered under his breath, his tone low and uneasy. 

Crouching down, he swiftly rolled the assailant onto their back, revealing a face that left us both stunned—it was Chase, Timothée's right-hand man and our trusted ally. His eyes were closed, his body limp in unconsciousness. 

The air grew heavy with disbelief. Chase? The last person we'd ever expect to attack us. Timothée's jaw tightened, his mind clearly racing as he stared at the man who had always been his closest confidant. 

"Something's not right," he said quietly, his voice steady but laced with unease. "This doesn't add up."

The realisation hit us like a punch to the gut, the betrayal cutting deeper than the chill of the night air. 

"Chase... why?" I whispered, the question hanging heavy between us, laden with disbelief and unspoken accusations. 

Silence was our only answer, stretching out like a void, exposing the layers of deception that had been woven into what we'd thought was unshakable trust. 

Timothée, the unyielding Alpha who'd always seemed invincible, stood there, his usual strength faltering. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, and for the first time, he looked vulnerable. Chase had been more than just his right-hand man—he'd been his closest confidant, his brother in arms. This betrayal didn't just wound him; it shattered something deep within, shaking his faith not only in their bond but in his own ability to lead. 

I could feel the weight of his emotions radiating from him—his shoulders slumped, his gaze clouded with sorrow. He wasn't just questioning Chase's motives; he was questioning his own judgment, wondering how he could have missed the signs, how he could have trusted someone who'd turned out to be a wolf in sheep's clothing. 

Stepping closer, I placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, guilt gnawing at me for having struck Chase with my sigil. 

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice barely audible. 

Timothée didn't respond immediately, his gaze still fixed on Chase's unconscious form. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, barely above a murmur. "This isn't on you, Barbara. I should have seen this coming. I should have known."

The ache in his voice hung between us, sharp as winter smoke. I stayed rooted beside him, uselessness clawing at my throat, as the truth of Chase's treachery settled like ash over our shattered trust.

Timothée lifted his gaze to mine. Moonlight caught the tear tracks on his face, turning them silver. For a heartbeat, his eyes held something that gutted me – pain yes, but worse, a fractured kindness that had no business surviving this.

"Timothée, I—"

He raised a palm, calloused fingers grazing the air between us. The gesture wasn't harsh. It was exhaustion made flesh.

When he spoke, his voice rasped like wind through dead leaves. "Don't. It's not your burden. We were cornered. Afraid. You did what any of us would've."

"But I struck him. If I'd—"

"No." The word came out quiet, final. He turned his face toward the treeline, jaw working. "This rot… it started long before tonight. I just… Gods, Barbara—I can't fathom why. Twenty winters we fought side by side. Ate from the same plate. Buried brothers together."

The crack in his composure widened. His breath hitched once, sharp, before he locked it down. Alpha again. Always Alpha.

I wanted to reach for him. To say something that didn't taste like lies. But the truth lay at our feet in the shape of a broken man, and no words could stitch this wound shut.

The hurt in her gaze cut deeper than any blade—those glacier-blue eyes still glassy with shock. I understood, perhaps better than anyone. Before I'd stumbled into Timothée's world, Chase had been his constant. They'd been stone and mortar, forged in battles I'd never witnessed, a bond thicker than blood.

Now Timothée stood at the balcony's edge, moonlight carving shadows into the hollows of his face. I watched his throat work, the way his knuckles whitened on the rail—a man clinging to the edge of his own control.

I ached to fix this. To undo. But Chase's still form on the forest floor answered every unspoken plea.

"Let's go home," Timothée said suddenly, voice gravel-dry. He didn't wait for agreement, already striding toward the tree line. But not before his hand brushed mine—brief, deliberate. A leader's resolve, fragile as moth wings.

The walk back passed in a blur of torchlight and brittle silence. Even the woods seemed to hold their breath. Beside me, Timothée's presence felt altered—the usual magnetic certainty replaced by something jagged, provisional. As if one wrong word might unravel him entirely.

The mansion loomed, its windows dark except for the amber glow of the north wing. My fingers itched to check the twins' room again, though I'd already found them curled like kittens in their cribs, oblivious. Instead, I climbed the east staircase, the old oak steps groaning underfoot.

Fae Aurora's door stood slightly ajar, spilling a thread of lavender-scented air into the corridor. I paused, guilt a cold stone in my throat. Her magic—the lineage she'd entrusted to me—hadn't just failed tonight. It had lashed out. Wild. Unbidden. A coiled thing beneath my ribs I still didn't understand.

One knuckle tapped against weathered wood. "Mom? You awake?"

No answer came but the whisper of wind through the rowan trees outside.

I leaned my forehead against the doorframe, exhaustion seeping into bone. Somewhere below, Timothée's low murmur carried through the halls—addressing the pack, no doubt. Rebuilding what the night had broken.

But up here, alone, I let the mask slip. Let myself tremble.

Control, Aurora had warned me once, her moss-green eyes serious over tea. Magic like yours isn't a weapon. It's a covenant.

Tonight, I'd broken that covenant. And the cost lay sprawled in the dirt, breathing but not living, his betrayal staining us all.

The nursery door creaked down the hall. I straightened, wiping hastily at my cheeks. Motherhood, it seemed, demanded composure even when the world crumbled.

But as I turned toward the sound, a flicker of movement caught my eye—Aurora's curtain shifting, though the night was still.

She wasn't in her room.

She wasn't anywhere.

But then, I overheard something that stopped me in my tracks.

"Fae Aurora, are you sure she won't notice the magic core in the necklace? And are you certain that her wearing it will allow Barbara to absorb your magical power? She hasn't had any practice with magic—I'm worried she might handle it like a baby cobra, completely unpredictable and dangerous."

My breath caught. They were talking about me.

"I've thought this through, Altairs," Fae Aurora replied, her voice steady but weary. "This is the only way I can help her. I'm growing so old that I can't even promise how much longer I'll last. The pollen poison has already damaged my elixir, and it might… it might take my life."

My heart clenched. Fae Aurora—so strong, so wise—was fading?

"But you've become so weak, Fae Aurora," Altairs protested. "You can't even soar anymore!"

"I'm okay with that," she said firmly. "This is the only thing I can do for Barbara, to help her avenge Alpha Drake. They expelled me from the Moon Glazed Pack, they torment her constantly, and they killed her father…"

Her voice broke, and I felt as though the ground had been ripped out from under me. The Moon Glazed Pack—my pack—had driven her out. They'd hurt her, just like they'd hurt me. And now, Fae Aurora was willing to sacrifice everything—her magic, her life—for me?

It felt like I'd been struck by a hammer, not once, but twice. My head spun, and my chest tightened with a mix of grief, guilt, and fear.

The realisation that Fae Aurora planned to give up her powers for my sake brought tears flooding down my cheeks. I couldn't lose her. Not her. Not now.

No.

I wouldn't let this happen. I couldn't.

I quickly wiped my tears and turned on my heel, hurrying off to find someone who could help. Fae Aurora had always been there for me—now it was my turn to fight for her. I wasn't about to let her sacrifice herself without doing everything in my power to stop it.