Page 23

Morning brings chaos wrapped in the guise of organization.

Pack members stream past my window carrying boxes and bags, children clutching stuffed animals as families relocate deeper into the compound.

I watch from behind my curtains, coffee cooling in my hands, as neighbors I've barely spoken to become temporary roommates with strangers.

Everyone's moving except us.

Thomas's security protocols keep families on this particular street in our current homes for now—we're already close enough to the main compound to be considered "safe." The irony isn't lost on me. Safe, when my father's note still burns in my memory, when every shadow could hide a rifle scope.

"Mama, why is everyone carrying their houses?" Maisie asks from the kitchen table, where she's pushing scrambled eggs around her plate instead of eating them.

"They're having sleepovers," I say, which isn't entirely a lie. "Sometimes grown-ups need sleepovers too."

"Can we have a sleepover?"

Not the kind you're thinking of, sweetheart. "Maybe soon."

A knock interrupts us. I peer through the peephole to find Elder Victoria on my porch, her silver hair braided with ceremonial ribbons that catch the morning light.

"The third trial begins at sunset," she announces when I open the door. "Despite current circumstances, the council has voted to proceed."

I bristle. "Elder Victoria, with everything happening—"

"Especially because of everything happening." Her pale eyes are steady, implacable. "Our traditions anchor us, child. Without them, we're just people hiding in the woods."

I want to argue that hiding in the woods sounds perfectly reasonable, given the armed hunters prowling our borders, but Maisie appears at my elbow, saving me from potential disrespect toward an elder.

"Hi, Elder Vic-toria! Are you here for the sleepover?"

Victoria's stern expression softens slightly. "Not today. But perhaps your mother and I can arrange something special for you this evening."

"She'll be fine with Luna," I say quickly. The last thing I need is Elder Victoria spending extended time with Maisie, whose every mannerism screams Thomas Ennes to anyone paying attention.

"Of course. Sunset, Fiona. The sacred Hollow."

After she leaves, I spend the day in a strange suspension between normalcy and dread. I help Maisie with her letters, we read stories, I braid her hair. Normal mother-daughter activities that feel surreal when I know I might be hours away from confessing truths that could shatter everything.

The Hollow sits at the heart of Silvercreek's territory, a natural amphitheater carved from living rock and ancient trees. It’s the space where, only weeks ago, my name was drawn in that cursed lottery.

Moonlight filters through the canopy as I arrive, creating patterns of silver and shadow on the moss-covered ground.

Thomas is already waiting, his broad shoulders tense beneath his shirt.

"Nervous?" he asks as I approach.

"Terrified," I admit, because honesty seems appropriate for a trial built around truth.

Elder Victoria emerges from the shadows, as if she has been part of the landscape all along. She carries a small brass bowl that gleams in the moonlight, filled with herbs that smell of sage and something sharper—wolfsbane, but the ceremonial kind that won't poison, only reveal.

"The Trial of Truth," she begins, her voice carrying the weight of generations, "requires participants to share the truths that have shaped them. Not secrets meant to harm, but the foundational experiences that made you who you are."

She lights the herbs, and fragrant smoke begins to curl between us. I feel something shift in the air—not magic exactly, but an awareness, like the forest itself is listening.

"The spirits of our ancestors witness your words," Victoria continues. "Lies spoken here will be known. Truth will be honored."

Thomas and I stand facing each other across the sacred fire, and I wonder if he can hear my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Thomas Ennes," Victoria says. "Speak your truth."

He's quiet for a long moment, staring into the flames. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, raw.

"I've spent six years on my own. Six years telling myself that loneliness was noble. I’m not sure I believe it anymore.

I think that makes me weak." He looks up, meeting my eyes across the fire.

"I've been with other people since then. Tried to make connections, build something real. But nothing ever felt right. Like I was going through the motions of a life instead of actually living it. And so I crawled back to my loneliness every time, because it was… safer, there.”

The smoke between us seems to shimmer, and I catch the faint scent of pine and snow—Thomas's signature smell, but deeper somehow, layered with grief.

"I spent most of those years angry," he continues. "At the situation, at the choice I had to make, at the person I became because of it. But mostly, I was angry at myself for being too much of a coward to find another way."

My throat tightens. This isn't the confession I expected—no grand declarations or attempts to win me over. Just raw honesty about the cost of his choice.

"Truth is witnessed," Victoria says solemnly. "Fiona Wright."

I close my eyes, gathering courage I'm not sure I possess. When I open them, Thomas is watching me with an expression I can't quite read.

"My father spent my entire childhood teaching me that love was conditional," I begin, my voice steadier than I feel.

"That acceptance came with a price, and that price was making yourself smaller.

We knew our place. Most days, a part of me still feels like that little girl, you know. Knowing my place."

The words taste bitter, dredging up memories I've tried to bury.

"He isolated my mother from the pack she was born into, made excuses for why she couldn't attend gatherings, slowly cut her off from everyone who might support her.

He convinced her she was lucky he tolerated what she was—unnatural, he called it.

A freak of nature, he was generous enough to love despite her flaws. "

Thomas's hands clench into fists at his sides, but he doesn't interrupt.

"When she got sick, he told her it was her own fault.

That her 'unnatural' side was finally consuming her from the inside.

She believed him." I pause, steadying myself.

"After she died, that same treatment turned on me.

Every aspect of my shifter nature was something to be ashamed of, something that made me difficult to love. "

The smoke shifts, carrying the scent of rain and earth—my own scent, but tinged with old pain.

"I learned that the people who claim to love you will hurt you if it serves their purposes. That trust is a luxury you can't afford when survival depends on staying invisible." I meet Thomas's eyes across the fire.

"Truth is witnessed," Victoria says, and I realize my cheeks are wet. "The trial is complete. You have shared your foundational truths with honesty and courage. The spirits are satisfied."

She extinguishes the herbs with a gesture, and suddenly, we're just… people standing in a moonlit clearing. The weight of ceremony lifts, but the intimacy of shared vulnerability remains.

"Congratulations," Victoria says, though her tone suggests she's not entirely sure congratulations are appropriate. "Your Trials are complete. The mating ceremony will be held in two weeks, assuming current circumstances allow."

Just like that. It’s over. Somehow, it feels both anticlimactic and utterly terrifying.

After she leaves, Thomas and I walk back toward the compound in silence. The weight of our confessions hangs between us—not uncomfortable exactly, but significant.

"I'm sorry," he says finally. "About your father. About what he put you and your mother through."

"And I'm sorry about your loneliness." The words surprise me with their sincerity. "Six years is a long time to carry that.”

I was lonely too, I almost say. There was no one after you.

He shrugs. "Some choices don't leave room for anything else."

We reach the fork in the path where he'll turn toward his cabin, and I'll continue to mine. Neither of us moves to separate.

"Fiona," he says carefully. “I haven’t been honest with you.

“I know,” I confirm, exhausted. “Neither have I. We’ve both known it for a long time.”

He nods slowly. Then, hesitating: “Do you want to talk?”

I hold up a hand to stop him. "No, Thomas. I think we’ve talked enough.”

He nods, disappointment flickering across his features. "Fair enough."

I’m grateful for the choice, for the fact that he gave me that much.

“Thank you,” I mumble, exhausted. “Thank you, Thomas.”

It's more grace than I've offered him in six years, and we both know it. He looks like he wants to say something else, but settles for a simple, “Okay.”

The celebration the following evening is subdued, held in the pack house common room rather than the usual outdoor gathering.

Too many security concerns for anything elaborate.

I nurse a single glass of wine and deflect congratulations from pack members who seem unsure whether the occasion calls for celebration or condolences.

"Not exactly the party atmosphere you were hoping for?" Luna asks, appearing at my elbow.

"Honestly? I prefer it this way." The fewer people focusing on my upcoming mating ceremony, the better. "Less pressure."

"Still seems surreal, though. Three weeks ago, you barely spoke to Thomas. Now you're bound to him for life."

"The lottery doesn't care about our personal history," I say, which is true enough to pass for an explanation.

"Speaking of history," Luna continues, lowering her voice, "Nic mentioned Thomas seemed pretty affected by tonight's trial. Whatever you two shared out there must have been significant."