Chapter 5

Elara POV:

Sleep was a country to which I had lost my passport. I lay through the long, silent hours, tracing with my eyes the patterns the moonlight cast upon the ceiling, each one a shifting map of my own desolation. With every tick of the grand clock in the hall below, another drop of what I had once called love seemed to seep out of me, leaving not a wound, but a chilling, cavernous space where it had been. By the time the first grey light of dawn stained the windows, the space within me had hardened into a resolve as cold and clear as winter ice. My fingers found the communication stone my mother had given me, its surface cool and polished from years of being held. It was no larger than a dove's egg, yet it held the weight of my future. I sent the silent, pulsing call through it, a summons across the miles, and felt the immediate, reassuring reply from the Silver Moon envoy. The gears of my deliverance were already turning.

I was seated at the great dining table, the tines of my fork tracing meaningless patterns through my uneaten eggs, when the sound of his footfalls, light and untroubled, descended the main staircase. He entered the room not as a man burdened by betrayal, but as one who had slept the sleep of the righteous, a faint, contented glow about him.

He took his customary seat opposite me, arranging his features into a mask of solemnity, yet he could not quite extinguish a triumphant glimmer in the depths of his eyes.

"Elara," he began, "I think it's time. We need to perform the rejection ceremony."

I raised my gaze from my plate to meet his, my own features a carefully blank canvas. "Very well," I said, the words emerging without a tremor. "Arrange it at your earliest convenience."

A flicker of astonishment, then confusion, crossed his face. The muscles in his jaw went slack. He had come prepared for a tempest of tears and pleas, for a scene worthy of his magnanimous performance. My placid agreement was a stone cast into the gears of his scheme, bringing it to a jarring halt.

"Wait," he said, leaning across the polished mahogany, his voice taking on a tone of practiced sincerity. "Elara, you must understand. This is a mere formality. A temporary measure, you see. It is the only way to afford Lyra's boy a legal standing within the pack. For his protection."

His hand reached for mine across the table, a gesture meant to convey a profound, lingering connection. "I swear to you, the moment this is concluded, I will petition the Goddess herself for absolution. I will restore our bond. You know it is you I love. You, and our child."

I allowed my hand to remain limp in his grasp, a dead thing. I inclined my head slowly, feigning a weary comprehension. "I see," I murmured, my voice a placid stream. "An Alpha must do what is best for the pack. I understand such burdens."

A wave of visible relief washed the tension from his shoulders. He believed it. The fool actually believed it. "You are the finest Mate an Alpha could ever wish for," he declared, his face breaking into a radiant smile.

He leaned forward to press his lips to mine, but I turned my head at the last instant, so the kiss landed, damp and unwanted, upon my cheek. He drew back with a low chuckle, misreading the gesture as a flicker of coyness, the last remnant of a woman's hurt, easily soothed and soon forgotten.

"I must go and tell Lyra the news!" he announced, rising from his chair with a newfound buoyancy. His boots were light on the grand staircase, the sound echoing in the cavernous room.

A moment later, the muffled sound of their shared, triumphant laughter drifted down from the floor above. A celebration.

Downstairs, in the profound silence of the dining room, my fingers closed around the cool, unyielding weight of the sigil stone in my pocket. I lifted my gaze to the ceiling, to the sound of their mirth. So be it, I thought, not in anger, but with the quiet finality of a judge passing sentence. I will give you the rejection you so desperately crave. And in that act, I will purchase my own emancipation.