The cold air outside the pack house burned down Elara's throat, but she welcomed it. Pain that came from breathing felt easier to survive than the kind that came from being rejected like she was nothing.
Laughter and music still spilled faintly through the thick wooden doors behind her. No one paused the celebration for a broken bond. No one stopped dancing because someone's soul got stepped on.
She walked down the lantern-lit steps, keeping her head level and her breathing silent. Her chest ached like her ribs had splintered inward, but she didn't curl around the pain. She drew her shoulders back. She wouldn't let anyone see her stumble.
The path leading away from the Pack House wound past the main training field and the warrior lodges. The hall windows glowed gold behind her, marking the place she'd never truly belonged.
She passed two young pack members lingering by the courtyard fountain, whispering.
"That was really her?"
"Why would the Moon pair him with—"
"Maybe it was a mistake."
Elara didn't flinch. Let them whisper. Let them pretend it wasn't fate at all. It would make their lives easier to believe she'd imagined it.
Once she hit the edge of the trees, the noise faded under the sound of owls and leaves brushing overhead. The night air sharpened, pine-laced and damp. Every footstep pressed into the earth with the faint crunch of broken twigs.
Her wolf was silent.
Not absent—just wounded and curled deep inside, as if refusing to surface where anyone could touch it.
The deeper she went into the woods, the more the ache in her chest spread. The rejection bond pain traveled differently than any wound. It wasn't stabbing or tearing. It was a slow, dragging rip through the soul, shredding threads she didn't know were woven there.
Her breath hitched once, and her steps faltered beside an old cedar. She braced a hand against the bark, fingers digging in until the rough wood split under her nails.
For a moment, the world tilted.
Her knees wanted to collapse. Her lungs burned from holding in too much—grief, humiliation, confusion, rage. She forced herself to suck in air until the dizziness slipped back.
He rejected us.
The thought didn't come from her wolf, but from the space where their voices met. It rang hollow and true. She didn't deny it.
She didn't ask why.
She already knew the answers the world would give.
Because she was invisible. Because she wasn't powerful. Because she was the easy choice to throw away.
Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears. She straightened again.
Death by heartbreak was a real thing among wolves—but not for her. She didn't intend to die over someone who couldn't look her in the eye with a shred of respect.
A rustle of movement came from behind her. She turned quickly, shoulders tense.
It was Mara Linton—the same lower-ranked wolf who always pretended not to see her in passing. The girl stood a few yards back, wringing her hands. She hadn't followed out of loyalty. Curiosity, maybe. Pity, definitely.
"I… um…" Mara swallowed, eyes flickering with discomfort. "I saw what happened. Just thought maybe you'd need someone to walk you back."
Elara blinked once. No anger. No gratitude. Just clarity.
She offered a small, calm smile. "You should go back inside before someone notices you're gone."
Relief crashed visibly over Mara's face. She nodded and left without another word.
Not even five minutes of borrowed concern. That was fine. Pity made wounds fester.
Elara didn't head back to her cabin. The walls in there felt too small already, like grief would echo too loudly if she let it.
Instead, she took the narrow trail toward the ridge overlooking the lake. She'd walked it so many times her feet knew every dip and root. The trees thinned near the top, revealing the moonlit stretch of water below and the faint glow of the human town at the horizon.
She sat heavily on the fallen log she always claimed. The wood was cold, damp with moss. She curled her knees to her chest and rested her chin against them.
The silence around her wasn't peaceful. It was full—of everything she refused to release.
Her breath came unevenly, a faint tremor shaking through her shoulders. One tear slipped free before she could stop it. Then another.
But she didn't break.
She didn't scream or claw at the earth. She let the hurt exist without tearing her apart. Her chin lifted a little with every breath, like she was teaching her lungs how to breathe through fire.
Minutes passed. Or maybe an hour.
Finally, her wolf stirred—a faint, bruised presence in her chest.
We're still here.
Elara closed her eyes. "We are."
The bond pain remained, but something colder settled over it. Not bitterness. Not vengeance.
Survival.
The moon hung high above the treeline, pale and sharp, as though it were watching.
Somewhere beyond Silvercrest's borders, far past the places her name had ever been spoken, something ancient and powerful shifted.
She didn't know it yet.
But what was meant for her had already begun to move.
And unlike the one who rejected her, it would not come gently.