Damien hesitated, as if caught in the jaws of his own guilt. His gaze lingered on me a second too long—too soft, too haunted—before he stepped forward and forced neutrality back into his features.
“Elara is like a sister to me,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “She’s the only wolf I could rely on after the war. That’s all this is. We’re... absolutely innocent.”
Innocent.
The word hung in the air like a cruel joke.
I said nothing.
Because if I opened my mouth, I might howl.
My silence made him shift uncomfortably. His amber eyes searched mine, growing increasingly uneasy with each second I didn’t speak.
But my mind had already left the present.
I was back in the storm of my first death—blood, lies, betrayal.
Elara had stood before the Council of Elders, tears glistening like dew on her lashes. She’d accused me of sabotaging the food stores during the famine, claiming Ayla and I had stolen mooncakes laced with wolfsbane.
She said we’d poisoned ourselves.
Damien hadn’t questioned it. Hadn’t blinked. He’d wrapped her in his arms, whispering comforts meant for a grieving mate.
From the shadowed veil of the spirit realm, I watched as he mourned the lie.