Chapter 31 The Weight of Mercy

The warmth of Moonvale’s hearth felt foreign after days of cold earth and blood. The Hale household was alive with hushed whispers, the pack stealing glances at us as though we were strangers from a different world. Perhaps we were.

Bowls of stew were set before us, bread still steaming, clothes folded neatly on the table. I murmured thanks, though my throat felt tight. For the first time in too long, I sat at a table with food and safety within reach.

Kael, of course, ruined the illusion of peace.

“This place smells of weakness,” he muttered, pushing the stew away after only two bites.

“You should eat,” I said softly, but firmly.

His golden eyes flicked to mine, then away. He didn’t argue, which was the closest I’d get to obedience from him.

••

Later, when the pack healer tried to treat Kael’s wounds, the Alpha snarled, baring his teeth at the poor old man.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Kael!” I snapped, exasperation leaking into my voice.

He shot me a sharp, defensive look, but I only sighed and knelt beside him. “If you keep acting like a beast, they’ll let you bleed out.”

“I’d rather bleed than let strangers fuss over me.”

His tone was harsh, but his body trembled slightly under the strain. I touched his arm gently, guiding him to sit.

“Then let me,” I whispered.

For a long beat, he didn’t move. Then, finally, Kael sat still.

I dipped a cloth into warm water, wringing it out. My hands brushed his skin—hot, feverish. His breath caught, and though his expression stayed hard, I could feel the tension running through him like fire.

“You should hate me for this,” he said suddenly, voice low, rough.

I looked up, meeting those burning eyes. “Hate you for what?”

“For Silverfangs.” His jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists. “For tearing apart your pack. For destroying everything you loved. Why…” His voice broke slightly, “…why are you still kind to me?”

The cloth slipped a little in my hand. My heart twisted, raw and aching.

I swallowed hard, steadied my voice. “Because kindness was what my father always taught me. It’s not about you, Kael. It’s about who I choose to be.”

For once, he didn’t have an answer. His golden gaze softened, not with triumph, but something close to regret. Almost vulnerable. Almost human.

The door creaked.

“Elara?”

I turned, startled. Dorian stood there, his presence filling the space. His eyes went from me to Kael, lingering on the way my hand pressed a bandage against the Alpha’s side.

“I see you’re finally letting someone help you,” Dorian said, voice clipped.

Kael smirked faintly. “Only her.”

The sharpness in Dorian’s eyes deepened, though his words stayed calm. “How’s the wound?”

“Not your concern,” Kael bit back.

“Funny,” Dorian replied smoothly, “considering your blood trail nearly got us all killed.”

“Enough.” My voice came sharper than I intended. I set down the cloth, standing between them. “This isn’t a battlefield. Not here. Not tonight.”

Neither man moved for a long moment. Then Dorian nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly.

“Rest,” he said to Kael, though his eyes stayed on me. “You’ll need it.”

When he left, the room felt smaller, tighter, every breath I took caught between the two of them.

That night, after Kael finally slept, I sat by the window, the moon silver against the valley.

The house was quiet, but my thoughts weren’t. I could feel them both—Kael and Dorian—like shadows tugging at me in opposite directions. One was fire and ruin, the other steady and safe. Both dangerous in their own way.

My reflection in the glass looked pale, haunted.

The longer I stared, the less it looked like me. My hair was tangled, my eyes hollow, and behind them I swore I saw the shadows of that night—the night Bloodmoon came. The night fire ate through the walls of my home, and the air was split with screams I will never unhear.

I closed my eyes, but it didn’t help. My father’s voice was there, too—steady, unyielding, the one who taught me kindness even when the world was cruel.

And who led them?

Kael.

The name curled on my tongue like venom.

I pressed my forehead against the cold window, whispering to the silence, “He destroyed everything. My family. My pack. My life.”

So why… why did my hands not tremble when I touched him earlier? Why did my heart twist with something other than hate when I saw him in pain?

I hated myself for it.

Maybe I was weak. Maybe I was betraying the dead every time I laid a bandage across his wounds instead of sinking a blade into his chest.

My fingers clenched tight against the sill until my nails dug into the wood. “Kindness,” I muttered bitterly. “What good is kindness against someone like him?”

The memory of his eyes returned to me—golden, burning, and yet for a single fleeting moment, vulnerable. That single crack in his armor haunted me more than all his cruelty.

If I forgive him, I betray my pack.

If I hate him, I betray… my heart.

A tremor shook me at the thought. Because somewhere deep inside, beyond the rage, beyond the grief, something fragile had begun to form. And I loathed myself for feeling it.

I thought of Dorian then—his voice steady, his presence a shield against the storm. He had been my anchor, my reminder that not all men burned and destroyed. He was safety, constancy, the promise of something unbroken.

And yet… between the two of them, my heart felt like glass pulled in opposite directions, ready to shatter.

I pressed my palm to the window, the moon staring down at me like a witness to my sins.

“How long,” I whispered, my voice raw, “can I live with this mercy… before it kills me?”

The night gave no answer.

Only silence, heavy and condemning.