Chapter 9 The Debt

[Kaelan's POV]

There weren't many words on the back of the paper. Alaric's handwriting was as cold as the man himself.

—Don't worry, I could handle Blackthorn's old wolf, so I can handle the young one too. That old wolf was easy to deal with—bind his omega and he came to die on his own. Sent them both on their way together in the end. Eamon was a fool, his son can't be much smarter.

My gaze moved to that name.

Eamon.

Just that one name, like a nail driven hard into my eyes.

The candlelight suddenly flickered, shadows trembling with it, and Draven's blood on the paper seemed stirred by the shifting light.

Draven's father was killed by Alaric!

Not dying on an honest battlefield, but under treachery.

I'd always thought the hatred between Wolfsbane and Blackthorn was just the most ordinary kind between Packs. Fighting over territory, competing for hunting grounds, settling scores in war.

To some degree, I'd been living in Blackthorn based on that assumption. Because as long as it was Pack rivalry, there was room for reconciliation between Draven and me.

But this paper tore away even that last fig leaf.

It was my father who set the trap that killed Draven's father!

I gripped the table edge, only then realizing I could no longer stand steady. The wooden table's corner pressed into my palm, cold and hard. My fingertips went numb, strained white. My breathing was shallow, chest aching—each breath felt like being scraped by a blunt instrument inside my lungs.

Earlier in the council hall, before Nyx and I entered, Draven had already read this letter.

That thought made my whole body go colder.

He'd seen it.

He'd seen how Alaric proudly boasted about killing Eamon. Yet he hadn't lunged forward to snap my neck. He'd just sat there, suppressing his rage.

That wasn't the reaction of someone just learning the truth.

Unless—

He'd known all along!

If he'd already known Alaric killed his father, why hadn't he killed me?

I stared hard at the paper, as if trying to find answers in those congealed bloodstains. But the more I thought, the more images flooded my mind, chaotic enough to leave me breathless.

He was the one who brought me out of Ironfang's dungeons. He could have left me there, could have let me rot there, even killed me himself.

But he didn't.

He brought me back to Blackthorn, threw me into this cabin.

He allowed me to leave the cabin, allowed me to live in the Pack, allowed me to stay at the training ground. Others looked at me like a thorn driven into flesh, but he never pulled that thorn out.

Even today, in front of everyone, when I pushed him like that, challenged him before the entire Pack!

He endured it all.

Thinking of this, I held my breath.

If...

If Draven hadn't held back today...

If Draven's wolf hadn't stopped him...

Would I still be sitting here now?

A chill slid down my spine from my neck. I involuntarily swallowed.

Ridiculous—I'd actually been clever enough to calculate using our Mate connection to get his support for my return to Wolfsbane for revenge.

That I could live in Blackthorn until now, be allowed to breathe, walk, and train here, avoid being torn to pieces despite so many knowing who I was—it had always depended on that damned connection, only because I was his Mate.

That was all.

His allowing me to live didn't mean he accepted me.

At the deep-night water source, he'd ultimately turned and fled.

Outside the window, he'd watched me train but never approached.

At night, that black wolf circled the cabin endlessly, howls echoing through the Pack, but never coming close.

Each time his body wanted to approach, his will would drag it back.

Being Mates could make him guard outside my door all night, but never made him truly cross that threshold.

His body wasn't his choice—his will was.

But his will had never chosen me...

I closed my eyes, suppressing the sting in them. Something hard and rough seemed lodged in my throat—couldn't swallow it down, couldn't spit it out.

Mate.

This path was blocked.

It had never existed from the beginning.

It was just me, mistaking it for a walkable road.

When the knock came, I didn't even lift my head.

"Come in."

The door opened. Theron stood in the doorway holding another paper.

"This is detailed intelligence on Elara," he said. "Ironfang's patrol blind spots in No Man's Land."

I reached out to take it, the paper's edge scraping my fingertip with a slight sting.

"The coordinates only give general location." Theron continued. "These are old records from before she was transferred. How much you can use depends on your own judgment."

I stared at those lines and markings, asking quietly: "What about him?"

Theron paused half a beat before speaking: "In the medical room, getting his palm stitched." He hesitated, then added, "I've known him for years—never seen him like that. Tonight he nearly punched through every wooden stake on the training ground."

I looked up at him: "Why tell me?"

Theron stared at me for a while, corner of his mouth lifting slightly: "Who knows? Maybe just want to see another good show?"

I stared at him without speaking.

He didn't look away either, his eyes carrying some inquiry, some mockery.

Wind poured through the gaps, candlelight swaying gently. Theron lazily stretched, turning to walk outside. At the door, he stopped again.

"One more thing," he said.

I didn't look up.

"He told me to tell you—these coordinates aren't a favor. You don't need to feel you owe him anything."

The door closed.

The cabin fell quiet once more.

An apple now sat on the table, bright red and gleaming, placed quietly beside that intelligence report.

I didn't know if Draven had him bring it. Maybe just Theron's own habit.

I didn't touch it.

Three things lay before me.

The coordinates where Mother was imprisoned.

Evidence that Alaric killed Eamon.

Draven's blood.

I tore the wolf fang necklace from my neck, clutching it tight in my palm.

The fang tip pressed hard between my fingers. Very painful.

I held it that way until the pain slowly drilled into my bones, then gradually loosened my grip.

Then I picked up that torn paper, flipping to the front.

Elara Wolfsbane.

Alaric treating her as a bargaining chip.

I flipped the paper over again.

Eamon.

Another blood debt he owed.

I folded the paper, fingers pressing the crease, grinding over it again and again. The paper gradually tore with tiny rustling sounds, like a blade slowly grinding against bone.

I ground for a long time before finally releasing it.

Only then did my head begin to clear, able to sort through the current situation.

Theron—seemed he wasn't just Draven's mouthpiece. Maybe an ally I could use now.

Elara—No Man's Land third outpost, with clear coordinates. I had to rescue Mother.

Revenge—what Alaric owed wasn't just my debt, but also the lives of Draven's parents. Alaric was our common enemy. Maybe Draven would join me against him.

I folded the outpost intelligence, pressing it under the wolf fang necklace.

A trace of pine and cold iron still lingered in the window gaps. Left behind when he'd gripped my wrist, already so faint it was nearly gone, yet somehow fading very slowly.

I didn't move, just letting that scent gradually disappear.

Only when the last trace had completely faded did I reach out and blow out the candle.

Darkness suddenly pressed down.

My finger still pressed the torn paper's edge, feeling that cracked fold.

Alaric's name.

Eamon's name.

Draven's blood.

From this moment on, I needed to abandon the Mate fantasy.

The wolfsbane poison in my body hadn't cleared yet. Amaris's voice was still very weak.

I needed strength.

Belonging only to myself.