Chapter Eight – The Weight of Her Name

Caelan sat alone in the war room, the last of the torches guttering against stone walls etched in ancient command. The flames danced low, casting long shadows across maps marked with bloodlines, borders, and battles. Plans for the Hollow's future were laid out before him, but they may as well have been blank parchment.

Because he couldn’t see past her.

Not past the servant girl who’d crawled beneath his skin like a fever. Not past the dreams that left him waking in sweat and silence. Not past the pull that made every moment without her feel like pressure building beneath his ribs.

They saw her.

Every time he blinked, he saw Ilia’s face tilted up to his. The scent of her still clung to his skin, wild and warm, like something that didn’t belong in the Hollow—and maybe never had.

His hands flexed on the table.

She wasn’t just in his dreams anymore. She was under his skin.

"You’re brooding again."

The voice came from the door. Caelan didn’t look up.

Derrin, his Beta. His closest friend. His brother in every way that mattered. They’d bled together in the northern wars, clawed their way out of ambushes and betrayals, built the Hollow’s strength from ruin after Caelan’s rise to Alpha. Where Caelan was cold calculation, Derrin was fire and loyalty. He’d sworn an oath not just to serve—but to protect Caelan from the worst of himself.

Derrin walked in, tugging off his gloves and tossing them onto the bench. "Let me guess. You're not brooding over the Eastern border or the Elders’ ridiculous feast requirements. You're thinking about her again."

Caelan said nothing.

"Cael, she’s a servant."

"She shouldn’t be in my head," Caelan said, finally lifting his gaze. "But she is. She's not just in my sleep—she’s everywhere. She’s in the breath before I speak, in the blood roaring behind my eyes. I can feel her under my skin, like she’s burrowed into every nerve, every thought. Her scent... it doesn’t fade. It clings. It follows. It owns. I see her face and I lose the thread of who I’m supposed to be. It’s not normal. It’s not sane. But I can’t stop it."

"You think I don’t know that?" Derrin sighed and slumped into the chair across from him. "But we’re three nights from the blood moon. From your Luna. You can’t afford to unravel now."

Caelan’s jaw flexed.

Derrin dropped his voice. "There are rules, Cael. Sacred ones. You know what happens to those who break them. She’s not your equal. She’s not even supposed to look you in the eye—let alone haunt your thoughts. You think the Elders would hesitate for a second if they sensed weakness in you? If they caught wind that you're dreaming of a girl who scrubs blood from our floors? You can't afford this. Not now. Not with everything coming."

Caelan's stare turned sharp. "She looked me in the eye the first time I saw her. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t kneel. Like she’d done it a thousand times before in another life. Like she knew I wouldn’t punish her for it. And gods help me, I didn’t want to. I wanted her to keep looking. Like she saw something in me the rest of this cursed court never would."

"Which is exactly the problem."

A long silence passed between them.

Finally, Caelan said, "Find out who she is. Her history, her bloodline—everything. Quietly."

Derrin blinked. "You want me to investigate a servant?"

"No," Caelan said, his voice roughened with something he hated admitting. "I want you to investigate the girl who’s carved herself into every breath I take. She’s in my head, Derrin. In my blood. I dream of her and wake up aching like she was real. I need to know who she is, because if I don’t... I’ll lose whatever grip I have left."

Derrin didn’t argue again.

Because even he could feel it.

Whatever this was—it was already too deep to ignore.