CHAPTER THREE

The rain hadn’t stopped for days. It drummed endlessly on the stone roof of the old library tower where Rhea had hidden herself, muffling the world into a soft, oppressive hush. The air was damp and heavy, curling around her like a shroud. The cracked window beside her wept with condensation, the glass trembling with every gust of wind that rattled against it.

Rhea sat curled on the ancient window seat, her knees drawn to her chest, her mother’s faded shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. The scent of lavender still lingered faintly in the fabric, even after all these weeks. She clutched it as if it could somehow bring her back.

She hadn’t cried at the funeral.

She hadn’t screamed or begged when her father announced the betrothal to Alpha Branor, a man old enough to be her grandfather and twice as cruel.

But now, alone in the decaying stillness, her hands shook.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from disuse. It echoed softly through the hollow chamber. “Mother… what would you do?”

Silence answered her.

She stared at the floor until the ancient rugs blurred. Her mother had barely been gone three weeks, and already Garrick had stripped the home of her presence. Her paintings removed. Her dresses burned. Her garden—once filled with moonflowers and soft laughter—now trampled by guards as they paced the grounds. It was as if her mother had never existed.

Except in Rhea.

She pressed her forehead to her knees. Her nails had left small crescents in her palms from how tightly she gripped her fists.

Branor.

Just the name was enough to flood her with dread. She didn’t need to know every horror to understand the kind of man he was. The bruises she’d seen on women who’d been traded to his court, the broken spirits, the stories that servants whispered when they thought no one could hear—it was all real.

And her father expected her to smile through it.

“You are the daughter of an Alpha,” Garrick had told her in his study, his voice flat, as if he were discussing livestock. “You will do your duty, as your mother did before you.”

Her mother. Rhea’s stomach twisted. The same woman who once sang lullabies to her with a smile that never quite reached her eyes. The woman who walked with perfect posture and never raised her voice—who had lived a life of submission behind regal silks and empty smiles.

She had been caged.

Just like Rhea would be.

Unless she could find a way out.

Rhea stood abruptly, knocking over a stack of forgotten books. They hit the floor with a thud, but she barely noticed. Her reflection in the tall, dust-streaked mirror startled her. The girl looking back was pale, gaunt, her dark hair tangled and shadowing eyes rimmed with fatigue. She looked haunted. Lost.

She took a step closer, staring at herself like she might find the answer somewhere in her own gaze.

“I’m not ready for this,” she said aloud, her voice cracking. “I don’t want to be handed over like some pawn. I don’t want to belong to him.”

Her breath came faster. Her chest tightened.

“I don’t want to belong to anyone.”

Her voice rose, strangled by grief and rage. She picked up a book and hurled it across the room. Then another. Then a third. Pages flew like startled birds, the air filled with the thud of leather against stone.

When she finally sank to the floor again, her strength had left her. Her body trembled with the weight of everything—her mother’s death, the marriage, the quiet way her father had turned his back on her.

And underneath it all, the ache of helplessness.

What could she do?

Where could she go?

There was no one left. Her mother was gone. The court was filled with hollow smiles and false loyalty. Garrick had already chosen his alliance and discarded her feelings like scraps from a feast.

She was alone.

But something stirred inside her, even through the despair. A flicker. A memory. Her mother’s final words, spoken on the edge of death, when her voice was barely more than breath:

“Don’t let them cage you. Not like they caged me.”

Her mother had known.

She had seen this future, felt its chains closing in, and given Rhea that one, fragile piece of freedom: a secret, a crest, a name whispered in trembling lips—you come from power, my daughter. Power enough to break chains.

Rhea closed her eyes, breathing through the storm inside her.

Maybe she didn’t have a plan yet.

But maybe… she didn’t need one right away.

Maybe the first step was just refusing to accept the fate handed to her.

One breath at a time.

She opened her eyes again, and this time, when she looked in the mirror, she didn’t see a frightened girl.

She saw a flicker of fire.

Rhea wrapped the worn shawl tighter around herself as she slipped through the servant’s passageways. The hallways of the estate, once warm with the bustle of familiar staff, now felt cold and unfamiliar. Guards stationed at every exit. Eyes watching her even in silence.

But the servant corridors still remembered her.

Each stone step and narrow door had been part of her childhood—a labyrinth she knew better than the gilded halls above. They were the same tunnels she used to sneak sweet cakes from the kitchens or curl up during storms when her mother’s hand wasn’t there to hold.

Tonight, they were her only chance.

She reached the door behind the laundry room and knocked twice, then once more.

Silence.

Then the latch shifted, and the door creaked open.

Mira’s face appeared in the crack, older now, her cheeks hollowed and her dark hair streaked with silver. But her eyes—sharp, warm, and full of knowing—hadn’t changed.

“Rhea,” she whispered, pulling her inside swiftly. “What in the goddess’s name are you doing out in the halls this late? If the guards see you—”

“I had to see you.” Rhea’s voice was urgent. “I need your help.”

Mira’s expression softened, even as her worry deepened. She shut the door and bolted it behind them, guiding Rhea into the dim sitting room cluttered with folded linens and bundles of herbs. A kettle hissed faintly on the small stove, and the scent of mint tea lingered in the air.

Mira touched Rhea’s cheek with a gentleness that made her throat ache. “You shouldn’t be here, child. Not with the ceremony so close.”

“I’m not going through with it.”

The words dropped like stones between them.

Mira blinked, startled. “Rhea…”

“I can’t marry him. I won’t.”

Mira hesitated, then turned and poured tea with shaking hands. “Your father’s made it clear—any disobedience will be punished. You think he won’t put you in chains if he has to?”

“Then let him try,” Rhea said, her voice low. “Mother didn’t die so I could become another pawn on his board. She warned me. She begged me not to let them cage me. I’m not going to live the life they forced on her.”

The silence that followed was thick and heavy.

Mira handed her a cup and sat beside her on the small bench. “Do you have a plan?”

Rhea stared into the swirling tea leaves, her voice barely a whisper. “No. Not yet. But I know where I want to go.”

Mira raised an eyebrow. “Where?”

“The Alpha Training Academy.”

The nursemaid blinked in stunned silence. Then she let out a short laugh, almost incredulous. “You’re mad.”

“I’m desperate,” Rhea snapped. “If I can get in—just for a while—it’s the perfect place to hide. No one would look for a noble daughter among a pack of young alpha males. I’ll cut my hair. Bind my chest. I’ll take a new name. Learn to fight. Maybe even survive.”

“You’re not just talking about hiding.” Mira narrowed her eyes. “You want to become something else. Something stronger.”

“I have to.” Rhea met her gaze with quiet fire. “Because if I stay here, I’ll be broken before the wedding night.”

Mira was quiet for a long moment. Her fingers tapped against the teacup, a habit Rhea remembered from years ago—she always did it when weighing something dangerous.

Then she set the cup down.

“I have something,” she murmured, standing and moving to the far cabinet. “Something I never thought I’d use.”

From a hidden drawer, she pulled out a yellowed envelope sealed in wax.

“A few years ago,” she said softly, “I helped treat a minor noble’s son after he was injured in the southern marshes. He never returned to the academy, and before he left, he gave me this in thanks.” She handed it to Rhea. “It’s an unused letter of recommendation. All it needs is a name and a seal.”

Rhea stared at the parchment, her fingers trembling as she turned it over. The wax seal was intact—easily replaced if carefully removed.

“How do we forge it?”

“I’ll write the letter. I’ve copied my lord’s hand before when he was drunk or careless. And you—” Mira looked her up and down, “—will become Rian. A boy from a distant minor pack, with no family left. That’s why you’re seeking Alpha training—to claim a new future.”

Rhea nodded slowly, the weight of the moment sinking in.

This was it.

The beginning of something irreversible.

“Rian,” she repeated quietly, tasting the name. “Rian Greythorn. From the Redmere borderlands.”

Mira was already rummaging for ink, parchment, wax, and the old crest ring she used to seal household documents. “It’ll take me an hour to finish this. We’ll have to keep the story simple but strong. I’ll say your pack was slaughtered by rogues. That always gains sympathy.”

“And if they ask questions?”

“Then you lie like your life depends on it.” Mira glanced at her, hard. “Because it will.”

Rhea stood and paced the small room, anxiety clawing at her ribs. “What if someone recognizes me? What if I can’t pretend well enough?”

Mira didn’t answer for a moment. Then she stood and took Rhea by the shoulders.

“You listen to me now, little star,” she said, using the nickname she’d once whispered when tucking her in as a child. “You have fire in you. Your mother had it too, though the world dimmed hers over time. But you—you still have a chance to burn. You’re stronger than you know.”

Rhea’s eyes stung.

She swallowed hard and nodded.

“Then help me finish this. Tonight. I leave before dawn.”

They worked side by side for hours. Mira carefully penned the letter, forging a steady hand and noble phrasing with the precision of someone who’d spent her life serving those in power. Rhea gathered supplies—clothes, bandages to bind her chest, a worn satchel, and the forged crest ring her mother had once shown her in secret.

By the time the letter was sealed and folded into her satchel, dawn was just beginning to tint the horizon.

Mira stood in the doorway, her face pale and drawn.

“You’re sure about this?”

“No,” Rhea said honestly. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

The nursemaid drew her into a tight hug, and for a moment, Rhea allowed herself to collapse into the embrace. One last anchor before she stepped into the unknown.

“May the moon guide you,” Mira whispered. “And may the wolf within never forget her name.”