5. My Childhood Diary

#Livia’s POV 

“Forgive the intrusion, Lord Hartwell,” a soft, sweet voice called out. 

A young woman stepped into the room carrying a small wooden tray with a glass of lukewarm water and a folded linen cloth. She wore the clean white and blue robes of a junior healer. Her light honey brown hair was pulled back neatly, framing a youthful, strikingly kind face with bright, compassionate green eyes. 

Serena. 

My breath caught in my throat. I braced myself for the sudden surge of hatred I expected to feel – the fury toward the woman whose testimony had sealed my death sentence, the healer who had claimed my herbs were used to poison Alpha Magnus.

But as she walked into the room, bowing her head respectfully to my father and offering a gentle, concerned smile toward me, I found no malice in her face.

She moved with an effortless, genuine warmth. When she set the tray on the small table beside my chair, her hands were steady, her eyes shining with real sympathy. 

“I heard Lady Livia was feeling unwell,” Serena said softly, kneeling beside my chair so she was at eye level with me. “I bought a light willow - bark infusion. It will ease the pressure behind your eyes.”

My father beamed at her. “Ah !, young Serena. Always attentive. Thank you.”

Serena looked up at me, offering a modest, glowing smile that made it utterly impossible for anyone in the room or anyone in the world to dislike her.

“We have never formally met, Lady Livia.” she murmured, her voice like silk. “But I have heard such wonderful things about your knowledge of medicinal plants. I have looked forward to learning from you.” 

I stared into her clear green eyes, searching for a twitch, a hidden lie or a flicker of deceit. There was nothing. She was warm, sweet and entirely transparent. Looking at her now, no rational person would ever suspect her of harboring poison or framing an innocent woman. 

She was built to be loved. 

“Thank you, Serena.” I managed to say, taking the glass from her tray. My voice was tight but she merely offered another sweet, reassuring nod before stepping back. 

“We must ensure everyone is in good health before the Alpha King's visit next week,” Serena added lightly, turning toward my father. “Though, thankfully, the King has been feeling much better lately. His chest and lungs have cleared significantly since the last frost.”

I froze, the glass halfway to my lips.

Much better ?

My throat went dry. In the timeline I remembered, I remembered Alpha Magnus had been bedridden for six months prior to the winter council. His lungs had been failing long before the night he died. He had been weak, frail and coughing up dark fluid for almost a year.

Why was Serena saying he was improving ?

First, Asher’s arrival date was wrong. 

Second, the Relic’s timeline was moved up.

Third, Alpha Magnus’s terminal illness wasn't playing out the way it was supposed to. 

The foundation beneath my feet wasn't just shaking ; it was disintegrating.

Asher stood up pulling his cloak tighter around his broad shoulders as my father rose to escort him to the courtyard. The formal visit was finally over.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Hartwell.” Asher said, extending a hand to shake my father's grip.

He turned toward the door, taking two long strides before stopping in his tracks. For a second, he seemed to fight with himself. Then slowly, he turned his head back, his golden eyes locking directly onto mine. 

The room went quiet as everyone waited for his formal farewell. 

Instead, Asher looked at me, his brows furrowing as if he were trying to read a language he hadn't spoken in centuries.

“Lady, Livia,” he asked, his voice dropping so low it was almost a whisper, yet carrying clearly through the silent room. “Have you ever dreamed about me?”

The air left the drawing room instantly. 

My father's smile faltered. Serena blinked in quiet shock. Even Asher’s own Beta stared at his Alpha as if he had suddenly lost his mind. Asher himself looked faintly startled by the words that had just escaped his mouth, his jaw tightening as if he wished he could claw the question back. 

I couldn't speak. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't answer him, because the truth was a nightmare.

Yes, I wanted to scream at him. I dreamed of you kneeling in a pool of blood. I dreamed of you standing over my execution block, ordering my death.

I kept my lips pressed together, my silence felt heavy and agonizing.

Asher held my stare for three long seconds, searching my pale face for an answer I refused to give. Finally, he gave a curt , stiff nod, turned on his heel, and walked out into the corridor without another word.

Outside, in the courtyard, the cold wind whipped through the black banners as Asher swung himself up into his saddle. 

His Beta, mounting a bay warhorse beside him, let out a low, disbelieving laugh as they guided their mounts toward the open iron gates.

“Have you lost your senses, Asher?” the Beta chuckled, shaking his head. “You stared at Lady Livia as if she were a ghost the entire visit, and then you ask her if she dreams about you? You’ve never even spoken to the woman!”

Asher held the reins tightly in his gloved hands, his eyes fixed on the snow-capped mountain peaks ahead. He didn't laugh. He didn't offer a dry joke.

“When she looked at me…” Asher said, his voice quiet, heavy, and raw. “I felt guilty.”

The Beta’s laughter died in his throat. He frowned, looking at his leader’s dark, rigid profile. “Guilty? For what? You’ve done nothing to her family.”

Asher slowed his horse slightly, his knuckles turning white against the leather reins.

“I know,” Asher whispered into the biting wind. “So why does my wolf keep mourning someone who is still alive?”

Late that night, the estate was bathed in silence.

I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, the image of Asher’s tear-stained face in that ruined courtyard flashed across the dark.

I sat on the cold floor of my bedchamber, bathed in the faint, silvery light of the moon streaming through the window. Before me rested a small, iron-bound wooden chest – my childhood trunk, brought down from the top shelf of the wardrobe.

I needed ground truth. I needed something physical, something untouched by the chaotic fog in my head to tell me who I was before all of this began. 

I reached into the chest and pulled out a thick, leather - bound notebook with yellowed parchment pages. My childhood diary.

A small, sad smile touched my lips as my fingers traced the cracked leather cover. Finally, I thought. Something real. Something untouched.

I flipped the heavy cover open to the very first page, setting it beneath the moonlight. 

My smile vanished.

Written in neat, slanted handwriting – unmistakably my own, penned in the faded black ink I had used as a young girl years before I ever met the Black Moon delegation were the words :

“I dreamed about the golden-eyed wolf again. He was standing in the snow, calling my name, but his hands were covered in blood.”

My breath hitched. My hands began to shake as I rapidly turned the pages. Page after page. Month after month.

Descriptions of a broad-shouldered man with golden eyes. Sketches of the silver Alpha Crest. Detailed accounts of a voice I wasn't supposed to hear until my twentieth year. All written years before Asher Blackwood ever set foot on my father’s land.

I reached the final entry, dated just weeks before my memories of the timeline began.

At the bottom of the page, written in jagged, hurried strokes of dark ink, was a single sentence that sent a paralyzing chill straight to my core:

“If I ever forget the truth… don't let me trust my own memories.”