Chapter 19: THE CRACKS BEGIN

The nursery dissolved, and another memory rose to meet them.

Lyra stood in the Thornfield kitchen. Months later—she could tell by the way her body moved in the memory, heavier now, the new-mother exhaustion settled into bone-deep weariness that no amount of sleep could cure. The younger Lyra stood at the counter, preparing a bottle with mechanical precision. Her movements were efficient, practiced, but her eyes were hollow. Dark circles painted shadows beneath them.

Behind her, a door opened.

"Where's Kael?" Alistair's voice. Cold. Always cold. Even when asking about his son, there was no warmth in it. No curiosity. Just the mechanical inquiry of someone fulfilling an obligation.

"Asleep. He was up three times last night. Teething." The younger Lyra didn't turn around. Her shoulders tensed, though, a subtle shift that Lyra recognized from a thousand similar moments. The preparation for disappointment. "Did you need something?"

A pause. In the memory, Lyra held her breath—she remembered this, remembered the fragile hope that maybe, this time, he'd ask about her. How she was coping. If she needed help.

"Jericho's mate is hosting a gathering for the Luna's next week. You'll need to attend. Represent the pack."

Of course. Not how are you. Not let me help with the baby. Not you look exhausted, love. Just another obligation. Another duty. Another moment where she was a role, not a person.

The younger Lyra's hands never stopped moving. Bottle prepared. Tested on wrist. Perfect temperature. "I'll be there."

"Good." Footsteps retreating. The door closing.

And then, so quietly it was almost inaudible: "I'm always there."

Lyra watched herself stand motionless at the counter, holding the bottle, staring at nothing. Watched the single tear slide down her cheek and fall into the sink, lost among the dishes she'd washed a hundred times.

Beside her, Aiden said nothing. He simply stood, present, witnessing. This was not a memory he could fight or fix. It was simply the truth of her past—a truth she had buried so deep she'd forgotten its weight.

The kitchen dissolved. Another memory formed.

The garden at night. Younger Lyra sat on a bench, wrapped in a coat too thin for the weather, staring at the mansion's windows. One window glowed—Alistair's study. He was working. He was always working.

"You should go inside." A voice behind her. Lyra turned to see an older woman, gray-haired, kind-faced. One of the pack elders. "Catching cold won't bring him down."

The younger Lyra managed a tired smile. "I know. I just... needed air."

The elder sat beside her. "How long have you been married?"

"Three years. Almost four."

"And how long has he been married to his work?"

The question hung in the air. Younger Lyra's smile faded.

"He wasn't always like this," she whispered. "When we first met, he was different. He smiled. He laughed. He looked at me like I was the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life."

"People change," the elder said gently. "Or they show you who they really were, once the mask slips."

Younger Lyra shook her head. "No. I just need to try harder. Be better. If I can just—"

"Child." The elder's voice was firm but kind. "You cannot love someone into loving you back. I learned that lesson at your age. Cost me ten years and two children who grew up calling another woman mother."

The words hit Lyra like a physical blow. Two children who grew up calling another woman mother. She pressed her hand to her chest, where the pendant used to hang.

The memory dissolved before she could hear her younger self's response.