Chapter 2 — The Letter With the Seal

Mom’s smile is the kind people trust.

It’s practiced maybe not consciously, maybe not even maliciously but it’s polished from years of being a Gamma. The pack’s comfort. The healer. The woman who could press warm hands to a fevered forehead and make everyone believe the world was gentle.

So when she stands in the hallway outside my room, smiling like she hasn’t just turned my stomach into a knot of nails, my first instinct is to believe her.

That’s the sick part.

“Come downstairs,” she says softly. “We have guests.”

Guests. Of course.

Everything in our house is always normal in front of guests. Normal in front of the pack. Normal in front of authority. Normal in front of anyone who might look too closely.

I nod once, because my throat has decided it doesn’t want to cooperate, and follow her down the stairs. My hand trails along the banister like it can steady me.

At the bottom, Dad stands near the entryway, shoulders squared, uniform immaculate. Beside him is a man I recognize from council meetings. Elder Soren, one of the Alpha’s advisers. He’s older, grey at the temples, eyes like flint that have seen too much to be impressed by anything.

And in his hands is a parchment envelope stamped with a royal seal.

My heart drops through the floor.

Mom gestures toward the sitting room like she’s hosting a tea party instead of a sentencing. “Abigail,” she says brightly, “Elder Soren brought something for you.”

For me.

Elder Soren’s gaze flicks over me quick, precise. It’s not unkind, but it’s evaluating in a way that makes my skin itch. “Abigail Barns,” he says. “You’re turning eighteen at the next full moon.”

“Apparently,” I mutter before I can stop myself.

Dad’s mouth tightens like he’s warning me to behave.

Elder Soren ignores my tone, or pretends not to notice. He holds out the envelope. “Royal summons.”

The seal is black wax impressed with a crescent moon and a crown. The capital’s mark. The kind of symbol that means you don’t get to say no, even if you want to.

I take it with both hands because my fingers feel clumsy.

The parchment is thick. Expensive. Unapologetic.

“Open it,” Dad says.

His voice isn’t harsh. It’s worse, carefully neutral, like he’s speaking to a patrol recruit instead of his daughter. Like emotions are something he can’t afford to have right now.

Mom moves to stand just behind my shoulder, close enough that I can feel her presence like a hand at my back. “Read it aloud,” she adds.

Of course she wants it aloud. If I read it aloud, it becomes real in front of witnesses. It becomes official. It becomes something I can’t pretend I misunderstood.

I break the seal.

The paper inside crackles, and for a moment I imagine it’s my life snapping in half.

I clear my throat and begin.

“By decree of the Crown and under the authority of His Majesty’s Council,” I read, my voice sounding too small in our too small sitting room, “all unmated female citizens approaching eighteen years of age are hereby summoned to the capital for formal introduction, evaluation, and potential recognition of fated bonds within the royal bloodline.”

My mouth dries out.

I continue anyway, because stopping would mean someone else reads it and I lose the small illusion of control.

“Attendance is mandatory. Failure to comply will be treated as defiance of Crown authority and pack law.”

Defiance. Like I’m a criminal for wanting to stay in my own bed.

My eyes skim the next lines, and my stomach turns again.

“All summoned females will undergo standard compliance screening, including shifting demonstration, scent recognition testing, and health verification as deemed necessary by the royal clinic.”

Health verification.

I feel Dad’s gaze sharpen on that phrase, like it’s a weight dropped into water.

Mom’s hand lands lightly on my shoulder. “See?” she says warmly, as if this is comforting. “They’re thorough. They’ll take care of you.”

I force a laugh that sounds like choking. “Right. Because nothing says romance like ‘compliance screening.’”

Elder Soren’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. “The Crown doesn’t gamble with fate,” he says. “Especially not when rogue activity is rising. Bonds stabilize packs. The prince, particularly Prince Nate have requested introductions.”

“Nate requested,” I echo, and I can’t help the sarcasm that slips into my voice like a blade. “How generous of him.”

Dad’s eyes flash a warning.

Mom squeezes my shoulder. Not hard. Not visibly. Just enough to remind me that she can.

Elder Soren continues, “You will travel in two days at dawn. You will be accompanied by two pack companions: Tessa Hale and Briar Wren.”

I blink. “So that’s official.”

“It is,” Elder Soren says. “For safety. Roads aren’t what they used to be.”

No one says Melody’s name.

No one ever says Melody’s name when the subject is roads.

Dad’s jaw works. “Will there be guard escort?”

“A rotating patrol will shadow the group until you reach the western checkpoint,” Elder Soren replies. “After that, the capital’s patrols will take over.”

Dad exhales, sharp and controlled. “That’s not enough.”

Mom’s smile never falters. “Graham,” she chides gently, like he’s overreacting to a scraped knee. “They’re being protected by the royal guard. The princes’ own men.”

At the word princes, the room seems to hold its breath.

My mind flashes to the letter’s phrase: potential recognition of fated bonds within the royal bloodline.

I hate it.

Not the idea of love. Not even the idea of fate, if I’m being honest. I hate the expectation. The way everyone acts like my life is a box to be checked off by tradition.

And I hate the part no one’s saying out loud:

What happens if I’m not… anything?

What happens if I stand in the capital in front of princes and council and clinic staff and I still can’t shift?

What happens when I’m revealed as the pack’s shame under a royal chandelier?

Elder Soren shifts his weight. “That is all. Prepare. Pack only what you need.”

He pauses at the doorway, eyes narrowing slightly, like he’s considering something he won’t speak. “And Abigail?”

“Yes?”

His gaze is steady. “If anything feels… abnormal in the capital, you report it. Immediately.”

Mom laughs lightly behind me. “She’s not a child, Elder.”

Elder Soren’s eyes do not leave mine. “That’s precisely why I’m saying it.”

Then he’s gone, door shutting softly behind him.

Silence floods the room.

Dad reaches for the letter in my hands, then stops, like he isn’t sure if he has the right to take it.

“I’ll speak with the Alpha tonight,” he says finally, voice low. “Make sure they’re not sending you into.”

Into what?

He doesn’t finish.

Mom turns toward the kitchen. “I’ll start a list of what she should pack,” she says, brisk and efficient. “And we’ll need to mend her travel cloak. It’s fraying at the hem.”

I stare at her back, at how composed she is, and my mind, traitorous thing slides back to Melody’s journal.

Wolfsbane symptoms: nausea, burning throat, weakness, suppressed shifting response.

My throat still burns faintly from this morning.

It always does.

I grip the letter too tightly, crumpling the edge.

Wolfsbane.

The very idea is absurd.

Why would my mother poison me?

She’s a Gamma. Her entire role is healing, protecting. She’s treated half the pack at one time or another. She’s delivered pups. She’s saved lives.

And she’s my mother.

People don’t do that to their children. Not in packs. Not in a world where wolves can smell lies and fear.

Right?

Melody’s notes could be just that. Notes. Medical knowledge. She was always reading, always studying symptoms. Wolfsbane is a known toxin; of course she’d write about it.

And the bitter drink… maybe it’s just herbs. Maybe it’s really for my “growing pains.” Maybe it’s to help my wolf wake up, not suppress it.

I cling to those maybes like they’re oxygen.

Because the alternative is too ugly to hold.

Dad clears his throat. “Abby.”

I look at him.

There’s something in his eyes then, something like guilt, buried deep. Something like he’s about to say I’m sorry and doesn’t know how.

“I know you don’t want to go,” he says. “But this, this is bigger than us.”

I let out a quiet, humorless breath. “It’s always bigger than us.”

He flinches, just slightly.

Then he nods once, stiff. “Pack your belongings. And…” His gaze drifts toward the dining room, the empty chair. “Take what you need.”

It’s not permission, exactly.

But it’s the closest thing to tenderness I’ve heard from him in a long time.

I turn away before my eyes betray me.

I find Tessa first because Tessa is always where life is happening.

Her family’s house smells like baked bread and lavender soap, and the front door is open because Mrs. Hale believes closed doors “invite gloom.” Tessa is on the porch steps, half braiding her hair while arguing cheerfully with her little brother about whether wolves can get hiccups.

When she sees me, she jumps up like I’ve brought her a present.

“Abby!” she practically sings. “You look oh. You look like you’re either going to puke or commit a felony.”

“That’s… accurate,” I admit.

She grabs my hands, warm and excited and impossibly alive. “Is it the letter? Did it come? Tell me it came.”

“It came,” I say flatly.

Tessa squeals. Actually squeals. “Oh my goddess. We’re going to the capital.”

“We’re being shipped to the capital,” I correct, because if I let her call it a trip I might start screaming.

She squeezes tighter. “Stop. This is fate. This is like… the Moon Goddess finally paying attention.”

My laugh comes out sharp. “If the Moon Goddess is paying attention, she has a very weird sense of humor.”

Tessa ignores that, of course. “Do you think Prince Nate is as handsome in real life? I heard he smiled at a girl from the eastern territory and she fainted.”

“I hope he smiles at me and I faint permanently,” I mutter.

Tessa gasps like I’ve said something scandalous. “Abby!”

“What? It’s practical. I can’t embarrass myself if I’m unconscious.”

Before she can scold me into optimism, I glance past her toward the yard. “Where’s Briar?”

Tessa’s excitement dims a shade. “Probably brooding. She said she needed to ‘inventory her knives.’ Which… I think was a joke. Hopefully.”

It’s not a joke.

Briar Wren is the sort of person who could turn a hairpin into a weapon and would absolutely consider that normal preparation for social events.

“I’ll find her,” I say.

Tessa follows me down the steps, bouncing on her toes. “What do you think the palace looks like? I heard the floors are marble and there are fountains shaped like wolves and.”

“Tessa,” I interrupt.

She pauses, eyes wide. “Yes?”

“Can you… just promise me something?”

Her expression softens. “Anything.”

“Don’t make this into a fairy tale,” I say, voice low. “Not yet.”

Tessa’s mouth opens, then closes. She nods once, slower. “Okay,” she says gently. “Not a fairy tale. A… complicated destiny with minor stress.”

I stare at her.

She grins weakly. “I’m trying.”

It works, a little. The tightness in my chest eases by the smallest fraction.

“Thank you,” I mutter.

We walk together toward the edge of the pack grounds, where the woods thicken and the air smells like pine and damp earth. That’s where Briar goes when she wants quiet. When she wants the world to stop being stupid.

We find her sitting on a fallen log, sharpening a blade that absolutely does not count as a “hairpin.” Her black hair is pulled back, and her grey eyes lift the moment we approach.

“I knew they’d pick us,” she says, like she’s been waiting for confirmation.

Tessa huffs. “Hello to you too, Briar.”

Briar’s gaze stays on me. “You got the summons.”

I nod. “Mandatory. Capital. Mate evaluations. All that.”

Briar slides the blade into a sheath at her thigh. Of course she has a sheath at her thigh. “Convenient,” she says.

Tessa blinks. “Convenient?”

Briar hops off the log. “Rogues rising. Tension everywhere. Royals need alliances. Packs get nervous. So what do they do? They gather a bunch of unmated girls in one place and call it tradition.”

Tessa’s brow furrows. “It is tradition.”

Briar’s eyes sharpen. “Tradition can be a leash.”

I rub my forehead. “Can we not start a philosophical war in the woods?”

Briar steps closer. “You’re pale. Your hands are shaking. What happened at your house?”

My mouth opens, then closes again.

Because what do I even say?

I think my mother might be poisoning me is not a sentence you just toss into a conversation and expect it not to detonate.

“It’s nothing,” I lie.

Briar’s stare says she doesn’t believe in nothing.

Tessa, bless her glowing heart, tries to smooth it over. “It’s nerves,” she says quickly. “Abby hates surprises.”

“I don’t hate surprises,” I mutter. “I hate being controlled.”

Briar’s gaze flicks between us. “You’re getting sick again or something.”

I swallow. “I found Melody’s journal.”

Saying her name out loud in the woods feels safer, like the trees can hold secrets better than walls.

Briar stills. “You still have her things?”

“Yes,” I say, too sharply. “Because she existed.”

Tessa’s face softens. “Of course she did.”

I pull a breath in, tasting pine. “There’s a note. About wolfsbane.”

Tessa’s eyes widen. “Wolfsbane?”

Briar’s expression goes flat in the way it does when she’s sliding into analysis. “What kind of note?”

“A symptom list,” I say quickly, rushing ahead before my courage dissolves. “Nausea, burning throat, weakness, suppressed shifting. That kind of thing.”

Tessa’s excitement falters. “That doesn’t mean.”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” I cut in. Too fast. Too firm.

Briar’s head tilts. “You drink something bitter every morning.”

My heart lurches. “How do you know that?”

Briar’s shrug is slight. “You used to complain about it when we were younger. You said it tasted like acid.”

Tessa frowns. “Abby, I thought it was just… herbs.”

“It is herbs,” I insist, and the insistence is more for me than them. “My mom’s a Gamma. She heals people. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.”

Poison her own children.

The thought tries to form fully, tries to become real, and I slam the door on it.

Briar’s gaze doesn’t soften. “Gammas know what kills as well as what heals.”

Tessa looks between us, distressed. “Briar, don’t. You’re making it sound like, like Mary is some villain.”

Briar’s voice is quiet, brutally calm. “I’m making it sound like the world is ugly sometimes.”

I force a laugh that lands wrong. “My mom isn’t poisoning me.”

I say it like it’s fact.

Like if I say it enough, the universe will obey.

Tessa nods eagerly, grateful. “Exactly. Melody’s notes could be from training. Or… from treating someone.”

“Right,” I say. “From treating someone.”

Briar’s eyes hold mine, steady as stone. “Then why do you look like you just discovered a grave under your bed?”

I don’t answer.

Because I don’t know how to explain this sensation. The slow, creeping realization that my childhood may have been built on something rotten, and that I’ve been swallowing it every morning with obedient lips.

Because I don’t believe it.

Not fully.

Not yet.

But Melody’s handwriting is real. The symptom list is real. The burning in my throat every morning is real.

And the way Mom watched me drink today, like she needed to see it happen, that was real too.

Briar steps back, breaking the pressure between us. “Whatever it is,” she says, “we keep our eyes open in the capital. All of us.”

Tessa nods, trying to revive brightness. “Yes. Eyes open. For the prince and… fountains.”

Briar gives her a look.

Tessa lifts her hands. “I’m coping.”

I exhale slowly. “Fine,” I say. “Eyes open.”

Briar’s mouth quirks, almost a smile. “Good. And Abby?”

“What.”

“If you get pulled aside for anything,” she says, “you tell us. Immediately.”

A chill slides down my spine, sharp and unwelcome.

“Why would I get pulled aside?”

Briar’s gaze is unwavering. “Because you’re the one who hasn’t shifted.”

Tessa bristles. “Briar.”

“It’s true,” I cut in, because I’m tired of pretending the word unshifted doesn’t hang over my life like a threat. “And if they’re going to parade us in front of royals, they’re going to want… proof.”

Briar nods once, like I’ve confirmed a theory.

Tessa reaches for my hand again, squeezing. “You’ll shift,” she says with fierce certainty. “Maybe the capital will help. Maybe being near… royal wolves will spark it.”

I want to believe her so badly it almost hurts.

“Maybe,” I whisper.

But my mind is already slipping backward, to that line in the summons:

health verification as deemed necessary by the royal clinic.

And then forward, to the way Elder Soren looked at me when he warned me to report anything abnormal.

Like he already expected abnormal.

That night, back home, the house feels like it’s holding its breath.

Dad isn’t back yet. Mom moves through the kitchen preparing dinner with smooth efficiency, humming under her breath like everything is fine.

Like our world isn’t cracking at the seams.

I hover in the doorway, watching her hands. Watching what she touches. Watching what she adds to the pot. Watching the kettle.

Watching the mug.

Because the mug is there again, rinsed and waiting. Blue paw print. Curse cup.

Mom doesn’t look up. “Go set the table, Abigail.”

I do, because I’m not brave enough to start a war without knowing whether I’m even right.

Melody’s chair sits in its usual place. Empty. Loyal in its emptiness.

I run my fingers over the top of the chair back, a small, private act of defiance.

Mom sets a plate down with a soft clink. “You’ll be safe in the capital,” she says, as if reading my thoughts. “You’ll meet the prince. You’ll have opportunities you’d never have here.”

I keep my eyes on the table. “And if none of them are my mate?”

Mom’s pause is just slightly too long.

Then she says, “Then you will still have served your purpose.”

My spine goes rigid.

I look up sharply. “My what?”

Mom turns, smile effortless. “Your purpose to the pack, sweetheart. To the realm. Don’t twist my words.”

My mouth opens, then closes.

Because she’s right: if I accuse her, I have to mean it. I have to commit.

And I’m still standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down, unsure whether there’s ground or only darkness.

Dinner passes like that, Mom talking about travel cloaks and etiquette, me stabbing my food like it insulted me, and the empty chair listening to everything we refuse to say.

When Dad finally returns, he looks more exhausted than before. He barely eats. He barely speaks.

At one point, his gaze catches on my face and lingers, like he’s trying to see something he’s been avoiding for years.

Then he looks away.

I take Melody’s journal upstairs after dinner and hide it beneath the lining of my travel bag. My hands shake as I do it.

Because if I’m wrong, I’m being paranoid and cruel.

And if I’m right, then everything I thought I knew about my mother is a lie.

Later, when the house is quiet, I creep out of my room and pause at the top of the stairs.

The kitchen light is still on.

Mom stands alone at the counter, back to me.

In her hand is the chipped mug.

In her other hand is something small.

A vial.

My breath catches.

She tilts it, just slightly, and a few drops disappear into the dark liquid.

My heart slams hard enough to hurt.

I press a hand to my mouth, backing away silently, carefully, like sound itself might get me caught.

In my room, I shut the door with painful gentleness and slide down against it, sitting on the floor with my knees drawn to my chest.

I stare at my travel bag.

At Melody’s journal hidden inside.

At the royal summons folded in my pocket.

I don’t know what’s happening.

I don’t know who to trust.

But I know one thing with cold, perfect clarity:

When dawn comes in two days, I’m leaving.

And whatever is inside that mug, whatever has been inside it for years, might not be able to follow me into the capital.

That thought should terrify me.

Instead, it feels like the first real breath I’ve taken in a long time.