Page 87 of A Sunwoven Ascent

“The Solwyn Tree is here, in this grove?” Evelyne asked suddenly, stepping forward. “You know of it?”

The mention of the sacred tree sent memories surging back like a storm—the warnings, the whisper of wind through the land, the voice that had once haunted him and its insistence to bring the alpha to it. But why?

“Yes, of course, my lady.” Alia nodded quickly. “It is very sacred to my people—I mean… my family.” She faltered slightly before continuing. “I could show it to you in the daylight, if you wished. But I must go now. Again, I am terribly sorry to have interrupted you.”

“Alia, please stay with us,” Alaric said before she could slip away. “I will see you safely home.”

He knew perfectly well there was no carriage waiting. He would have recognized any of his father’s drivers in the market, though none of them would ever be Reuben again. The thought of his old driver—his friend—tightened painfully in his chest. His family must have replaced him while Alaric was away, and now the loss was permanent. Reuben had been murdered by the very wolf pack Alaric now counted among his closest allies. The irony of it twisted uncomfortably in his mind. Only now did he realize how deeply he missed his home—and his parents.

“Please, join us,” Cillian added kindly.

Alia hesitated, then nodded with a small sigh of surrender. “All right.”

Alaric still did not understand why she had been wandering alone, nor why she would visit an ancient tree at such an hour. And how, exactly, did she know of the Solwyn Tree? He had too many questions, and judging by Evelyne’s expression, so did she. But none of them could be answered tonight. First, they needed to leave Velenshire. They needed rest, food, and the mercy of a long bath before anyone could think clearly again.

At last, the roofline of Shaw Manor rose above the trees.

Hopefully, its doors would open to them.

***

The Shaw Manor dining room glowed with candlelight and quiet luxury.

Heavy velvet curtains framed the tall windows overlooking the orchards, shutting out the night beyond, while crystal goblets sparkled beneath the chandelier’s warm light and silver platters held the remnants of the finest meal they had eaten in weeks. For the first time in months, Alaric sat at a proper dining table. Conversation had been scarce at first, hunger and exhaustion drawing everyone’s attention to the food before them, but the greatest relief had come the moment they entered the manor and learned that his parents were alive, Evelyne’s mother was safe, and both households remained unharmed. It had been the first question asked, and the answer alone had persuaded them to stay and accept the Shaws’ hospitality.

As the meal continued, Alaric noticed that one person barely touched her plate.

Alia.

She sat quietly between Cillian and Aurelia, her hands folded in her lap more often than not. Her hood had been lowered now, revealing the familiar blonde hair that shimmered softly in the candlelight. Every so often her gaze drifted toward the windows overlooking the orchard. As if she were listening for something beyond the walls.

At the head of the table, Lord Corvin Shaw studied the group, but it was Lady Mireya who finally broke the silence.

“Well,” she said in a light voice, swirling the wine in her goblet, “it is not every evening one entertains two wolf packs and half the future of the southern territories.” Her gaze flicked briefly to Kaldrek before settling on Evelyne. “Velenshire would faint dead away if they knew.”

Lord Corvin cleared his throat. “Which is precisely why they must not.” His gaze moved to Alaric. “You have questions.”

Alaric set down his fork. “That would be an understatement.”

Corvin nodded. “You know of the Solwyn Tree, but not what it truly is.”

Lady Mireya leaned back in her chair. “The oldest living source of magic in the southern territories,” she said softly, “and perhaps on the entire continent.”

Cillian lifted his head.

“Long ago,” Corvin continued, “when Vaelora first began her rise, the witches of Velenshire joined with the Duskwood bloodline to perform what we now call the Great Rite.”

“The ritual that created the prophecy,” Evelyne murmured.

“Yes,” Corvin said. “But it did far more than that.”

“The ritual bound the southern territories to the prophecy’s fate,” Mireya said. “It drew a veil of protection across the land.”

“A veil?” Alaric asked.

“Not a wall,” Corvin clarified. “More an invisible glamour. It masks magic from ordinary humans and discourages wandering magical creatures from crossing into the southern lands.”

“They feel something unsettling at the borders,” Mireya added. “A quiet urging to turn another way.”