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Fae closed her fingers around the beads. She did not trust herself to speak.

Instead, she moved past them into the kitchen and muttered something about them staying for last meal.

Chapter 8

She worked in silence, humming a lullaby.

Veal browned slowly in the pot, the aroma changing as wine hissed against heat. She added zest, thyme, onions softened to sweetness, broth poured carefully in bouts until everything settled into a rich, bubbling simmer. The act of cooking calmed her—the repetition, the certainty of steps followed many times, just like the soothing, repetitive feel of sanding wood. She heard Myra and Ragnor follow her and sit at the long table in the kitchen. The smell of fresh bread wafted from the stone oven. Though some packs preferred modern appliances, she loved doing things the old way.

No one helped as usual. Once Bowen would mix the batter for the fairy cakes while Eira sat at the table and licked the wooden whisk. Back then, they had pushed past their initial hostility to follow the quiet stranger who stitched their clothes, made their food, and read stories about the Great Wolf of the Dark Forest and his exploits. They followed her to school and back, proud that their new mam was a teacher. Then they grew up, and gradually drifted away, first with suspicion and then hostility.

Soon, last meal was ready, and Myra set the bowls—the children had stopped setting the table and clearing the dishes years ago—while Fae ladled the stew. The children came in, followed by Rowena.

Rowena watched with half-closed eyes.The children avoided eye contact and ate.

When the bowls were empty, she rose with Myra and Ragnor.

"Clean up," she said to the table at large as she walked them to the door to say her goodbyes. Myra hugged her for an extra minute before Ragnor led her away. Myra’s back was hunched, and she did nothing to hide the silent tears that painted her cheeks. With a sigh, Fae finally closed the door and made her way to her room.

Indignant mutters followed Fae up the stairs, but she did not turn back.

Her room was dim and quiet. She closed the door and leaned against it, breath finally leaving her in a long, shuddering release.

Soon, her wolf whispered, wrapping her in warmth.Soon we will escape this wretched life.

Fae closed her eyes and believed it. Sleep came easily with Feraal curled at her feet.

***

The next morning, the kitchen was exactly as she had left it.

Fae stood in the doorway for a long moment, taking in the stacked bowls, the congealed stew clinging to their sides, the table still scattered with crumbs and rings of dried wine. No one had lifted a finger.

Of course, they hadn't.

She exhaled through her nose, the sound more resigned than angry, and began. Plates went into the sink first. She filled it with hot water, watching the thick crust soften and loosen, the remnants of last night surrendering inch by inch.

Then she set the porridge to boil.

Oats stirred slowly, patiently. When it was ready, she carried the pot to the table, setting out honey, sliced apples, and the fruit Blaidd had brought from his last visit to a far-away pack, cut into neat rounds.

The children drifted in, quieter than usual. Bowen avoided her eyes, but Eira didn't. She sent sharp, hostile glances Fae's way, muttering under her breath about selfishness and about punishment from the moon goddess. Fae did not bother to respond; she was counting the hours.

Halfway through the meal, something inside her stirred.

Her wolf sensed visitors, teeth bared as she shook out her fur.

Bowen looked up and Eira went quiet, words dying on her tongue. Even Rowena straightened, her smug smile faltering for a heartbeat before the soft mask fell back into place.

They finished quickly after that.

Excuses followed: appointments, errands, urgencies that had not existed minutes ago.

Fae waited until the door closed before she let out a long breath.

She did her last checks and brought her bags down the stairs.

She would take the truck to the nearest human town, then board a ship from there—away from mountains, from the packland, and from the life she had lived all her life.