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Her hands stilled briefly over the empty space in her chest.

She wondered—briefly and sharply—if things might have been different if she had borne a child.

Children mattered in wolf communities. They lived long lives; territory was always contested, mild skirmishes between wolf packs, borders fraying with each generation. To contribute offspring was to contribute to the survival of the whole.

A knock sounded at the front door.

Fae's musings scattered like snowflakes as she went to answer it.

Lisna stood on the threshold, her hair in a golden crown, her hands clasped too tightly over her swollen belly. This was her third pregnancy. Beside her was Sion, her brother, broad-shouldered and silent, eyes searching her impassive face. Lisna's cheeks were flushed from the cold, eyes rimmed red. At her side stood little Bjorn, solemn and straight-backed, his grey eyes far too old for his seven years. Behind him bounced Sigrid, all golden hair and restless limbs, already peering past Lisna's skirts because she couldn't wait another moment to see her favourite aunt.

The silence stretched as Lisna held her eyes.

"I—" Lisna began, then stopped. Her hand looked white on her son's shoulder. "May we come in?"

Fae stepped back without a word.

Bjorn entered first. He simply took her hand and walked to the kitchen bench and sat, leaning his small, sturdy weight against her side as though he knew how badly she needed it.

The tears came without warning.

Fae turned her face away, breath catching, but Bjorn had noticed. He reached up with a little hand and wiped her cheek with his thumb, his expression grave, almost protective.

"You're crying," he observed softly.

She swallowed. "Only a little."

"It will be all right," he said, with the calm certainty of a child who was loved and treated like a prince.

Sigrid chose that moment to scramble onto Fae's lap, utterly unconcerned with grief or guilt. She planted her small hands on Fae's chest and declared, "I want cake, Fae-ma."

Fae laughed once, a wet and broken hum, and buried her face in the child's hair, breathing in the scent of milk and honey and warmth. Lisna covered her mouth, shoulders shaking.

She gestured toward the table. "Sit." After a moment, she added, "Tea?"

Lisna nodded mutely.

Lisna's guilt was a tangible thing. She had her children—healthy, loud, and beloved. She had Maxen, who adored her more than life. How could she have missed what was happening to her sister right under her nose?

"I'm sorry," Lisna said finally, voice like crumpled paper. "You are my sister, and I am the alpha's mate. How could I not know?"

Sion said nothing. He was the beta of the pack, and was just as guilty.

"I've failed you as your brother," Sion whispered. "I should have protected you."

All aflutter at hearing her sister and older, stern brother talk like this, Fae rose to set the kettle, needing the motion, the normalcy of it to gather her thoughts. She poured the tea with the same care as before, adding goat's milk just the way Lisna liked it, setting the cups down, followed by a plate piled with cake slices.

"This wasn't your fault." Fae wrapped one arm around Bjorn while the other held Sigrid. "I kept it quiet. I thought it was something broken in me. Something lacking."

Lisna looked up sharply. "Why?" Then, softer. "Why wait this long?"

Fae met her eyes at last. "What was the alternative?" she asked calmly. "These bonds are forever. I was scared of what would happen if I left. I was scared the distance kill me. And secretly I hoped there would be a child. Now that I have seen the rune, I don't care."

Bjorn leaned a little closer to Fae while Sigrid was picking crumbs off the plate.

Lisna's breath hitched. "Sometimes I wondered why he stayed away so often. Why you always seemed different from other couples. You never held hands, never kissed or hugged. I told myself that every couple was different. Anything but this."

And there it was, the truth—heavy, unavoidable, and far too late.