Chapter 3

Roland sent for the Elder.

When I saw the familiar figure appear at the gate, my last ember of hope went out.

The Elder had always played the kindly patriarch around me — clapping my shoulder at festivals, murmuring that I was a good, obedient pup.

But I had known for years: he was Roland's creature, kept comfortable by steady contributions from Roland's coffers. Roland's dominance in this territory ran through him.

The Elder's face now held nothing but flat authority.

"Elara." His voice was a blade. "Show respect to your elders and apologize to Roland and your mother. Now."

I set my jaw and said nothing.

Apologize. For what?

"Are you deaf, girl?" He raised his hand.

Then my grandfather's voice split the air.

He came around the corner leaning on his walking staff, back more bent than I remembered, pace slower — but he put his thin body between me and the Elder without a moment's hesitation.

"Roland. You touch my granddaughter again and see what follows."

His voice trembled with age and shook with certainty, both at once.

My throat closed. The whole world had let me go. He hadn't.

Roland's men didn't wait. They closed in and shoved my grandfather aside — an old man past seventy, handled like an obstacle in a road.

"Grandfather!" I lunged, but hands clamped me from behind.

He went down hard. His staff skittered away. He tried to rise; his knee was bleeding through the fabric, the stain spreading dark and fast.

"You animals!" My voice cracked. "He is your elder!"

The pack Elder looked on and pointed at me with two fingers.

"This one needs a correction facility. Keep carrying on, and I'll have her sent to one."

A correction facility.

I went still.

"Exactly." His voice turned vicious. "A fatherless stray, no discipline, no worth. Better for the pack without her."

I understood then — this wasn't only about the Guard placement. They intended to dismantle me entirely.

Several of Roland's men dragged me through the territory to the abandoned homestead at the edge of the old ward.

My father's house. The one we'd shared before everything ended.

The contest ribbons I'd won as a pup still hung on the wall. His favorite cup still sat on the table, exactly where he'd left it.

The iron lock struck home with a clang that echoed through the empty rooms.

Through the door, Roland's voice, almost pleasant.

"The hero ceremony is the day after tomorrow, Elara."

My heart stopped for a beat.

The day after tomorrow. So soon.

"Marcus will take the stage and deliver the address. Once the ceremony's official record is sealed, I'll let you out." A pause. "Sit here and think about your choices."

I listened to their footsteps fade.

Marcus — Roland's son — standing at my father's memorial. Reading words from a prepared script. Wearing the honor my father had purchased with his life as if it were a costume.

I threw myself at the door and pounded until my fists bled.

Until I couldn't anymore.

I slid down the wood and sat on the floor of my father's house, looking up at his portrait on the wall.

He was in his Warrior's gear. He was smiling the way he always smiled — like sunlight had decided to wear a face.

"Dad." My voice barely made a sound. "Do you see what your pack has done?"

I didn't understand. I had never understood.

Why do the good ones fall, and the scavengers inherit everything they built?

Night came. The old homestead went fully dark.

I sat in the corner, hollow with hunger, hollower with despair.

In two days, it would all be finalized.

Marcus on the stage, the seal on the record, my father's name handed over to someone who had never earned a single scar in his service.

And I would be locked in here, watching it happen.