[Afternoon]
[Ovelia's POV]
We had just emerged from the dense forest when the sunlight broke through the canopy, spilling across the green plains in a warm, golden flood. The air was fresh—carrying the faint sweetness of wildflowers and the earthy scent of sun-warmed soil. Beneath the sprawling branches of a massive oak, we found the perfect spot to rest.
The grass was soft beneath us, a natural cushion after the rough wooden floor of the wagon. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves above, weaving a soothing melody through the quiet afternoon. Ann had prepared a delicious spread—rice, golden chicken fillets, flaky fish, fluffy pancakes, and tarts glistening with glaze. We sat together, savoring the meal in the dappled shade.
But beneath the lightness, I felt the lingering tension from the earlier encounter with the werewolf bandits. It hung in the air like a shadow, unspoken but present.
"Ann," Ace said with a serious look, "from now on, no titles. No 'Lady,' no 'Sir.' We're merchants on the road—and merchants don't answer to royalty. It will keep us safe." He reached for a piece of chicken fillet and glanced at Ann, his silver eyes softening. "Consider it part of the disguise. After that encounter, anonymity is our best armor. If we meet anyone, you can call me 'A.' Ray can be 'R.'"
Ann hesitated, her lips parting as if to protest. But Ray's voice cut in, calm and firm. "Ace is right. We need to keep our identities hidden. We're too well-known as the first and second princes of the Silverhowl Kingdom. Using nicknames will help us blend in."
Ann nodded, though I could still see a flicker of reluctance in her eyes.
We continued eating, the quiet crunch of food filling the spaces between us. But a question had been forming in my mind since the attack, pressing against my thoughts like a persistent ache. I hesitated, then decided to voice it.
"Everyone." I caught their attention. They turned to me, expressions curious and attentive. "Can I ask something?"
"Sure," they replied in unison, their voices overlapping with encouragement.
I took a steadying breath, my fingers tracing the edge of my wooden plate. "When I was a child, I read a book. It said that every twenty years, human women are given as sacrifices to werewolves. To become mates or wives—all in the name of peace." I paused, studying their faces. Ray's expression had gone carefully neutral. Ace's jaw tightened slightly. Ann looked down at her hands. "I always believed peace meant harmony. An end to conflict. Understanding." My voice grew quieter, trembling with a sadness I couldn't suppress. "But earlier, I heard a werewolf talk about selling humans at the black market. And on my wedding day, a black werewolf tried to kill me. So I have to ask—is that peace real between humans and werewolves?"
The weight of my words hung in the air, stretching the silence until it felt tangible. Even the breeze seemed to still, as if nature itself was holding its breath.
"That's—" Ace started, his voice sharp with a defensive edge. But Ray held up a hand, silencing him.
"It existed." Ray's voice was heavy as he reached for a pancake. "But the peace you imagine—where humans and werewolves share the same streets, the same markets, the same sunsets—that does not exist. What we have is a truce. A promise not to slaughter each other on sight. It is not harmony—it is exhaustion."
"But the sacrifices have happened for generations," I murmured, my voice hollow. "And now I am the face of that treaty." My food turned to ash in my mouth. I stared at the tart on my plate, unable to bear looking at their faces, fearing I'd find confirmation of a hopeless truth.
I chanced a glance. Ann's expression held profound sorrow. Ray's was etched with grim acceptance. Ace's was a storm of frustration and guilt. The air between us grew thick with unspoken history.
"You cannot understand why we cling to the word 'peace' unless you know how it started." Ray's voice was low, tired. He poured himself a cup of juice—cheerful amber that contrasted starkly with his somber mood.
When he'd finished eating, he shifted forward, elbows resting on his knees, looking like a man bracing himself to recount a tragedy. "Long ago, humans did not know we existed. We lived among them, blending in, never shifting. But then a rumor spread—a werewolf had killed an old woman near Shadow Pack territory." He paused, jaw tightening. "Whether the rumor was true didn't matter. Fear was already fire. And fire spreads fast. It forced us to show ourselves, and that single spark ignited a war that claimed countless lives. Hatred between humans and werewolves passed from generation to generation, each new child inheriting old wounds."
His brow furrowed deeply, his gaze distant. "Generations later, a human king—Alfred Amber the Fifth of the Amethyst Kingdom—looked at the strength of the united packs and saw only an endless river of blood for his people. In desperation, he approached the kings of the four great packs: Silverhowl, Crimsonheart, Atlassian, and Shadow." Ray paused, letting the weight settle. "His proposal was this: every twenty years, human villages would offer a daughter. In return, the next heir of each werewolf kingdom must marry a human. A tribute. A living treaty. In exchange, the open war would end." He let a blade of grass fall from his fingers. "Most of the Alpha Kings, sick of the slaughter, sick of burying their own, reluctantly agreed. By the will of the Moon Goddess, the bond was sealed—the moment an heir is born, his fated mate is chosen among the human daughters of that generation. And so it has passed, generation after generation, binding bloodlines to fate and duty, whether the heart is willing or not."
A hollow silence followed. The weight of that reluctant agreement, that grim bargain, settled over us like a cold fog.
"The word 'peace' is a bandage over a wound that never healed." Ann's voice was low, thick with personal grief. "It stops the bleeding, but it does not mend the flesh. Despite the sacrifices made for this so-called peace, many humans and werewolves still seek revenge. This cycle pauses, but it never truly ends."
"Some wolves have found their fated mates through the sacrifices," Ace said, his voice tight. "That is the only reason we still call it a 'bridal sacrifice'—because sometimes, it becomes one." He shook his head, jaw working. "But those women who are not fated? They are not brides. They are offerings. Slaves. Toys." His voice hardened. "My father has argued before the other Alphas to end the practice. But they refuse. They say without the tribute, without that symbol, the thin veneer of calm would shatter completely—and the war would begin anew."
"So the peace is not a bridge," I said slowly, the words forming in my mind as I spoke them. "It is a gate. A gate that holds back the flood—but it does not stop the water from rising."
"Yes," Ace replied, his voice grim. He picked up a tart but didn't eat it, just turned it over in his fingers. "That is the truth."
"What about witches?" I asked, seizing on the other thread of mystery. "Ann said they are real."
"And elves," Ace added, his tone dropping. "They exist as well—but that is a story I am not ready to tell. Not here. Not now."
But the mere mention of elves sent a jolt of pure, undiluted wonder through me. Other races, other magics… the world was so much vaster than Timberline or the palace.
Ray stretched, leaning back against the tree. "If I eat another bite, I may not be able to climb back onto that wagon." He grinned, but the smile did not quite reach his eyes.
"The food was amazing. Thank you, Ann." I chimed in, wanting to support Ray's attempt at lightening the mood.
"It's always my pleasure." Ann smiled warmly, though her eyes still held a trace of sadness. Then she turned to me, her tone shifting. "Before I forget, Lady Ovelia, it's time to tend to your arm."
Instead of pity for the human women who had sacrificed themselves—like me—I felt a quiet gratitude for their bravery. They had faced their fate head-on, each one striving to lessen the hatred between our kinds.
Ann retrieved the medical kit from the wagon and approached me, her brow furrowed with concentration. She rolled up my left sleeve and carefully removed the old bandage.
"That wound should have taken a month to heal," Ray said, eyeing my arm with open disbelief. "You've shaved three weeks off that estimate. That's not normal—for a human."
"I think so too." Ace's voice was muffled, his mouth full as he savored the last bite of his meal.
"But you still smell human, Ovelia." Ray's grin turned teasing.
I offered a small, uncertain smile. "I don't know why I heal so fast. Maybe it's just… what I am. I don't have another explanation."
I focused inward, reaching for Lady Firera. "Lady Firera, is it because of you that my wounds heal so quickly?"
"No," she replied, her voice calm but firm. "You were born that way."
"Is it because my family can cast spells?" I asked silently. She didn't answer.
Perhaps my body simply grew accustomed to recovering from bruises and breaks in Timberline, I thought. It learned to mend itself quickly.
After our meal, Ann began to tidy up, and I joined her in cleaning the dishes. When we finished, we climbed back into the wagon and resumed our journey.
[Ace's POV]
I remembered this road—it split into two paths, one leading to Timberline Village. The thought stirred something in me, a mix of curiosity and dread.
I turned to Ovelia, my voice gentle but probing. "Ovelia, I've never set foot in your village. I only made it to the entrance on sacrifice day. Could you tell me what life is like there?"
She turned to me, her red eyes thoughtful, seeing a place I could not. "It's simple," she began, a soft, nostalgic smile touching her lips. "We don't have money. We don't need it. We grow what we eat, and we share what we grow." She paused, her gaze drifting to a distant point. "The whole village works together. No one hoards. No one starves." Her voice dropped. "It is a good place—in its own way. The people are kind to each other." She did not add: except to me.
As she spoke, I saw joy in her eyes, tinged with a sadness she couldn't hide. It was the first time I'd heard of a village where money didn't exist and unity thrived. My curiosity about Timberline Village grew.
"Ray, I want to visit Timberline Village," The words left my mouth before I could stop them, tasting like ash. I needed to see the place that had hurt her—to understand what she'd endured.
"As you command," Ray's voice carried an exaggerated bow and a chuckle, his eyes glinting. He always saw through me.
But it was Ovelia's reaction that struck me. Her head snapped toward me, her eyes wide with shock, then clouded with something like dread.
"I have no reason to go back," she said, her voice flat. Her hands, resting on her knees, clenched into fists. It was not an argument—it was a statement. The door was not just closed; it was bolted from the inside.
I offered her a reassuring smile. But inside, I was a tempest of emotions—curiosity and dread tangled together. What would I feel when I saw the people who raised her? Would I want to tear them apart? Or would I find myself asking why they had been so cruel? Would I understand? Or would I simply not care—because she was mine now, and they no longer mattered?