The den was a circle of stone and secrets, its air thick with the layered scents of dried herbs, old parchment, and the lingering ghost of woodsmoke. Torches cast a warm, flickering light over shelves crammed with scrolls and clay pots, making the shadows dance. Ceridwen sat across from them, her ancient eyes sharp and assessing. She had listened to Connall's story without a single interruption, her wrinkled hands steepled before her.
Connall finished his account, the words hanging in the heavy air like dust motes in a sunbeam. He spoke of their fated bond, of their desperate flight from Guntram Volkov, and of the absolute necessity of an alliance. He tried to infuse his voice with the authority of the prince he once was, a leader reclaiming his birthright, but the feral rogue's caution still clung to the edges of his words.
Ceridwen nodded slowly, her gaze drifting from him to Althea, lingering there with an unnerving intensity that seemed to peel back layers of defense.
"Your claim is strong, Prince of the Silvermoon," she said, her voice a soft rasp like dry leaves skittering across stone. "I see the truth in your words, and the power of the bond between you is undeniable. It hums in the very air of this den. It is a powerful omen." She paused, her eyes hardening slightly, the warmth receding. "But the loyalists I protect… they do not see an omen. They see the daughter of the pack that destroyed their families. They see the wolf on her father's banners. Blood is a stain that is not easily washed away by words of fate."
Connall's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. "Guntram is the enemy, not her."
"Grief does not see clearly," Ceridwen countered, her voice softening with a weary sadness. "It is a beast that sees only one color: the shade of the banner under which its heart was broken." She conceded with a slight dip of her head. "But you are right. Guntram must be stopped. Trust, however, is a foundation that must be built stone by painful stone, not demanded as a right of birth. For our people to follow you, to truly believe a Silvermoon has returned, they must first believe in her."
A cold knot of dread formed in Connall's stomach. "What are you saying?"
Ceridwen's gaze was like flint. "I am saying there must be an undeniable demonstration of faith. A symbol so powerful it burns through their hatred. There is a way to prove her heart is true, but the path is not without pain. It is a trial of absolute transparency."
***
The air in the small den grew thick, charged with a sudden, suffocating pressure. Althea, who had remained silent and poised, felt the sting of their mistrust like a physical blow. She squared her shoulders, her chin lifting in defiance.
"What is this trial?" she asked, her voice cool and steady, a shield against the judgment in the room.
Ceridwen's eyes measured her, a flicker of something—respect, perhaps—in their ancient depths. "It is an old rite, from a time when bonds were wilder and trust was a treasure bought with sacrifice. The Ritual of the Unveiled Heart." She gestured to a heavy stone bowl on a low table, its surface worn smooth with age. "The subject drinks a potion of crushed moon-herbs and silver dust that shimmers like captured starlight. It binds their life force to an ancient truth-stone for a time."
The lore-keeper's voice dropped, taking on a grave cadence that resonated in the quiet den. "While under its influence, speaking a deliberate lie inflicts a searing, soul-deep pain. But it is more invasive than that. The stone is not a simple lie detector. It exposes not just falsehoods, but any evasion of the heart. It tears down every wall, revealing any hidden loyalty, any secret grief, any buried fear. For a time, your soul is laid bare for all to see."
Connall's protective instincts roared to life. He surged to his feet, the scrape of his chair a harsh sound against the stone floor. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "No. Absolutely not."
The words were a low growl. This was not a trial; it was a violation. He knew the things she kept locked away—the profound sorrow for the father she lost, a man they saw only as a butcher. Her lingering sense of duty to the innocent people of her former pack, people they considered enemies. The private, gnawing fears she never spoke aloud, even to him in the dead of night. This ritual would rip all of it into the open for her sworn enemies to pick apart.
"You will not subject her to an interrogation," he snarled, planting himself between Althea and the old wolf.
Ceridwen held up a thin, wrinkled hand, her gaze firm but not unkind. "This is not for you to decide, Kaelen Silvermoon. And it is not a punishment." Her eyes flickered toward the den's entrance, where shadows had gathered, then back to them. "It is a key. If she willingly endures this, if she allows her heart to be seen, raw and true, she gives our people a reason to believe in something beyond their own agony. She gives them a reason to follow their Prince once more."
The ritual was not a trial of guilt. It was a political act, a bridge across a chasm of blood and hatred. It was, Ceridwen's piercing gaze made clear, the only way forward.
***
The weight of the choice settled on Althea's shoulders, heavier than any mountain. She could feel new eyes on her and glanced toward the den's entrance. Several other royalists had gathered there, drawn by the confrontation. Their faces were hard masks of unforgiving loss, their silent hatred a palpable force, pressing in on her, trying to suffocate her.
Connall moved to her side, his body a solid shield between her and the hostile stares. His voice was a low, fierce whisper, meant only for her ears. "You do not have to do this. We will find another way. I swear it." He offered her an escape, prioritizing her safety over their mission, over his own throne. In that moment, the depth of his feelings for her was a raw, aching truth, more powerful than any potion.
She looked up at him, at the raw worry etched around his eyes, the feral protectiveness that made him look ready to fight the entire world for her.
*He would protect me. He would hide me. And I would always be his weakness.*
To refuse was to prove them all right. She would forever be the Bloodfang whelp, the liability, the fugitive he was forced to drag behind him like a chain. Their alliance would be built on sand, ready to crumble at the first tremor of doubt.
*But to accept…*
The thought sent a tremor of pure terror through her. It meant letting them see everything. They would see her mourn the father they hated. They would see her worry for the packmates she'd left behind. They would see every flicker of doubt, every ounce of fear she had so carefully concealed. It meant enduring excruciating pain and trusting that the raw, messy, contradictory truth of her heart would be enough.
It was terrifying. It was also the only way. This was her path to becoming an equal, a partner in this war, not just a prize to be protected or a burden to be borne. This was how she seized her own power.
Althea took a deep, steadying breath, pulling away from Connall's protective stance. She met his worried gaze, a silent message passing between them—one of gratitude, of understanding, and of resolve. Then she turned. She faced Ceridwen and the hateful glares of the assembled survivors, her spine straight, her resolve forged in the fire of their animosity.
Lifting her chin, her voice rang out, clear and resolute in the heavy silence.
"I will do it."