The air in the tunnel leading to the ritual chamber was cold and ancient, smelling of damp earth, chilled stone, and buried secrets. Althea walked with a steady, measured pace that belied the tremor in her soul. Her shoulders were squared against the weight of the hostile stares she felt burning into her back. She followed Ceridwen, her gaze fixed on the old wolf's stooped spine, using it as an anchor in a churning sea of animosity. Each scuff of a boot, each muttered breath behind her, was a fresh wave of accusation.
A hard-faced elder with a jaw like granite, Cathal, broke the heavy silence. His voice was a low growl that scraped against the stone walls, rough and unforgiving. "This is a fool's errand. We are trusting our fate to the memories of a Bloodfang wolf."
Ceridwen didn't turn around, her own steps never faltering. "We are trusting the old magic to show us the truth, Cathal. Something your words have failed to do."
Connall watched from the edge of the small procession, his face an unreadable mask of stone. His pack's blood feud, a ten-year litany of hatred, screamed at him to agree with Cathal, to see only the enemy in Althea's proud silhouette. But the memory of her quiet resolve, of her willingness to face this ordeal when she could have fled, gnawed at his certainty. He remembered her arguments, logical and fierce, and the haunted look in her eyes that spoke more of grief than guilt. As she drew level with him, their eyes met for a fleeting, charged instant. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. It was not a gesture of comfort or trust. It was a silent, brutal demand: *Prove my entire life wrong.*
A spike of agony lanced through him, a white-hot echo of their bond. It was her pain, her terror, her righteous fury at their mistrust, all crashing into him at once. He gritted his teeth, welcoming the familiar torment. It was a wall between them, a constant, searing reminder of what she was.
At the end of the tunnel, Ceridwen placed her withered hands on a heavy stone door carved with faded spirals. With a low groan of grinding rock, she pushed it inward, revealing the chamber beyond. It was a small, circular space, the air humming with a quiet, contained power. In the center, rising from the floor like the petrified heart of the mountain, was a single, gnarled root of Heartwood, its surface pulsing with a faint, internal light.
***
Althea knelt before the root, the biting cold of the stone seeping through the thin fabric of her trousers. The low thrum of the Heartwood vibrated through the floor, a deep, resonant hum that seemed to echo the frantic, desperate beating of her own heart. She took a final, steadying breath and placed her hands on the ancient wood.
The air in the chamber crackled as if struck by lightning. A sensation like freezing fire surged up her arms, bypassing flesh and bone to seize her very soul.
A swirl of ethereal mist bloomed in the air above the root, shimmering like a heat haze before coalescing into a vision. The council elders leaned forward, their faces bathed in the ghostly light, their ingrained skepticism warring with a primal awe.
The vision sharpened, showing a younger, more trusting Althea in the great hall of the Bloodfang pack. The air was warm, smelling of polished wood and beeswax. She stood before her mentor, Fendrel, a respected elder with kind eyes and a face creased with grandfatherly warmth. He was handing her a heavy, sealed ceremonial chest. His voice in the memory was a gentle rumble of pride. "You carry the hope of our pack, Althea. A symbol that old wounds can be mended." The memory was saturated with her own feelings of honor, duty, and a profound respect for the man before her.
Then, the vision soured. The scene shifted violently to a rocky pass under a gray, unforgiving sky. The wind howled. Guntram Volkov's enforcers surrounded her, their faces cruel masks of triumph. They tore the chest from her hands and smashed it open on the rocks. The vision captured every splintering detail, every nuance of Althea's genuine shock as the contents were revealed—not a peace offering, but the desecrated, chalk-white skull of a Silvermoon elder, a ceremonial rune still etched on its forehead. Her gasp of pure horror echoed in the silent chamber, a sound of absolute, soul-deep confusion as her world tilted on its axis.
The magic of the Heartwood was not finished. It clawed deeper, tearing forth a memory Althea had never witnessed, a truth hidden behind a lie. The vision shifted again, showing Fendrel in a shadowed alley just hours before he'd given her the chest. The kind face was gone, replaced by a mask of cold, naked ambition. A cloaked figure, an agent of Guntram, stepped from the shadows. The vision was silent, but no words were needed. Fendrel's hand reached out, taking a heavy bag of silver, his fingers curling around it with greedy finality. His betrayal was absolute.
The vision imploded, collapsing into a shower of fading light. Althea slumped against the root, a choked sob tearing from her throat. Tears streamed down her face, born not just of grief, but of the searing agony of reliving the moment her world had been shattered, her past poisoned by the man she had trusted most.
***
A stunned, suffocating silence filled the chamber. The elders stared at the empty space where the vision had been, their faces a ruin of shock and shame. One looked away, unable to meet the gaze of the weeping woman. Lorcan's hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists, his jaw tight with fury directed not at Althea, but at the ghost of Fendrel's treachery. They looked from the lingering image of betrayal to the woman collapsed at the root, and for the first time, they did not see a Bloodfang wolf. They saw a victim.
Ceridwen moved first, her steps soft on the stone floor. She placed a gentle hand on Althea's trembling shoulder. "The magic does not lie," she said, her voice soft but ringing with conviction.
Cathal let out a harsh, scoffing breath, shattering the spell. "A powerful illusion. Nothing more." He spat the words, his face a mask of stubborn denial. "Memories can be shaped. Magic can be bent. It proves she *believes* she is innocent, not that she is."
Before another word could be spoken, Connall strode forward. He ignored Cathal as if he were a piece of furniture, his gaze locked on Althea. He stopped directly in front of her and, without a word, extended his hand.
Her head lifted, her tear-filled silver eyes wide and vulnerable. After a moment's hesitation, her trembling fingers touched his. The instant their skin met, the raw, agonizing pain of their bond did not spike. It dissolved. In its place, a startling pulse of warmth and shared clarity shot through them. It was more than a feeling; it was a silent, instantaneous exchange. He felt the pure, unvarnished truth of her memory, the horror, the betrayal. And she felt the foundations of his decade-long hatred crack and begin to crumble into dust. For one fleeting second, there was no Silvermoon, no Bloodfang. There was only the truth they had both just witnessed.
Connall pulled Althea to her feet. Her gaze, raw and wounded, met his. The suspicion in his eyes was gone, replaced by a deep, churning uncertainty that was almost more terrifying. He wasn't just questioning her guilt; he was questioning everything.
Cathal watched their silent exchange, his eyes narrowed with contempt. "The bond proves an animal instinct, nothing more," he said, his voice cutting through the quiet chamber, reclaiming authority. "Her innocence changes nothing of our predicament. The question is not what she remembers. The question is, what is she to us now? A victim to be pitied? Or a weapon to be aimed?"