Chapter Two: The Weight of Blood
Freya's father had been dead for years.
That truth returned to her as she crossed the threshold of her birth pack's territory, her steps heavy, her heart bruised but still hopeful. He had been the one who taught her strength without cruelty, leadership without fear. Had he lived, none of this would have happened. She clung to that thought like a talisman.
The guards at the gate looked away when they saw her.
Not in surprise. Not in concern.
In shame.
Her chest tightened.
"I am Freya of this pack," she said, lifting her chin. "Daughter of the late Alpha."
The name should have opened doors. Instead, it closed them.
They escorted her inside without resistance, without warmth. The familiar halls felt colder, sharper—like a home that no longer recognized her footsteps.
Her brother waited in the council chamber.
He sat in her father's seat.
That alone told her everything.
He rose when he saw her, but there was no relief in his eyes. No rush forward. No embrace. His expression was guarded, distant—polished by power and the woman standing beside him.
Her stepmother.
The alpha's mate.
The one who had never looked at Freya without measuring what she could take from her.
"Brother," Freya said softly.
He inclined his head. "You shouldn't have come."
The words struck deeper than any insult.
"I had nowhere else," Freya replied. "Fear betrayed me. I am not safe."
Silence followed. Heavy. Calculated.
The elders shifted. The stepmother smiled.
"You made your choice," the woman said calmly. "You married out of the pack. Your loyalty followed."
Freya's breath hitched. "I did it for you. For him." She looked at her brother. "So you could rise without challenge."
He did not deny it.
Instead, he said, "And because of that sacrifice, we are stable now."
Freya took a step forward. "He is hurting people. Making decisions in secret. He—"
"Enough," her brother interrupted.
The word echoed like a gavel.
"You are no longer our concern," he continued. "Your presence here endangers alliances. We will not provoke an alpha war over a woman who broke fate."
The words felt rehearsed. As though this conversation had already happened—just without her.
"I am your sister," Freya whispered.
His jaw tightened. "You are a reminder of a mistake."
Something inside her shattered.
She looked around the room—at the elders who had once praised her, at the banners her father had raised, at the pack she had bled loyalty for.
"I came for refuge," she said. "Not power."
The stepmother stepped forward then, her voice soft and final. "And we deny it."
Freya felt hands grab her arms.
She barely had time to turn before pain exploded at the back of her skull.
Darkness swallowed her whole.
---
She woke to stone.
Cold, damp, unyielding stone.
Her head throbbed. Her wrists burned where restraints bit into her skin. The air smelled wrong—old, metallic, heavy with despair.
She knew this place.
Fear's stronghold.
The underground chambers reserved for enemies who were meant to disappear.
Her husband stood at the edge of the torchlight, arms crossed, his expression carved from satisfaction.
"They brought you back," he said lightly. "I wondered if they'd bother."
Freya tried to move. Pain flared through her body—sharp, disorienting.
"You went to them," Fear continued, circling her slowly. "I told you it was over."
Her voice came out hoarse. "They chose you."
Fear smiled. "They chose stability."
He crouched in front of her, close enough that she could see the triumph in his eyes. "Even your brother understands that."
Something cold settled in her chest.
"You don't need me anymore," Fear went on. "But what you carry… that has value."
Her hand instinctively moved toward her stomach.
Fear noticed.
His smile widened.
Days blurred into one another after that.
Time lost meaning in the dark. She was moved, restrained, questioned—not for information, but for compliance. For surrender. She refused it all, clinging to the quiet rhythm within her, the proof that something innocent still existed in a world that had turned cruel.
Until one day, the guards came with purpose.
Fear was there.
He did not look away.
He watched.
Freya screamed his name—not in love, not in desperation—but in disbelief. This was not the man she had married. This was not an alpha. This was something hollow and hungry.
When it was over, the silence was worse than the pain.
She lay there, shaking, staring at the place where life had been—where her child should have been.
Fear stood above her, unmoved.
"It was necessary," he said.
Necessary.
The word echoed endlessly.
She saw the small, still form only briefly—curled, silent, robbed of breath before it had truly known the world.
Her vision blurred. Something primal broke loose in her chest—not a scream, not tears, but a soundless agony so deep it hollowed her out completely.
"That was your blood," she whispered.
Fear turned away. "It was leverage."
Something inside Freya died then.
Not her body.
Her mercy.
What followed felt distant, unreal—like watching someone else's nightmare from behind glass. Voices came and went. Pain followed, then numbness. She faded in and out, clinging to one thought as everything else was taken from her.
If I am given another life…
Fear returned at the end.
He looked smaller somehow. Greyer.
"Don't look at me like that," he said. "This is the world we live in."
Freya forced herself to meet his gaze.
Her voice was barely a whisper, but it carried something ancient. Unbreakable.
"If fate ever gives me another chance," she said, "you will regret knowing my name."
Fear scoffed. "You won't even be remembered."
She smiled then—not kindly, not gently.
"Then let the world remember what you created."
The darkness closed in soon after.
Her soul did not rest.
It burned.
---
When Freya died, there was no ceremony.
No burial ground.
No song to guide her spirit.
The ancestors turned away—not in cruelty, but in law. She had broken fate. She had refused her mate. Her soul lingered, unmoored, heavy with injustice.
But vows spoken in blood do not fade.
And the world, cruel as it was, was not done with her yet.