CHAPTER 49: CHAPTER 49: SEIZE THE MOMENT

MAEVE’S POV

Once I was on sturdy ground, we began our walk into the woods. The early morning fog was thick, coated with the wetness of mist.

Revierrie’s glasses fogged over almost instantly, and he had to take them off. He tucked them into his pocket without breaking stride.

"So, do you do this often? Go traipsing through the woods at the crack of dawn?" I asked, mostly just to throw his earlier words back at him.

Revierrie chuckled. The sound was brief. Almost as quickly, he sobered.

"Not exactly. I couldn’t sleep last night. I was up all night studying the failed ritual, trying to figure out what might have gone wrong."

A tiny, unwelcome pinch of guilt pricked my chest. I’d given him hell yesterday—snapped at him in front of everyone—because of that failure.

I hadn’t cared then that he might’ve been just as shaken, maybe even more, under all his priestly composure.

The feeling lingered awkwardly for a beat, before I pushed it aside. Curiosity peeked through in its place.

"And?" I asked, my tone softer, more tentative now. "Did you figure it out?"

He sighed wearily. Under the faint light of dawn, I could make out the black circles under his eyes that hinted at a long, sleepless night.

"Not yet," he said, sadly. "But I do have some theories."

"Theories? Like... what?" I tried not to sound too eager.

"I read quite a lot about wrath bonds last night," Revierrie began, his voice lowering to a near whisper. "There was a Chapter that struck me in particular. It talked about deeply rooted convictions between destined mates. According to the author, if a mate truly believes—deep down—that they are fated to be with their bonded partner, that conviction alone can counter even the strongest severance. Including a rejection ritual."

"I don’t understand." I furrowed my brows, trying to make sense of his words. It took a few moments before the pieces began to click together. "Are you trying to say that one of us believes, on some subconscious level, that we’re still meant to be together?" I almost scoffed out a laugh. "I highly doubt that."

It sounded ridiculous the moment I said it. Sure, Ivan and I shared a disturbing, volatile attraction, but the idea that either of us truly wanted to remain mated to each other?

No. That couldn’t be right.

Not after everything we’d put each other through. We had caused each other more pain than anyone else ever could. We both had chosen different mates.

The idea that some subconscious conviction was standing in the way of our attempt to sever the bond was preposterous.

"About this conviction," I asked, the words leaving a bitter taste on my tongue, "what else does the book say?"

Revierrie winced, clearly choosing his next words carefully.

"Sometimes, it’s more of a subconscious instinct than a conscious belief. The wolf who bears this conviction might not be aware of it, but that doesn’t stop the subconscious from fighting against anything that threatens the natural balance. The bond. The mate."

"And what does your book say about fixing this... conviction?" I asked, barely keeping the sneer out of my voice.

"Unfortunately, the Chapter didn’t say." He looked sheepish, then added, "But don’t worry. I’ve got another stack of books I plan to go through today. Rest assured, I’ll find a solution."

"Will Ivan and I have to wait until the next full moon to attempt the ritual again?"

The thought made me anxious. According to Devon, time was running out.

Once I found the Black Book, he planned to confront Ivan—claim the Ash Creek throne—and if that happened, I doubted we’d get a second chance at holding the ritual.

"The ritual will happen much sooner than that," Revierrie reassured me, as if sensing my unease. "We won’t need to wait for the next moon cycle."

We walked in silence for a few moments more, eventually reaching a clearing lined with low shrubs and short trees.

"The leaves on these trees and shrubs are great for treating headaches and calming hallucinations," I told him, plucking a few of the greener leaves from the branches.

I made sure to separate the ones I needed for Lydia’s sleeping draught—the elixir I intended to slip her later today.

It was a good thing all of the leaves mostly looked the same. Only a professional could tell the differences.

"Fascinating," Revierrie crooned like an excited little boy.

He leaned over a bed of shrubs, studying their leaves with keen interest. His glasses were back on, slightly fogged at the edges.

"And how do you intend to process the leaves? Will you be grinding them to make a healing juice or crushing them into a mash to make a salve?"

"Juice," I answered, and despite myself, the corners of my lips quirked upward in a small smile. I couldn’t help it.

It had been a while since I talked about healing just for the sake of it. It felt nice to divulge in an exchange of knowledge with a fellow intellectual—someone who seemed just as genuinely interested in medicine as I was.

For the next hour, I pointed out at least two dozen plants to Revierrie, explaining the varying benefits of their leaves.

He listened with quiet attentiveness, occasionally asking thoughtful questions or jotting notes in a leather-bound booklet tucked into his coat.

It was nearly 6 a.m. by the time we waved goodbye and went our separate ways.

With my basket full, I headed straight toward the Luna’s kitchen and began working on the sleeping draught for Lydia.

I would make a performance of it—insisting how vital it was for her to take the tonic, under the guise of treating the so-called "pitting disease."

The pitting disease.

It was almost laughable, the way everyone whispered about how fatally ill Lydia Cross supposedly was.

In truth, she suffered from nothing more than a mild but stubborn sickness—one I never would have recognized if my old teacher, the late healer from Darkwind, hadn’t battled it herself in her later years.

Mireworm Fever.

It wasn’t dangerous, but it was evasive. The worm that caused it was clever, hiding deep in the body and avoiding most treatments.

With the right herbs, I could manage Lydia’s symptoms for a while, and if I wanted to, I could remove the worm entirely. But where was the fun in that?

No—better to let her drag herself down the whole miserable mile.

So far, I was the only one who knew the truth—and I intended to keep it that way.

I would continue to play along, pretending to treat the Luna while maintaining unfettered access to her rooms.

Clutching the glass of thick green juice tightly in my hand, I knocked twice on Lydia’s door. I waited a beat, then stepped inside.

I half-expected to be greeted by her infamous sneer, that ever-condescending smirk she wore like a badge of superiority. But to my surprise, the room was empty.

"Lydia?"

I set the glass carefully on the dresser and padded toward the bathroom.

She wasn’t in there. Neither was she in the adjoining sitting room.

No one had mentioned anything about the Luna being moved.

Perhaps she had finally regained enough strength to menace the packhouse like the stubborn insufferable thing she was.

Still, a chance like this didn’t come often.

Regardless of the risks, I needed to seize the moment—and search for the Black Book.