CHAPTER 22: TO GIVE HER PEACE

CIAN

I got out of bed at exactly six in the evening. The healer had said I could move around, that staying still would only make the poison linger in my muscles longer. I didn’t argue. Lying there thinking about Fia in the dungeons wasn’t going to help anyone.

The shower was hot enough to sting. I stood under the spray and watched the herb-scented water run pink before it cleared. My bandages had come off that afternoon, and the Mourning Moon’s burn marks underneath were already fading. Maren had said I healed fast.

I dried off and dressed carefully. My hands weren’t quite steady yet, but I was Alpha. I couldn’t look weak. I combed my hair, checked myself in the mirror, and told the weak thing inside me to shut up and get back in its cage.

I headed for Mother’s wing at six forty-five.

The hallway was empty. Too empty. The omega who usually kept watch should have been there, should have seen me coming. My jaw clenched as I stood outside the door. I tapped my foot against the marble. The sound echoed down the stone corridor in sharp, regular beats. Six forty-eight. Six forty-nine.

The omega appeared at six fifty-three, her whole body shaking as she wheeled the dinner tray. She’d been running. Her hair was coming out of its tie, and there was a thin shine of sweat on her forehead. The moment she saw me, she actually flinched. Like my presence was something painful.

She dropped to her knees before the tray could even stop moving. Her body folded nearly in half, her forehead almost touching the ground.

"I apologize," she whispered. "I apologize, I apologize."

"I told you to always be here before me." The words came out flat. Cold. The way I’d learned to speak to people who failed. "Six fifty-five. Every single time. You’ve had a week to learn this."

"I know, I know, I’m sorry, Alpha." She was crying now, the tears tracking down her face. Her whole frame shook with it. "It won’t happen again."

"First strike," I said. "There will be no second strike. You should know what happened to the former one."

I didn’t wait for her to answer. I took the handle of the tray and wheeled it toward the door myself. I knocked. A soft sound, careful. Respectful.

"Mother, it’s me."

I opened the door and stepped inside.

Her room was exactly how she preferred it. Everything was old. The walls had been made to look weathered and ancient. The furniture was heavy dark wood, the kind that had probably been carved before the pack even had a name. The curtains were drawn against the evening light. There were no electric bulbs up here. Just candlelight, which Mother said didn’t hurt her eyes the way the harsh lights did.

The chamber was in the corner, waiting.

The smell hit me first. Herbs. Always herbs. Mint and something sharper that I could never quite name. Thorne brought them in batches and Mother said they helped with the pain. I wasn’t sure I believed her, but I’d stopped arguing about it years ago.

She was smiling even before I turned around.

Mother was in the cryo chamber, suspended in the green mist that kept the rot from spreading. The frost clung to the glass in delicate patterns. Inside, she was curled in a way that must have been uncomfortable, but she’d learned to sleep that way. Had learned to do a lot of things. A lot of impossible things.

I smiled back at her, even though my chest was trying to split open.

The rot was worse than last week.

The blackness had spread up the side of her neck. Her skin in those places looked like charred wood, all dark and cracked. Red infection bloomed underneath like flowers I didn’t want to see. Her left arm was wrapped, and I could see the seep of something that wasn’t right oozing through the bandages. The fungus inside her was eating her from the inside out. Doctor Maren called it the rot. The healers called it a curse. Mother just called it a phase of her life.

I put on the glove and the mask. I’d gotten good at this. Fast and efficient even. I opened the chamber and felt the cold air rush out at me. Mother had gone still, the way she always did when I opened it. Waiting for me to touch her.

"Are you hungry, Mother?"

"I have told you several times we should do as Doctor Maren suggested." Her voice was thin but steady. She always kept that steadiness for me. "Just give me a feeder. No one should get infected. Cian, we both know the risks."

"I’m not letting you forego the only contact with kin you have left." I meant it in a way that made my throat tight. "I need this. And you need this."

I opened the tray and sorted through the dishes. The omega had prepared soft foods, things that didn’t require much chewing. Broth and vegetables that had been cooked until they were almost liquid. Bread soaked in milk. All of it was warm. I’d timed the walk perfectly.

I helped Mother out of the chamber, my gloved hands careful against her shoulders. She was so light now. Like she might blow away if I wasn’t holding her down. I settled her on the bed and propped her up with pillows so she was sitting upright.

"What about your bride?" she asked. Her eyes were still sharp even when the rest of her was failing.

"The wedding took a toll on her," I lied smoothly. "She’ll see you tomorrow. She needed to rest."

Mother smiled. I saw the effort it cost her, the way the movement made her wince. But she smiled anyway.

"You look tired too," she said. She reached her hand toward my face, and then stopped. Let it fall back to her lap. "I shouldn’t touch you without the glove."

I took her hand anyway. Her skin was cool but not the terrible cold of the chamber. It was just cool the way a mother’s hand could be.

"I’ll disinfect anyway," I said.

She held my hand. Her grip was weak, but it was there. I could feel her trying to squeeze harder, could feel her restraint. The way she had to hold back every instinct to pull me close.

I picked up the spoon and started to feed her. The broth was still warm. She swallowed slowly, carefully. She’d gotten better at this too. Learning how her body changed. Learning what it could and couldn’t do anymore.

"I can’t wait to see her," Mother said between spoonfuls. "Your bride. What is she like?"

"She’s strong," I said, and meant it. Fia had fought me with everything she had. Had nearly died rather than let me have the satisfaction of killing her. Had saved my life when she could have let me burn. "You’ll love her."

"I don’t have to," Mother said, and there was something in her voice that made me look at her. "As long as you love her."

I felt the spoon almost slip in my hand. I recovered, brought it back up to her mouth, and smiled. I made it look easy.

"I do," I said. "Why else would I have gotten married?"

Mother laughed. It was a soft sound, barely more than a breath, but it was real. "That is true. I did all I could, but you never heard me."

She was quiet for a moment, swallowing another spoonful. Then she looked at me and said something I hadn’t expected.

"When you told me you found a woman you loved, I was certain you were only giving in because you were convinced I would die soon."

My grip on the spoon almost faltered. The metal nearly slipped right out of my hand and into the broth. I made myself laugh. Forced it out like it was the most crazy thing I’d ever heard.

"That’s absurd," I said.

But it wasn’t.

Maren and Thorne had given me the report in private. One year. Maybe a little longer if the herbs worked better than they expected. But one year was what I’d been working with when I made this choice. When I decided that Mother needed to see me settled. Needed to believe that I had found someone. That I wouldn’t be alone after she was gone.

I’d thought a bride would comfort her. Give her something to hold onto in her final months. Someone to believe in, even if it was a lie I was constructing just for her benefit.

I fed her another spoonful. She closed her eyes while she swallowed, like she was trying to savor it. Like the soft broth was something precious.

"You know me too well," I said quietly.

"I’m your mother," she replied. "It’s my job to know you too well."

I kept feeding her. The spoon moved up and down in a rhythm I’d learned. She ate slowly, deliberately, taking her time with each bite. I didn’t rush her. I never rushed her.

When the bowl was half empty, she waved her hand. Said she was full. I set the bowl aside and just sat with her, my gloved hand still holding hers. The candlelight flickered across her face, and I tried not to look at the dark patches of the rot spreading under her skin. Tried not to count how much worse it looked than last week.

"Tell me about her," Mother said. "Your bride. What does she look like? What kind of person do you think she is?"

I told her stories. Small things. Nothing true, mostly. But things I wanted to be true. I invented kindness and grace. I invented a woman who looked at me the way I imagined someone should look at a person they were going to spend their life with.

Mother listened with her eyes closed, smiling that small, satisfied smile. And I sat there in the candlelight of that old room, holding her cool hand in my gloved one, lying like my life depended on it.

Because it did. Her life did. And I would lie to the goddess herself if it meant giving her peace.