Chapter 148

Elara’s POV

The hood smelled like mothballs and old wool.

I pressed my face deeper into the fabric anyway, letting the rough weave scratch against my cheeks. The veil beneath it covered everything below my eyes. Between the two layers, I could barely breathe. Each inhale pulled damp cloth against my lips.

Good. If I was suffocating, at least I was feeling something other than the pit in my chest.

Finnian guided the cart down the cobblestone road without speaking. He’d been silent since dawn. Not the comfortable silence of two people who didn’t need words. The tense, wire-tight silence of a man who believed he was making a terrible mistake and had agreed to it anyway.

The capital’s outer district rolled past us. Merchant stalls. Laundry lines strung between buildings. Children chasing a stray dog through an alley.

Children.

My hands clenched in my lap.

Finnian turned the cart left, then right, navigating side streets I didn’t recognize. He was avoiding the main roads deliberately. Every few moments, his eyes swept the pedestrians, the rooftops, the shadowed doorways.

“We’re a short distance away from our destination,” he said finally, pulling the cart to a halt.

My heart lurched into my throat.

He had parked beneath a massive oak tree whose branches spread wide enough to cast the entire vehicle in shadow. Across the lane and down a slight hill sat a stone building with arched windows and an iron gate. The academy.

Valerius’s academy.

“We wait here,” Finnian said. He looped the reins loosely and sat back. “We don’t move. We don’t get out. You don’t call to him. You don’t wave. You don’t do anything that draws attention. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Ela. Look at me.”

I turned. His face was granite. But his eyes—those kind, steady eyes—held something raw beneath the surface.

“If anything goes wrong, I’m driving us out immediately. No arguments. No hesitation. You stay down and I drive. That’s the deal.”

“That’s the deal,” I echoed.

He nodded once. Then he faced forward and placed both hands flat on his knees.

We waited in agonizing silence.

For several minutes, time crawled like wounded animals. Each moment stretched and bled into the next until time lost all shape. I stared at the academy gate through the narrow gap between hood and veil. My pulse throbbed in my ears. My palms were slick with sweat.

What if he’s changed? What if he’s taller? What if he doesn’t look like the boy I remember?

What if he looks exactly the same and it destroys me?

The mid-afternoon dismissal bell rang.

Clear. Bright. Cutting through the air like a blade.

The academy doors burst open.

Children poured out in a flood of noise and motion. Small bodies in neat academy tunics, leather satchels bouncing against their backs. Laughter. Shouting. The thunderous joy of young creatures set free for the day.

I pressed forward on the seat. My fingers gripped the edge of the cart so hard the wood bit into my skin.

Where is he. Where is he. Where—

There.

Third from the left. Walking through the gate with a slightly taller boy and a middle-aged woman beside him. The nanny. She wore sturdy boots and moved with the easy authority of someone who’d done this a thousand times. Valerius’s dark curls bounced with each step. His tunic was buttoned crooked at the collar—he’d always hated buttons—and his leather satchel hung off one shoulder like it weighed nothing.

He’d grown.

Oh, gods. He’d grown.

His legs were longer. His face had lost the last of its baby roundness, sharpening into something that looked heartbreakingly like his father. But the way he moved—the quick, restless energy, the way his head turned to catch everything around him—that was mine. That was all mine.

The boy beside him said something, and the nanny playfully nudged Valerius’s shoulder. Valerius grinned up at her, threw his head back, and laughed with both of them.

The sound carried across the distance like a bell. Bright. Free. Full.

Something inside me cracked wide open.

She then placed a hand on his shoulder, guiding him toward a waiting carriage.

He was happy.

My son—my baby—was standing there laughing and chattering and looking like a perfectly normal, perfectly content little boy who had everything he needed.

Everything except me.

And he was fine.

He was fine without me.

The crack in my chest split deeper. A sound escaped my throat—half gasp, half whimper.

“Ela.” Finnian’s voice. Low. Urgent.

“He’s laughing,” I choked. The words came out thick and wet. “He’s laughing, Finnian. Look at him. He doesn’t—he’s not—”

The tears spilled over. Hot rivers soaking into the veil, pooling against the fabric pressed to my mouth.

“He doesn’t even miss me.” A sob tore loose. I pressed my fist against my lips to muffle it. “He’s fine. He’s completely fine. I’ve been lying awake every night hearing him cry for me and he’s fine. He’s laughing. He has friends. His nanny laughs with him. He doesn’t need me at all.”

“That’s not what this means.” Finnian’s hand found my arm. Firm. Grounding. “He’s a child. Children adapt. It doesn’t mean he’s forgotten you. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t ache for you every single night.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know that. Because I’ve seen the way that boy clung to you. Because I watched him scream your name when you left. A child who loves like that doesn’t just stop.”

I shook my head. The tears wouldn’t stop. My whole body trembled with the effort of staying silent, staying hidden, staying in this cart when every fiber of my being screamed at me to run across that lane and gather my son into my arms and never let go.

“I want to go to him.”

“No.”

“Finnian, please—”

“No.” His grip tightened on my arm. Not cruel. Unbreakable. “You go to him and you put him in danger. You put yourself in danger. You put everything at risk. I know it hurts. I know. But you stay in this cart.”

Across the lane, the nanny helped Valerius climb into the carriage. He scrambled up onto the seat, still talking animatedly to her about something. She closed the door. Took the reins.

The carriage pulled away from the gate.

I watched it go. Watched the wheels turn. Watched the distance between us grow with every rotation.

Then the carriage stopped.

It had barely made it around the corner. Just… stopped. In the middle of the lane. No reason. No obstacle.

The carriage door opened.

A small figure climbed out.

Valerius.

He stood in the road, ignoring the nanny’s startled voice calling after him. His dark curls shifted in the breeze. Those eyes—those deep, dark gold eyes that he’d inherited from his father—swept the street with an intensity no child his age should possess.

Then he tilted his head back.

And he sniffed the air.

Not a casual breath. Not a childish whim. A deep, deliberate inhalation through his nose, his small body turning slowly, methodically, like a predator tracking prey it couldn’t see. His nostrils flared. His chin lifted higher. His eyes narrowed.

Every hair on my arms stood on end.

“Get down,” Finnian hissed. His hand shoved against my shoulder, pushing me below the edge of the cart. “Get down, Ela. Now.”

I ducked. My heart hammered so violently I could feel it in my teeth. Through a crack between the wooden slats, I could still see him.

My five-year-old son. Standing in the middle of a public road. Scenting the air like a wolf on a hunt.

The nanny had climbed out of the carriage, confusion written across her face. She reached for his arm. He pulled away without looking at her. His gaze—ancient, knowing, impossible for a child—swept past the market stalls, past the pedestrians, and settled in the direction of our oak tree.

His small lips parted.

“I think my mommy is nearby.”