Chapter 179

Kaelen’s POV

The royal carriage was silent except for Lyra’s sobbing.

Small, hiccupping sobs that came in waves. She’d press her face into the velvet cushions, go quiet for a moment, then start again. Each sound was a needle sliding between my ribs.

I gripped the leather reins until my knuckles went white.

She was right there. My wolf paced inside my skull, restless and furious. Right there in our city. For how long?

That was the question that burned. Not if it had been Elara—Lyra’s description had been too precise, too vivid for fantasy. The forest-green eyes. The dark hair like night itself.

No. The question was how long.

How long had she been here, walking these streets, breathing this air, while I tore apart every corner of the empire looking for her? While Lyra grew up without a mother and Valerius hardened into something that frightened me?

“Daddy?” Lyra’s voice came small and waterlogged from the back of the carriage. “Are you mad at me?”

I glanced back at her. Mismatched shoes dangling off the edge of the seat. Braids completely undone now, silver hair tangled around her blotchy face. She looked so much like Elara in that moment that it physically hurt.

“No, sweetheart.” I softened my voice. It took effort. “I’m not mad at you. Not even a little. I’m just thinking.”

She sniffled. Wiped her nose on her sleeve. “About Mommy?”

I didn’t answer. I guided the horses through the gates and pulled into the manor grounds.

The house was dark. I’d forgotten to leave the lamps lit again. There were a lot of things I forgot lately—council reports, market lists, which shoes belonged to which child. An Alpha emperor who could command armies, undone by the logistics of raising two children alone.

“Come on, baby.” I lifted Lyra out of the carriage. She wrapped her arms around my neck and buried her damp face against my shoulder.

Inside, the house smelled like nothing. No dinner cooking. Just the stale air of a place that people slept in but didn’t really live in.

“Valerius!” I called up the stairs. “Come down. I need help getting dinner ready in twenty minutes.”

Silence. Then the slow, deliberate shuffle of feet that meant my son was making a point about being interrupted.

He appeared at the top of the staircase. Black hair sticking up in three different directions. Glasses sliding down his nose.

“Why can’t we just order pizza from the tavern?” he complained flatly.

“Because we had pizza yesterday.”

“Valerius. Kitchen. Now.”

He descended the stairs with the enthusiasm of a prisoner walking to his cell. At eight years old, my son had perfected the art of silent protest. He pushed his glasses up, surveyed the empty kitchen counter, and sighed.

A sharp crash shattered the quiet.

I spun around. Lyra stood frozen beside the dining table, a shattered small cup at her feet. She’d been trying to set the table—she always tried to help, reaching for things her small hands couldn’t quite hold.

“I’m sorry, Daddy.” Her chin trembled.

“It’s fine, sweetheart. Don’t move.”

I grabbed a cloth and crouched to collect the pieces. Lyra stayed perfectly still, her mismatched shoes surrounded by broken shards.

“She claims she saw a ’fake Mommy’ at the bakery today,” Valerius said from behind me.

I stiffened. His tone was flat. Clinical.

“I DID see her!” Lyra burst out, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “She was right there and she had the forest eyes and the night hair!”

“She smelled like every other woman in the capital.” Valerius leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “There are probably a million women with dark hair in this city, Lyra.”

“Not like hers!”

“Exactly like hers. You’re making things up again.”

“I’m NOT making it up!” Lyra’s voice cracked.

Valerius pushed his glasses up. His jaw tightened. When he spoke again, his voice was colder than any child’s had a right to be.

“Mother left us, Lyra. She chose to leave us three years ago. She’s not hiding in bakeries. She abandoned us.”

Each word landed like a stone. Lyra’s face crumpled.

“ENOUGH!”

The roar tore out of my throat, laced with an Alpha’s heavy command. Both of them flinched violently. The kitchen went deathly quiet.

Valerius shrank back, angry tears suddenly springing to his eyes behind his sliding glasses. Lyra was sobbing openly now, her small hands clenched at her sides, those ridiculous mismatched shoes planted firmly on the floor.

I couldn’t look at them. Because Valerius was only repeating the exact thoughts I’d been fighting in my own head for the last three years.

“Both of you. Go to your rooms,” I gritted out. “No dinner tonight.”

“But—” Valerius choked on a sob.

“Rooms. Now.”

Valerius turned and fled upstairs, wiping angrily at his face. Lyra followed, crying miserably, her small feet padding unevenly away.

Then I was alone.

I sat down at the table, staring at the floor. This is what she did to us. I sat in the silent, broken remains of my home, blaming Elara for every fractured piece of our family, until my transmission stone buzzed against my thigh.

I pulled it from my pocket. Sir Cassian’s sigil glowed faintly on the surface. I pressed my thumb to it, and his message materialized.

Kaelen—Talia is turning three this Saturday. Laylee and I are hosting a birthday party for her. Bring the little ones. They need some normalcy. So do you.

I stared at the glowing words. Upstairs, I could hear the muffled sounds of both my children crying in their separate rooms.

I pressed my thumb to the stone again.

We’ll be there. What time?

The reply came almost instantly. 2 PM.

I stared at the time, desperate for the distraction it offered, and sent my final reply.

Count us in.