Korin emerged from the dungeons on a grey morning that seemed to acknowledge the bitter nature of his liberation.
I watched from an upper window as guards escorted him into the courtyard, his gait measured despite the months of confinement that should have broken it.
The sunlight struck his face, hollow-cheeked, shadowed with healing bruises, yet he carried himself with the particular dignity of one who refuses to acknowledge defeat even in surrender.
"Your Beta serves wine tonight," Rheakar informed me at breakfast, his satisfaction evident in every syllable. "I thought you should know, since his situation concerned you so deeply."
"Your mercy knows no bounds," I murmured, though the words tasted of iron.
The transformation of Korin's existence proved more cruel than chains.
He moved through Grimhowl's halls like a ghost of authority, servants who once bowed now passing without acknowledgment, their eyes sliding over him as if he had become furniture.
Warriors who had followed his commands with unwavering loyalty now offered only contempt, deliberately creating messes for him to clean, finding imaginary flaws in weapons that required hours of additional polishing.
At the evening meal, I forced myself to remain composed as Korin served wine to those seated at the high table—the very place where he had once held position second only to Rheakar.
His hands remained steady as he poured, though I caught the tightening around his eyes when a young warrior deliberately knocked over a goblet, requiring him to kneel and clean the spreading puddle.
"Remember," Rheakar whispered against my ear, "excessive concern for the fallen Beta will be interpreted as lingering attachment. Such interpretation would necessitate his return to chains. You understand?"
"Perfectly," I replied, though beneath the table my nails carved crescents into my palms.
The days that followed established a rhythm of careful distance.
Korin and I existed in the same spaces but different worlds, our interactions limited to the briefest moments when he served at table or passed in corridors.
Yet even these fragments carried weight—a glance that spoke volumes, fingers that brushed when he handed me a goblet, the particular way he said "my lady" that held echoes of "my Luna."
Our first gathering came three nights later, in a forgotten storeroom where dust motes danced through moonbeams. Veyra arrived last, her slight form slipping through shadows with practiced ease.
"We cannot continue this indefinitely," she said without preamble. "The servants gossip about Korin's presence, the guards grow suspicious of my movements. Time works against us."
"Indeed," I said, my composure finally fracturing under the weight of accumulated truths.
"Martha's potion dwindles toward nothing—perhaps two weeks remain, three if I reduce the dosage and risk everything. When it runs dry, when conception becomes inevitable, all our planning becomes meaningless."
"Then we accelerate…" Korin began, but I raised my hand to stop him.
"There's more. Something that changes everything." I looked between them. "I discovered why I could never learn who destroyed Silvermoon. The truth was here all along, hidden in plain sight."
The words emerged like shards of glass:
"Grimhowl Pack orchestrated Silvermoon's extinction. Rheakar's father commanded the massacre. My marriage was arranged to remove me before the slaughter."
The silence that followed was absolute. Korin's face drained of color while Veyra's hand flew to her mouth in horror.
"Lucien doesn't know," Korin said, understanding immediately. "If he did…"
"He would abandon strategy for vengeance," I confirmed. "Bloody war would replace careful extraction."
"This is why I must go to him," Veyra said. "I've manufactured a reason to visit my cousin in the eastern territories. But my true destination is Moonridge. Lucien needs to know we're ready."
"Tell him about the potion," I said urgently. "Tell him time is no longer our ally but our enemy. But don't, please don't tell him about Grimhowl's role in Silvermoon's destruction. Not yet. Not until we're all safe."
Veyra nodded, understanding the delicate balance required. "I leave tomorrow at dawn. The journey will take four days each way. Can you survive that long?"
"We'll have to," Korin said, though his eyes never left mine.
After Veyra departed to make preparations, Korin and I remained in the dusty storeroom, neither willing to break this rare moment of privacy.
"Tell me about them," he said softly. "Your sons. I know their names from your letters, but tell me who they've become."
The request opened floodgates I hadn't realized were closed.
"Kai leads with the same quiet authority you once displayed—thoughtful, strategic, always considering consequences before acting. He's serious beyond his years, as if he somehow understands the weight of what you sacrificed for his freedom."
"And Finn?"
"Gentle and perceptive, he notices everything—every shift in mood, every hidden hurt. He brings me flowers when he senses I'm sad, though he never asks why tears sometimes come without warning."
I smiled at the memory. "He would have made a magnificent healer in another life."
"Atlas?"
"Fierce as his name suggests. He appointed himself my guardian the moment he could walk, ready to fight shadows if they seemed threatening. He carries your protective instinct."
"They sound magnificent," Korin said, and I heard the ache in his voice—six years of missing what he'd helped preserve.
"They are. Because of you. Because you gave them the chance to grow free from traditions that would have demanded their blood."
The space between us had diminished without my awareness, close enough now that I could see the flecks of gold in his grey eyes.
"Korin, I need you to know—all those years, I never understood what you…"
"Don't." His hand found mine, scarred fingers gentle despite their strength. "You never owed me anything. Not then, not now. Every choice I made was mine alone."
"But you loved me." The words emerged as revelation and confirmation together. "Even then, even when I belonged to him, you loved me."
"I loved you from the moment you arrived at Grimhowl," he admitted, the confession carrying six years of weight.
"A frightened girl trying so hard to be the perfect Luna, never realizing you were already perfect in your imperfection. I loved you through every moment I stood silent when I should have spoken."
The kiss arrived as inevitability rather than surprise, six years of unspoken longing condensed into a moment that stopped time entirely.
My initial confusion, this couldn't happen, shouldn't happen, dissolved when he drew back, searching my face for permission or rejection.
"Lyanna," he breathed, my name a question and prayer combined.
When Korin leaned forward again, my response carried its own hunger, acknowledging truths we had both carried through years of separation.
His touch spoke of desperate patience, of love that survived dungeons and distance, of futures we dared not name but couldn't stop imagining.