POV: Raevan
The morning we leave Zehrael dawns warm and bright, the sky painted in soft gold. It should feel peaceful—this land always does—but today the light feels like a blade pressed against my throat.
Because today, I walk away from Soraya.
Again.
Kaide, Vienne, and Tazir make their final preparations near the Zehrael gate, adjusting cloaks, tightening saddle straps, checking supplies. Their voices drift through the courtyard—quiet, respectful, touched with sadness.
My own preparations take only a moment. I could have packed blindfolded, half-asleep, with my heart torn out. None of it matters.
The only thing that matters stands a few paces away—Soraya.
Luna of Zehrael.
Wife of Baltimus.
Alive. Safe. Untouchable.
She stands beside Baltimus now, speaking with Vienne and Kaide. Her silver hair reflects the runelight carved into the courtyard stones. She looks grounded, steady, at home.
Baltimus stands at her side with his usual quiet authority—unthreatening, calm, the kind of Alpha who doesn’t need to raise his voice to be obeyed.
A man who can stand near Soraya without fear of losing control.
A man I could never be.
My wolf snarls quietly inside my chest, torn in every direction at once.
Kaide approaches me. “Ready?”
No. Not even close. But I nod anyway.
Baltimus gives a polite incline of his head. “Safe travels back to Ashra. You will be welcomed again, should peace hold.”
The politeness stings more than a punch. He doesn’t challenge me. He doesn’t sneer. Doesn’t show jealousy.
He simply acknowledges me as one leader to another. As if he knows he already won the one battle I can never reclaim.
Soraya steps forward last. Her eyes meet mine for a brief second—and everything inside me goes silent.
Gods, she’s beautiful. Gods, she’s changed. Gods, she still feels like the piece of me I lost in the desert a year ago.
She offers a small, polite nod. “Safe journey, Raevan.”
Formality slices through me.
Not Soraya’s voice. Not Soraya’s softness. Just the Luna speaking to a foreign Alpha.
I want to say something—anything—but there is nothing safe I can say with her husband standing beside her. And maybe nothing safe I can say even if he weren’t.
So I bow stiffly, turn away, and mount my horse.
Her eyes follow me until the gates open. Then she’s gone. Just like that.
***
The moment Zehrael gates close behind us, something hollow tears open inside my chest. The journey stretches ahead like a wound that refuses to clot, long and slow and painful.
Vienne glances at me with quiet worry.
Kaide rides near my side, deliberately silent—the only mercy he can offer.
Tazir hums to himself, nervously tapping the saddle’s edge, stealing glances at the closed gates as if hoping Soraya will run after us.
She doesn’t.
She shouldn't.
I keep my gaze fixed forward, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Every dune we cross feels like a thin blade scraping along bone.
“Raevan,” Kaide says softly after an hour. “You’ll see her again. This won’t be the last time.”
I grunt noncommittally, eyes still forward.
He continues, gentler, “And maybe next time, you’ll both have words that don’t tear each other open.”
I say nothing.
Words feel useless. Too fragile. Too late. The desert wind howls around us like a warning.
***
By the time we reach Ashra’s outer walls, the sun has dipped toward the horizon, casting the fortress in deep orange light. Guards open the gates without hesitation.
Ashra smells like smoke, steel, and home—
a home I barely recognize anymore.
A figure rushes forward from the courtyard steps.
Azhara.
She carries a small child in her arms—our son.
Ragan.
His hair is dark like mine but streaked with gold from Azhara’s line. His eyes are pale, almost silver. He clings to her tunic tightly as she approaches.
“Raevan,” she breathes dramatically, “you’re home.”
She thrusts Ragan toward me as if offering a prize. The child reaches his arms out instinctively, wanting his father—but I feel nothing.
No spark. No warmth. No instinctive shift of my wolf.
Just emptiness. A hollow place where something should be.
Azhara notices.
Her smile strains.
“Your son misses you,” she says pointedly.
I look at Ragan.
He stares at me with wide eyes that should mean something—but my heart remains cold, locked behind too many doors.
I clear my throat and nod stiffly. “I am tired. We will speak later.”
Azhara’s eyes widen. “Raevan—”
“I said later.”
The steel in my voice echoes across the courtyard.
Everyone hears it. Everyone flinches.
Even Azhara takes a step back, clutching Ragan to her chest protectively.
I don’t reach for him. I don’t reach for her. I don’t reach for anyone. All I feel is the absence of Soraya.
A shadow carved out of me. A wound without blood.
“Prepare council chambers,” I order a guard sharply. “We have much to discuss regarding Zehrael and Saren.”
Azhara opens her mouth again—but I don’t wait.
Without another word, without another look at my own son, I turn and walk away. The palace hall swallows me.
Torches flicker in the sudden gust of my aura—restless, violent, aching.
And the moment I’m out of sight, my knees almost buckle.
Leaving Soraya behind felt like tearing my soul in half.
Returning to this cold, broken home feels like stepping into the grave I dug with my own hands.
I press my palm to the stone wall and breathe—slow, shaky, desperate.
“I should have never let her go,” I whisper into the empty corridor.
But she was never mine to keep. Not anymore.