Page 79 of Full Moon
Chapter 36
Feray
I feellike a cross between a princess in a pale rose gown and a warrior with the combination of things I'm wearing—the delicate silk whispering against my skin while the bone bracers and collar remind me of the battles I've already won. The soft fabric swishes around my ankles as I follow my nose down the dimly lit hallway, leading my family toward my aunt's rooms. The scent of cedar and old stone fills my lungs, mixed with something else—something that feels like memory itself, embedded in these walls.
"Are you sure this is the right way, little wolf?" Tor asks, his voice echoing off the high vaulted ceilings as we pass portraits of stern-faced ancestors whose eyes seem to track our every movement.
Easton suddenly halts in front of a large painting, and I catch my breath when I see what stopped him. It's a portrait of my mother, her name confirmed by the brass placard beneath. She's wearing the exact same dress I am, the pale rose hue contrasting magnificently with her fiery red hair that cascades over her shoulders like a living flame. Her eyes—the same gray-blue asmine—stare out from the canvas with a quiet strength that makes my chest ache.
My fingers trace the lines of her face through the air, so familiar yet forever untouchable, and a pang of longing hits me so hard it steals my breath. I wish I could have known her. I wish I could have heard her voice, felt her arms around me, learned what made her laugh.
"You could be her twin," Easton murmurs, his gaze shifting between me and the portrait with an expression of wonder.
"That is true." I turn to see Astrid standing with her family, her presence warm and familiar despite how recently we've met. "That was your mom's favorite dress—she said it made her hair look like fire. She wore it to every important event she could."
The man beside her steps forward, his build sturdy and his eyes kind. "The resemblance is uncanny. I'm Bjorn, by the way, and these are our sons, Caleb and Edgar." The young men nod respectfully as their names are mentioned, both of them tall and broad-shouldered with their mother's silver-streaked hair.
"The pleasure is mine," I say, dipping into a slight curtsy that feels both foreign and natural at once. "I was wondering—where are my mother's rooms? I would like to see them before dinner."
"Right this way," Astrid says, taking the lead and guiding us back the way we came before turning right down a corridor I hadn't noticed before. "The Alpha house is set almost in a snowflake design, or perhaps spokes on a wheel is more accurate—each wing radiates out from the central throne room."
I find myself zoning out as she speaks, absorbing the history embedded in every crevice and corner of this ancient place. My mom walked these very halls, her footsteps echoes of a past Ilong desperately to understand. She touched these walls, looked out these windows, breathed this same air thick with cedar and stone.
Bjorn steps forward at the end of the corridor, his large hands gripping heavy black drapes that hang from ceiling to floor. He pulls them back to reveal a forgotten wing shrouded in shadow. The air is different here—thick with dust and untold stories, carrying the weight of decades of abandonment. Cobwebs stretch between the wall sconces like delicate lace, and the temperature drops noticeably as we step through the threshold.
"This was your mother's wing," Bjorn explains, his deep voice gentle with reverence. "The drapes were closed the day she left, and the doors were boarded up the moment Astrid sensed her sister's death through their bond." His arm wraps around Astrid with practiced tenderness, and he presses a kiss to her temple as her eyes grow glassy with unshed tears. Even after all these years, the grief is still there, lurking just beneath the surface.
"I have to ask," I say, turning my full attention to them. "Why didn't you take over after Mom's death? You're her sister—you would have had a legitimate claim."
"Neither of us are natural-born or battle-born alphas," Astrid replies, her smile bittersweet as she flips a switch on the wall, bathing the hallway in soft, golden light that chases away some of the shadows. "We would never have the connection to the packs the way you or your parents did. The wolves wouldn't feel us the way they feel you. Leadership isn't just about bloodlines—it's about the bond, and that's something that can't be faked or forced."
She pulls me into a brief but heartfelt embrace, and I breathe in her scent—wildflowers and something warm, like cinnamon."I hope you find what you're looking for. Dinner is in two hours." She and her family retreat back down the corridor, their footsteps fading until we're left alone with the silence and the weight of memories waiting to be uncovered.
A chill runsup my spine as I walk deeper into the forgotten wing, my footsteps muffled by the deep red carpet that stretches before me like a river of dried blood. The air feels thick with anticipation—not fear exactly, but the heavy presence of the unknown pressing against my skin.
The walls are lined with dark wood paneling that gleams dully in the newly restored light, and portraits of solemn-looking ancestors gaze down from their gilded frames with unseeing eyes that seem to follow my every step. Each face shares something with mine—the shape of a nose, the set of a jaw, the particular shade of gray-blue eyes that marks the Jökull line.
My gut tells me to keep moving forward, and I obey the instinct, drawn toward the door at the end of the massive hallway as if pulled by an invisible thread. The door is heavily boarded, planks crisscrossing in a haphazard barricade that speaks of desperate grief rather than careful planning. I stare at the boards for a moment, noting how the wood has aged and splintered over the decades, before looking over my shoulder at Torben.
He meets my gaze with steady amber eyes and nods wordlessly, understanding exactly what I need without a single word passing between us. He steps forward and starts ripping the boards fromthe door frame, the wood groaning and cracking in protest as his massive hands make short work of the barricade.
When the door is finally revealed—carved oak with intricate knot-work patterns—I take a deep breath to steady my racing heart and push down on the tarnished brass lever. The door creaks open on hinges that haven't moved in over two decades, revealing a dimly lit room beyond.
Easton moves ahead of me with the protective instincts that have become second nature, flipping the switches on the wall and bathing the space in a warm, golden glow that chases the shadows back to the corners. The light reveals elegant furniture draped in white sheets like sleeping ghosts, and a grand crystal chandelier that catches the light and casts thousands of sparkling rainbow patterns across the high ceiling.
Diaval and Khal move in silent coordination to the towering windows that dominate the far wall, their hands gripping the heavy, dusty velvet drapes. Together, they draw them back to expose the glass doors leading to a wide stone patio that overlooks the valley below. I rush forward before I can stop myself, my heart pounding against my ribs as I throw open the double doors and step out into the frigid air.
The cold hits my face like a slap, stealing my breath and turning it to mist that curls around me like smoke. I head straight for the marble railing, my hands gripping the frost-covered stone as I look down at the landscape spread below. A hundred feet beneath us, the frozen river from Diaval's story winds through the snow-covered valley like a shimmering ribbon of pale blue ice, its path carving through the mountains toward the distant horizon. The sun hangs low in the winter sky, painting everything in shades of gold and rose that match my mother's dress—my dress now.
I turn slowly, putting my back to the rail, and gaze back toward the doors, imagining how my mother saw my father for the first time on this very spot. The story Diaval told me plays in my mind like a vivid movie—her leaning against this same railing, the wind catching her fiery hair, her gray-blue eyes meeting those of the stranger standing where I stand now.
"I can almost see it," I whisper, the words forming clouds in the frozen air as tears prick at my eyes. I blot them away with the back of my hand before heading back inside, the warmth of the room a stark contrast to the icy air that still clings to my skin.
"Are you okay?" Diaval's voice cuts through my thoughts, surprising me before Torben can ask—which is unusual, since the dragon typically hangs back and lets the others comfort me first.
"I will be," I say, forcing a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes as I motion to the room around us—the shrouded furniture, the dust motes dancing in the golden light, the decades of abandonment that hang heavy in every corner. "This was all just a story almost a year ago. A fairy tale Diaval told me about two people I never knew."
I draw in a deep breath that shudders on the exhale, stepping further into the room and feeling its history and my own colliding like waves against a shore. "Now I'm here, standing where they stood, wearing my mother's dress, and I don't know how I feel." My voice cracks on the last word, and I wrap my arms around my middle, suddenly feeling like a little girl again—lost and grieving for the mother I never had the chance to know.
