Chapter 91
91
~Elara’s POV
I watched it all, feeling like my body was already separate from me. My chest ached with a cold emptiness I could not name. The maids and guards surrounded me, their eyes wide, hesitant, confused, but obedient. They whispered, glanced at one another, unsure of what to say. I could feel their fear before I even saw it.
Ronan led the way, his steps precise, deliberate, measured, like every movement had been rehearsed. Lira followed close behind, hand pressed over her chest, tears spilling just enough for everyone to believe. I could see it in their eyes, the way they wanted to appear shaken, devastated, broken. The letter in Ronan’s hand gleamed in the morning sun, all neat lines and careful script: my name, my betrayal, my supposed shame.
The crowd outside the palace murmured, a low, growing tide of suspicion and disgust. I could hear it even over the pounding in my own mind. “She was a traitor.” “Elara… she would hand secrets to rogues?” “I never trusted her fully.” Every word was a dagger, and every dagger was crafted by the ones I had trusted most.
Even Darlon’s council was there, standing tall and rigid, their faces solemn, as if I had been some criminal deserving of public condemnation. They whispered among themselves, eyes flicking toward the letter, then to my still form. “This cannot go unpunished,” one said. “Even in death, she must be denounced.” “Yes. If we do not act now, who knows what lies will spread?” The way they spoke, as though I was already gone but still dangerous, made the hollow inside me stretch.
I saw Lira lift her face, her lips trembling, eyes brimming with tears she did not feel. Ronan’s head tilted slightly, sorrow written in every line of his face, but I knew it was fake, so painfully fake it made my stomach twist. They were actors. Perfect actors. And I was the corpse on which their play was built.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to move, to tell them that none of it was true, that I had never sent a single word to any rogue, that my loyalty had never wavered. But I was trapped in this invisible prison. Every whisper of protest caught in my throat, every attempt to reach them swallowed by the weight of their deception.
People pointed, shaking their heads. Some whispered curses, some judgment, some pity. I could feel their eyes, judging, blaming, fearing. And Lira and Ronan’s fake cries only added fuel to the fire. They were crafting my death into something monstrous, something shameful, something the world would never forgive.
This was death painted in broad daylight, sanctioned by those I had called friends, witnessed by everyone I had hoped would understand me. I was already gone, but in their eyes, I would be a villain forever.
I watched, helpless and hollow, as the sky darkened and the clouds opened, rain hammering down like the world itself was mourning. The crowd outside the palace was a blur of umbrellas and wet cloaks, whispers lost in the roar of the storm. And then I saw him, Alpha Darlon, running toward me, his coat soaked through, his hair plastered to his forehead, eyes wild.
He reached me, and I saw something I had thought impossible: raw, unfiltered grief. He fell to his knees beside my body, his hands clutching me as if he could somehow bring me back. His face pressed against my chest, tears mixing with the rain, and he wailed, a sound so full of pain that the maids and guards froze, their mouths opening and closing, unsure what to do.
“No… no, Elara! Please, wake up! You can’t… you can’t leave me!” he cried, voice breaking over and over, each word jagged and desperate.
I wanted to reach out, to tell him I was still here, somewhere in the corners of the storm, but I could not. My body lay still, cold and silent, while he held onto me as if letting go would shatter him completely. Minutes stretched into hours, though I knew it was only moments, and still he refused to release me. The rain drenched us both, streaming down his face, soaking my hair, soaking everything, but he did not care.
Ronan and Lira stood at the edge, frozen for a moment, watching him. Then, carefully, they found a way to slip away, disappearing into the storm before anyone could stop them. I saw their figures vanish, their lies carried off with them, leaving only truth and grief in the open courtyard.
Darlon did not move. He held me tightly, finally whispering hoarse words that I could not hear but felt: fragments of love, of regret, of a sorrow so deep it could drown him whole. Then, finally, he rose, cradling my body against him as he sent a letter to my mother and father. I watched the fear and sorrow flood their faces when they arrived, each step toward me heavy and slow, their tears indistinguishable from the rain that poured down around them.
They knelt beside me, my mother and father, and I felt the weight of their grief as if it pressed on my chest. Their hands shook as they reached for me, trembling as though even touching me might make me vanish again. My mother’s face was wet with tears, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed into her hands. “Elara… my little girl she whispered, voice breaking into ragged pieces. Each word struck like a knife, and I wanted to reach out, to tell her it wasn’t true, that I was still here, somewhere. But I could not.
My father’s grief was quieter but just as raw. He stood behind her at first, shoulders tense, fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He did not cry openly, but every tremor in his body spoke of a heart breaking quietly, in ways that words could not hold. He leaned forward eventually, placing a hand on my mother’s back, steadying her, though I could see his own tears streaking down his face. His lips pressed into a thin line, trembling slightly, and I knew he was holding back the kind of sobs that might have shattered him completely.
The wind whipped around them, carrying the rain in sheets that soaked everything. But they did not care. The cold could not touch the fire burning inside them. The flames of the cremation rose high, consuming the last pieces of me. Smoke curled upward, dark and thick against the gray sky, carrying the weight of my life into the clouds. The fire crackled and roared, almost as if it were speaking, devouring my body but leaving memories, leaving pain, leaving love.
Darlon stayed close, his arms folded but stiff, his eyes never leaving the flames. His face was pale, his lips pressed tight together, and I could see every ounce of grief, fury, and helplessness written across him. He did not speak. He did not cry. But his presence was enough to make the air around him heavy, full of emotion that words could never match.
After the flames had burned low, the council stepped forward, stern and cold. Their faces were set, their posture perfect, but there was an edge to them, an expectation that Darlon would do what they wanted. “Alpha Darlon,” one of them said, voice firm and formal, “you must denounce her. Even in death, she p>
The words cut through the air, deliberate, commanding. But I saw the fire in his eyes flare. His jaw tightened, and he stood straighter, though the grief still weighed on him. He did not answer immediately. He looked at the council, at the ashes, at the rain-soaked ground. And when he spoke, his voice was low, steady, and filled with something that made the council falter. “No,” he said. “I will not denounce her. Not her. Not ever p>
“But mark my words. Every one of you who had a hand in this… every single one… will pay. I will find them. And I will make them answer p>