Snow crunched under heavy iron-shod boots, breaking the absolute silence of the dying woods. The messenger didn't bother to knock on the splintering wood of the cabin door. He simply shoved the thick parchment against Cora's chest. A heavy red wax seal held it closed, stamped with a snarling wolf. An invitation to the bonding ceremony of her former mate.
He wanted her in the crowd. He wanted her broken, weeping, while he elevated another. She stared at the wax, feeling nothing but cold resolve. The grieving was over.
The axe came down with a sharp, echoing crack, splitting the pine log perfectly in two. Cora didn't stop. She reached for another piece of wood, set it on the block, and swung again.
Splinters flew, catching in the messy braid of her dark hair. Her breath plumed in the freezing morning air, mingling with the scent of pine sap and the metallic tang of impending snow. She was sweating despite the bitter chill. Manual labor was the only thing that kept the phantom ache at bay — the dull, throbbing pain that sat deep in her chest, right behind her collarbone, where the mating mark used to be.
Now it was just a jagged pale scar, a permanent reminder that she was a discard.
Hoofbeats interrupted the rhythm of her work. Cora leaned on the handle of her axe, wiping a streak of dirt from her forehead with the back of a calloused hand. A single rider broke through the treeline. It was Gregory, the beta of the Ashdown pack.
He looked out of place in this desolate stretch of the territory: his fine woolen cloak lined with expensive sable, his horse a magnificent roan that huffed nervously at the scent of Cora's dilapidated cabin. Cora didn't greet him. She just watched him dismount, her eyes flat, tired. She had run out of tears six months ago.
Gregory hesitated. He wouldn't meet her eyes. That was the thing about the Ashdown pack. They were all very good at looking away from the mess their alpha had made.
"Cora," he muttered. His voice was gruff, lacking its usual authoritative boom.
"Gregory." Her voice was scratchy from disuse. She hadn't spoken to another soul in three weeks. "You're a long way from the high hall. Did you get lost looking for the privy?"
He winced. He reached inside his cloak and pulled out a thick envelope of heavy vellum. He held it out like it was a live coal.
"Desmond sent me. He wants you to have this."
Cora didn't move. She stared at the parchment. She knew exactly what it was without having to open it. The whole territory knew. Desmond, the newly minted Alpha of Ashdown, was taking a mate. Lyanna of the Riverlands. A political match. A strong wolf with a pedigree that stretched back centuries. Everything Cora was not.
"Put it on the block," Cora said, her tone utterly devoid of emotion.
Gregory swallowed hard. He stepped forward, his polished boots sinking into the freezing mud, and set the invitation on the tree stump next to her axe.
"He expects you to attend, Cora."
"Does he?" She let out a short, humorless laugh. "Why? Does he need someone to serve the wine?"
"Don't do that," Gregory said softly, finally meeting her gaze. There was pity in his eyes, and she hated him for it. "He just — he wants to show the allied packs that there is no bad blood. That the transition was peaceful."
Peaceful. Cora touched her collarbone unconsciously. Desmond had rejected her in front of the entire pack council. He had cited her weak wolf, her lack of noble blood, her inability to command respect. He had ripped the bond from her chest with all the grace of a butcher, leaving her bleeding on the stone floor of the hall.
"Tell Desmond he can take his peaceful transition and choke on it."
Gregory sighed, a white puff of vapor in the cold. "If you don't show, it looks like you're defying him. You know how he gets. He might revoke your right to live on the fringe lands. He might exile you entirely."
"I am already exiled, Gregory. I'm just doing it within his borders." Cora picked up the axe again. "Tell him I received it. Tell him whatever you want. Just get off my land."
Gregory lingered for a second longer, perhaps hoping for a breakdown, perhaps hoping for absolution. When Cora simply brought the axe down on another log, splitting it with violent precision, he turned and mounted his horse. He rode away without another word.
When the sound of hoofbeats faded, Cora dropped the axe. Her hands were shaking.
She walked over to the stump and picked up the vellum. The wax seal was heavy, arrogant. She broke it. The calligraphy was elegant, looping gold ink that announced the union of Alpha Desmond and Lady Lyanna. At the bottom, in Desmond's own sharp, aggressive handwriting, was a note.
Your presence is required. It is time you accepted your place.
He didn't just want her there for optics. He wanted to humiliate her. He wanted Lyanna to see the broken, dirt-stained woman he had cast aside, to elevate his new mate by contrasting her with his old one. He wanted Cora to bow her head and submit to the new regime.
Cora walked into the cabin. The fire was dying in the hearth. She looked at the invitation, then at the embers. It would make excellent kindling. She didn't throw it in.
She walked over to the small cracked mirror hanging above her wash basin. She looked at herself. Hollow cheeks, dark circles under her eyes, hair like a bird's nest, a ragged wool sweater that smelled of smoke and wet dog. She looked exactly like the pathetic, discarded thing Desmond wanted her to be.
Something snapped inside her. It wasn't the fiery, passionate anger of a scorned lover. It was something colder, harder. It was the cynical realization that if she stayed here and rotted, he won.
"My place," she whispered to the empty room.
She folded the invitation and slipped it into her pocket. She wasn't going to the wedding to bow. She was going to leave. She would cross the High Ridge Pass, leave Ashdown territory forever, and she would do it on the day of his bonding, so her scent would vanish from his lands at the exact moment he tried to claim a new mate.
Let him feel the finality of it.
She grabbed a rucksack and began to pack.