My Son Gave My Name to His Father's Mistress

My boot sank into the freezing mud just beyond the iron threshold.

"Keep moving, rogue," Torin shouted from the watchtower above, his crossbow aimed at my chest. "Alpha's orders. You don't stop until you hit the treeline."

"You don't need the weapon, Torin," I yelled back, staring up at the shadow in the tower. "I wrote half the patrol laws for this territory. I know how exile works."

"Then follow them," Torin snapped. "Close the gate!"

The heavy iron doors groaned, slamming shut with a final, metallic thud.

I turned my back on the Blackpine territory and trudged half a mile through the sleet. The abandoned perimeter outpost sat at the edge of the woods. The sagging wooden structure was where I kept my emergency border-patrol gear.

I shoved the splintered door open, only to find a young wolf standing by the hearth. He held a spear tightly in his hands.

"You aren't supposed to be here," Jace said, his voice cracking slightly.

"Stand down, Jace," I said, stepping into the damp room. "I am just collecting my pack."

"Alpha Damon ordered the perimeter sealed," he said. He lowered the spear but kept his stance rigid. "Elder Thorne announced the judgment to the border patrol ten minutes ago. They said you poisoned Lola."

"And you believe them?" I asked. I walked past him to the loose floorboards in the corner.

Jace shifted his weight. "The healer found the silver."

"The healer found what Lola wanted him to find," I said. I pried the wooden plank up with my fingernails. "Are you going to arrest me, Jace? Or are you going to let me take my winter boots?"

He stared at the floor. "You saved my brother during the rogue raid last winter. I won't stop you. But you need to hurry."

"Thank you," I said flatly.

I dragged my canvas emergency pack from the dirt hole. My fingers were stiff from the biting cold. The hidden pouch in my sleeve pulsed against my wrist bone, a steady burn reminding me of the skipped dose.

I ripped the leather ties of my pack open, checking the supplies. Two hunting knives. A flint. A spare wool tunic.

And a wooden spool wrapped in grayish-blue thread.

My hands stopped moving.

"What is that?" Jace asked, peering over my shoulder.

"Nothing," I said, my voice tightening.

I picked up the spool. The rough cotton caught on my calloused fingertips.

Three winters ago, the fever nearly took Caleb during a full moon. His tiny body burned against my chest, his breathing ragged. I stayed awake for three days, pressing snow-soaked cloths to his forehead, stitching this exact grayish-blue thread into his first shift cloak to keep my hands from shaking.

"He wore that cloak today," I whispered. I stared at the thread. "While he chose her."

"Caleb is just a boy," Jace offered quietly. "He doesn't understand pack politics."

"It isn't politics," I said, my tone sharpening. "It is betrayal."

"Alpha Damon is just protecting his family," Jace argued, though his voice lacked conviction.

"I was his family," I shot back. "I bled for this territory. I killed for it. And he threw me out over a cup of tea."

"Lola almost died," Jace repeated the pack's official line.

"If I wanted Lola dead, I wouldn't use silver powder," I said, staring directly into Jace's eyes. "I would use a blade. And I wouldn't miss."

Jace swallowed hard, taking another step back.

I squeezed the wooden spool until it dug into my palm.

Then, a different memory surfaced, sharp and sudden.

Eight months ago. The second week Lola lived in our guest room.

I had walked into my apothecary past midnight. Lola stood by the counter, her hands hovering over my mortar and pestle.

"I couldn't sleep," Lola had said, her voice shaking, eyes wide and innocent. "I thought you might have chamomile."

"The tea is in the kitchen," I had replied, pointing her out the door.

I had dismissed her as a restless stray.

"She wasn't looking for tea," I said aloud, the pieces finally snapping together.

"Who?" Jace asked.

"Lola," I said, standing up. "She was in my apothecary. She was finding where I kept my medicine. She planned the swap from the very beginning."

"Why would she do that?" Jace asked.

"To take my place," I said. "And she succeeded."

I unwound a long strand of the grayish-blue thread. I wrapped it tightly around my left index finger, binding the memory to my flesh. I didn't cry. The pain in my chest hardened, calcifying into something cold and sharp.

"Where will you go?" Jace asked.

"North," I said, slinging the heavy pack over my shoulder. "To the Royal Court."

Jace's eyes widened. "The Court? No lone wolf survives the mountain pass in this weather."

"I am not a lone wolf," I said. "I am a soldier."

I walked out of the outpost, leaving Jace standing in the shadows.

I didn't look back toward the pack lands. I faced the jagged peaks of the northern range. The Royal Court lay beyond those mountains. If I was going to survive, I needed sanctuary, and the Court owed me a debt for the rogue Alpha I killed three years ago.

The sleet turned to heavy snow as I climbed the rocky incline. The wind howled, biting through my thin tunic. Every step up the mountain path tested the limits of my endurance. Without my daily dose of the silver powder, my veins felt like they were filled with crushed glass.

The trees thinned out, replaced by jagged gray stones jutting out from the snow. The silence of the mountain was deafening. For sixteen years, I had been surrounded by the noise of the pack. The training yards, the mess hall, Caleb's laughter echoing down the corridors.

Now, there was only the wind.

I tightened the grayish-blue thread around my finger. It bit into my skin, a physical anchor keeping me grounded. I would not let the isolation break me.

I pushed through the pain. I had no other choice.

Two hours into the climb, the strap of my pack dug awkwardly into my collarbone. I paused near a frozen stream to adjust the load. I set the canvas bag on a flat rock and pulled the bottom flap tight.

As I yanked the leather cord, something slipped out from the false bottom of the bag.

It fluttered to the snow-covered ground.

I froze.

It wasn't mine.

I crouched down, picking up the small, empty leather pouch. It was dyed a deep crimson, exactly like the ones I used to store my silver powder. But the texture was wrong. Too smooth.

I turned it over in my palm.

Stamped into the bottom corner of the leather was a crest.

A silver wolf with two heads, entwined in thorny vines.