Page 101 of The Moonborn's Curse

Or the one after.

He was needed at the border, coordinating response teams, drafting patrol routes, and staying sharp. When he finally walked into the cottage, dirt-streaked and haunted-eyed, Seren was waiting.

She had cleaned. Quietly. The Oracle had stopped by and explained things in a concerned voice.

When Hagan finally walked through the door, there were clothes folded in tidy piles on the sofa. A hearth with banked embers, a plate covered with a cloth, and the warm scent of crisped rice crepes filled with slow-cooked spiced mushrooms. The edges of the crepes were browned and lacy, the filling earthy and rich, with just a hint of cracked pepper and caramelized onion wafting through the air.

She had made it hours ago. Maybe longer.

He stood in the doorway longer than necessary, not looking at her. His mind was chaos. She took his arm gently and led him inside. Fed him. Pushed him to have a shower. Pulled him into bed and tucked his body around hers until his breathing slowed.

The next morning, he kissed her temple and said, "It's going to get worse before it gets better."

She nodded, already expecting it.

"I'll be working with Garrik. And... Lia. On patrol planning."

She met his hesitant eyes and answered the unspoken question between them. "I trust you."

She did. How could she not? After all their ups and downs, Hagan had chosen her.

Little did Seren know this was a sign of things to come. Hagan left early and came home late.

The days grew longer.

The easy harmony of their first days together slipped into something brittle and dry. Hagan left early, came home late, and sometimes not at all. His scent no longer lingered in their space the way it used to. And Lia was always there.

On the training grounds. In planning meetings. Walking too close to Garrik. Standing too close to Hagan.

She never spoke to Seren directly—but her words always landed exactly where she intended.

"I just hope they're managing," she'd say lightly in the hallway, close enough for Seren to hear. "Everyone knows a bond doesn't settle properly without sharing blood. It must be hard—staying that restrained."

Another time, laughing softly as she passed by with a tray of food.

"It's so rare, you know, to wait this long after the handfasting. I suppose... some connections take longer to feel real."

Seren never replied.

Not directly.

Renna and the boys had returned to the fostering tribe days after the ceremony—dragged away with tearful goodbyes and promises to write. Without them, her life felt colder. Emptier. The forest was quieter. Her laughter rarer.

She had never felt so alone.

The ache in her chest was growing. Sometimes, her bonding tattoo throbbed. She didn't know why.

The bond, still new and tender, had been meant to be nurtured—to be fed by time, touch, shared breath. Instead, it was stretched thin. Brittle. The space between them was too wide for too long. And every day Hagan stayed away, that quiet thread in her chest pulled tighter, more raw—like a wound healing badly.

It was like the fibres of a rope snapping, one by one. Quietly. Invisibly. Until she didn't know how many strands were left.

One night, Seren couldn't hold it in any longer.

"You're always with her," she said, voice shaking. "You always smell like her. You never eat. You barely see me."

Hagan's face tightened. "You think I want this? You think I want to be everywhere but here?"

"Then why are you?"

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