Page 190 of The Moonborn's Curse

"There haven't been any successful births in months," Veyr continued. "The last three ended in miscarriage. The healers are baffled. The earth... it's grieving. And we both know who it's grieving for. Seren would want to know."

Silence.

"It's not about using her," Veyr continued, quiet but firm. "It's about telling her the truth. About letting her choose."

Hagan turned away, pacing. "She gave everything up. Her home. Her family. Her power. And what did we give her in return? Scrutiny. Silence. A half-hearted mate and a tribe that never saw her worth."

His hands clenched into fists. "I won't ask her to come back to fix what we broke."

Veyr let the silence hang for a beat. Then, "You won't have to ask. Just tell her the truth. And let her decide if she wants to be part of it. We need her, Hagan. There are innocents involved - the cubs"

Hagan seemed to straighten up. "I'll go back. I'll handle it. And then... I'll return. Then I will tell her. Let her decide."

Seren couldn't stay quiet any longer. Hagan was so distracted; he had not scented her yet. Or maybe, they spent the day together, so he must be smelling her on himself.

"No."

They both turned. Hagan's eyes widened-shocked, caught. She ignored it.

Veyr seemed less surprised. He had known she was listening.

"What's going on in the tribelands?" she asked, voice even.

Neither of them spoke.

So, she repeated, slower, firmer.

"What. Is. Going. On?"

Chapter 69

"No."

The word cut clean through the air like a blade honed on silence.

Hagan turned—his heart already stuttering before he saw her standing there.

Seren.

Framed in the doorway, arms folded tight over her chest, chin high. Her eyes were the colour of silver, unreadable and sharp as flint.

He hadn't even scented her.

Gods, how had he not scented her?

He still smelled like her. Her warmth had soaked into his skin from the bus ride, the stairs, that ridiculous cathedral climb...from every touch he stole. She was in his breath, on his hoodie, his hands. Every inch of him hummed with the day they'd just spent together.

But this—this was not the soft-spoken woman who'd smiled over soup or stared at a falcon chick like it was a revelation. This was Seren the storm.

And she was staring straight at him.

"What's going on in the Tribelands?" she asked, voice level.

He opened his mouth—but no words came.

Because how did you explain the slow unravelling of a world? The quiet rot creeping under the soil? The grief that no one spoke of because they brought this on themselves?

So she repeated it again, slower this time. Sharper.

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