Chapter 4 The Pack Heir's Burden (Declan POV)

The Nightshade territory sprawls along the campus’s northern edge, a fortress hewn from shadow and cold stone. By the time I reach the main hall, my jaw throbs—clenched tight enough to taste iron. The guards flick wordless glances as I pass; they know better than to question an heir with a fighting glare.

Inside, polished dark wood and aged iron fill the air, sconces flickering to gild ancestral portraits that seem to judge the living. My footsteps echo against marble floors, which hum with centuries of pack secrets. I scent my father before I see him: aged whiskey and unyielding dominance, clinging to every corner of the room.

He’s waiting in his study, of course. Garrett Hale does not keep defiant heirs waiting.

“Declan.” His voice slices the silence. “Shut the door.”

I comply, the oak door clicking shut like a sentence. Garrett sits behind his mahogany desk, silver-threaded dark hair framing a stern face. He doesn’t look up from his papers—a calculated power play to remind me who holds control.

“You left campus mid-crisis,” he says, tone flat but furious. “Ironwood demands justice, Silvercrest threatens to leave the Concordance, and my son plays detective with a human girl’s life.”

“She’s not just a human girl.” I step closer, boots thudding. “Someone Turned her illegally. Now they’re framing her for murder.”

Finally, he looks up—slate gray eyes hard as flint. “Framed? The evidence is irrefutable.”

“Evidence can be faked.” My hands curl into fists. “Manufactured. Planted.”

“To what end?” He sets down his pen sharply. “Why illegally Turn a human, murder a pack member, and frame her? What’s the motive?”

It’s a fair question—one I’ve gnawed at since leaving Rowan’s cell, her silver-marked arms seared in my mind. “I don’t know yet. But the timing—”

“Irrelevant.” Garrett stands, towering as he stares out the window at the twilight-shrouded territory. “The Concordance is in three weeks. We can’t afford instability.”

“So we sacrifice an innocent girl to appease the packs?” The words taste like ash.

“Innocent?” He turns, disappointment mixing with warning. “You’ve barely spoken to her outside of mocking her. Now you’re her champion?”

The observation cuts deep. I force a neutral expression. “I’ve watched her longer than you think.”

“Yes, I’m aware.” His tone sharpens. “The question is why.”

Because she looks like Elena. Because every glance at her dark hair or sharp wit feels like having my sister back, if only for a second. Because guilt over failing Elena seventeen years ago eats at me—and maybe this is my chance to save someone.

I don’t say it. “She’s being framed,” I repeat. “The Turning sigil on her arms is incomplete but active. Someone started it and left her to die or finish it at the full moon. It’s calculated.”

Garrett’s face stays stone-still—no surprise, no anger. It’s unnatural. Any Alpha would react to news of an illegal Turning.

“The sigil is advanced,” I press. “Whoever did this knows transformation magic. We should hunt them down—”

“We are investigating.” He shuffles papers dismissively. “Your job is to prepare for the Concordance, not play savior to a miscreant who—”

“Don’t call her that.” The words snarl out before I can stop them.

Garrett’s eyebrows lift. “Careful, son. You’re letting sentiment cloud your judgment. Just like…” He trails off, but I know—just like Elena.

“Just like Elena?” I say it, the name hanging like a specter. We never talk about her—her portraits torn down, belongings burned, name erased. Only her letter remains, hidden in my room.

Garrett’s jaw tightens. “Elena made her choices. They destroyed her.”

“She tried to expose something worth dying for.”

“She was rogue.” The word cracks like a whip. “She killed a human, broke the sacred law. Don’t romanticize her madness.”

“What if she was right?” I slam my hands on the desk. “What if there’s something terrible worth risking everything for?”

“Enough.” His Alpha voice presses against my skin, forcing me to fight the instinct to submit. But I think of Rowan in her cell, and Elena’s letter: They’ll come for the children.

“No.”

The word costs me—my wolf whimpers, cowering. But I hold my ground. Garrett’s eyes narrow with fury. “What did you say?”

“I said no. Sir.” I straighten, chin raised in defiance. “Order matters, but so does truth. If Rowan is framed, the real killer is among us. Finding them matters more than scapegoating.”

“Convenient?” His voice freezes. “A human-turned-wolf murdering a Concordance member is a catastrophe. Her guilt is the inconvenient truth we must manage.”

“Then why aren’t you surprised?” I demand. “You didn’t blink at the sigil—like you already knew.”

For a heartbeat, guilt flickers across his face, then fades. “Humans covet our power. The Academy has forbidden texts. These things happen.”

He’s hiding something. “What aren’t you telling me, Father?”

“Nothing you need concern yourself with.” He dismisses me. “You’re dismissed. I expect better judgment.”

“And if I keep investigating?”

He looks up, almost sympathetic. “Then you’re making Elena’s mistake—valuing righteousness over survival. We know how that ends.”

The threat is clear. I turn for the door, but his voice stops me.

“Declan. I’m trying to protect you from consequences you can’t foresee.”

“Maybe so,” I say. “But at least I’ll know I tried.”

I leave, the hallways quiet as if the pack senses the storm. Once in my room, I pry up a loose floorboard and take out a wooden box—Elena’s letter, worn thin from years of rereading.

She writes of rot in the pack, of experiments on children, of Father’s involvement. She begs me to protect them, to question everything. And a postscript: If something happens to my daughter, promise me you’ll keep her safe.

Daughter. A niece I never knew, gone after Elena’s death. The records lie—but Elena’s letter tells the truth: secrets so deep, people still die to protect them.

I tuck the letter away, hands shaking. Staring at my reflection—Father’s eyes, Elena’s resolve—I vow to find the truth. For Elena, her daughter, Rowan, and myself.