Chapter 9 The Necklace
Three weeks passed in Ironwood.
Not quickly.
Not easily.
They passed in heartbeats.
Two of them, soft and fast beneath Doctor Wervin’s polished wooden tube every morning while Tria lay very still and forgot how to breathe until the healer gave her the same stern nod.
“Still strong.”
Only then did Tria’s lungs remember their purpose.
The babies were strong.
Even when she was not.
Her body healed in pieces. The torn pads of her feet closed. The bruises along her shoulder faded from purple to yellow. The hollow hunger in her belly turned constant, sharp, and impossible to ignore.
Ironwood noticed that too.
Broth appeared before she asked. Bread waited outside her door. Roasted apples dusted with cinnamon arrived once someone discovered the smell did not make her stomach twist.
No one lingered for thanks.
That made it harder to refuse.
Still, every kindness brushed against the golden heart at her throat.
Delvan’s necklace rested there as if it still had a right to her skin.
She hated it.
She hated the cold little weight of it. Hated the way her fingers found it when the bond burned. Hated that after the courtyard, after exile, after learning she had run through the forest carrying his children, she still could not unclasp it.
Every morning, she told herself she would take it off.
Every morning, she failed.
Ravin noticed.
Of course he did.
He noticed too much.
He noticed that she ate more if the bowl sat near the window. He noticed loud footsteps made her shoulders tighten. He noticed she avoided sitting with her back to the door.
And he noticed the necklace.
His gaze touched it once when he entered with folded blankets Wervin had apparently ordered him to carry.
Only once.
Then his eyes returned to her face.
No question.
No judgment.
That almost made her angry.
Part of her wanted him to say something cruel. To give her a reason to defend the weakness she could not cut from herself. To ask why she still wore another Alpha’s promise when that Alpha had thrown her away.
Instead, Ravin set the blankets on the chair.
“Wervin says you need another layer at night.”
“Wervin says many things.”
“She is usually right.”
“Do you always obey your healer?”
“When she threatens me with needles, yes.”
The corner of Tria’s mouth moved before she could stop it.
Ravin saw.
He said nothing.
That was his most dangerous habit.
A few days later, Wervin allowed Tria to sit in the small garden outside the healing house, provided she did not walk there alone, stand too quickly, or “attempt heroics before lunch.”
Tria did not ask what counted as heroics.
She suspected Wervin’s answer would be breathing with too much confidence.
The garden was quiet, tucked between the healing house and a low stone wall. Beyond it, Ironwood children had claimed the path as a battlefield, market, court, and river, depending on the hour.
Tria sat beneath a pale-leafed tree with a blanket over her lap and a cup of tea cooling untouched beside her.
She should have found the noise irritating.
Instead, it made something inside her ache.
Silvercrest children had played near the Luna rooms too. They used to leave flowers on her steps after moon ceremonies. Pebbles painted with crooked stars. Notes asking for honey cakes, blessings, or help convincing their mothers that mud was medicinal.
She had kept every note.
Unless Selene had thrown them away.
Tria’s hand went to the necklace.
A small voice interrupted her.
“Is it magic?”
Tria looked down.
A little girl stood at the edge of the garden, no older than seven, with dark curls falling out of two uneven braids. She clutched a wooden wolf against her chest.
Tria glanced behind her for a mother or attendant.
No one came running.
Ironwood trusted its children to breathe near strangers.
That was new.
“Is what magic?” Tria asked.
The girl pointed with the wooden wolf. “Your necklace.”
Tria’s fingers closed around the golden heart.
For a moment, she could not answer.
Once, she might have said yes. Not because the necklace held spells, but because Delvan had given it to her before the bond, before the crown, before pride had sharpened him into someone who could stand on a platform and call cruelty freedom.
“It is not magic,” Tria said at last. “Just old.”
The girl stepped closer, solemn now. “Old things can still hurt if you hold them too tight.”
Tria went still.
The child said it with the simple confidence of someone repeating wisdom heard from an elder while having no idea where to use it.
Then she held up the wooden wolf. “Mine bit me yesterday.”
Tria blinked.
The girl showed her thumb. A tiny red mark marred the skin. “I slept with it in my fist. Mama said I squeezed it wrong.”
A laugh tried to rise.
It came out broken, but it came.
The girl smiled as if pleased with herself.
“What is your name?” Tria asked.
“Nessa.”
“Thank you, Nessa.”
“For what?”
Tria looked at the necklace in her hand.
“I am not sure yet.”
Nessa accepted that as if unfinished answers made perfect sense, then ran back to the path, curls bouncing, wooden wolf raised like a battle flag.
Tria sat long after she left.
Old things can still hurt if you hold them too tight.
Her fingers loosened around the pendant.
Not enough to remove it.
Enough to breathe.
By the next morning, Wervin allowed a walk beyond the healing house.
Ravin came to escort her himself.
“You do have other duties,” Tria said as they moved along the stone path.
“Yes.”
“Important duties?”
“Yes.”
“And walking an injured guest is one of them?”
“Wervin said you would argue with anyone else.”
“She knows me too well.”
“She knows everyone too well.”
Tria glanced at him.
He walked at her pace without making a display of it. Not hovering. Not slowing in a way that humiliated her. Simply matching her like it was natural.
Her wolf noticed the steadiness of him.
Tria ignored her.
The path opened near the training grounds.
Ironwood warriors moved across packed earth in disciplined pairs. Wooden blades struck. Bodies turned. Boots slid through dust. No one wasted motion. No one laughed during the drill, but no fear soured the air.
Ravin stopped beside the fence.
A young warrior stumbled through a parry and took a training blade to the ribs. He cursed under his breath.
Ravin’s gaze sharpened.
“Again,” he called.
The warrior straightened immediately.
Ravin stepped through the gate, picked up a practice blade, and crossed the yard. Tria watched him correct the stance with calm precision. He did not mock the mistake. Did not shout. Did not make the young wolf bleed for embarrassment.
“Your weight is too far back,” Ravin said. “Fear makes you slow before it makes you careful. Again.”
The warrior tried.
Failed.
Tried again.
This time, the parry held.
Ravin nodded once. “Better.”
The warrior’s shoulders loosened as if that single word mattered.
Tria’s throat tightened.
Delvan had corrected with sharpness when people watched. He believed pressure made warriors stronger.
Sometimes it did.
Sometimes it only taught them to hide pain.
Ravin turned back toward her, and Tria looked away too late.
He saw her watching.
Something quiet passed between them.
Not flirtation.
Awareness.
The dangerous kind that did not ask permission before arriving.
Then the bond struck.
No warning.
One breath, she stood beside the fence with cold air in her lungs.
The next, agony tore through her chest.
Tria’s hand flew to the necklace. The gold burned against her palm. Her knees buckled. The training yard tilted hard, earth and sky breaking apart.
She heard someone call her name.
Ravin.
Then he was there.
His arm caught around her before she hit the ground, solid and warm at her back. His other hand hovered near her stomach but did not touch.
Even through pain, she noticed.
He waited.
“May I?” he asked, low and urgent.
The question almost broke her.
Tria gave the smallest nod.
Only then did his hand settle lightly over her abdomen, shielding rather than claiming.
The bond screamed again.
Delvan.
Far away.
Too close.
Her breath came in sharp pieces. She hated every warrior seeing this. Hated the weakness. Hated the necklace in her fist and the way her body still answered a male who had exiled her.
Ravin’s voice dropped near her ear. “Breathe with me.”
“I am trying.”
“Slower.”
“I hate him,” she whispered.
But the words were not clean.
They came tangled with grief.
Ravin said nothing.
He only held her steady until the worst of the pain passed.
The moment she found her balance, his arms released.
Immediate.
Respectful.
She almost reached back.
She did not.
The training yard had gone silent.
Ravin looked at the warriors once. They lowered their eyes and returned to drills, giving her dignity by pretending not to have witnessed her unravel.
Tria swallowed hard. “It is getting worse.”
Ravin’s expression darkened.
Not with anger at her.
“At the healing house,” he said.
“I can walk.”
“I know.”
He stayed beside her anyway.
Wervin listened to the babies as soon as they returned.
Two heartbeats answered.
Strong.
Tria nearly cried from relief.
Wervin did not smile.
That frightened her more than shouting would have.
“The bond sickness is escalating,” the healer said. “Your body cannot keep taking shocks like this.”
Tria’s hand closed over the necklace.
“What are you saying?”
Wervin looked from Tria’s face to her stomach.
“If this continues,” she said, “it may begin affecting the pregnancy.”
The room went cold.
Tria forgot how to breathe.