Chapter 47
Alaric woke earlier than usual the next morning, stirred by a restless urgency he could not explain. Before the rest of the household had risen, he made his way quietly to the dining room, already certain he would find her there.
Alia was setting the table for breakfast and tea, moving with unusual haste, as though she were late for something. She startled at his presence, her hand knocking against a teacup and sending it tipping dangerously.
“Oh! Mr. Stonebridge—my apologies, I did not see you there.”
Alaric stepped forward quickly, steadying the cup before it could fall. “I believe I should be the one apologizing,” he said gently. “Good morning, Alia.”
“Is there something you require, sir? Are you feeling well?”
“I am quite well, thank you,” he replied. “In truth, I was hoping to speak with you.”
She looked up at him from where she stood, her expression touched with confusion. “With me?”
“Yes—if you would not mind sitting for a moment.” He pulled out one of the chairs and gestured toward it before taking the seat beside it.
Alia hesitated before lowering herself into the chair, posture rigid and hands folded tightly in her lap. Her knee bounced beneath the table, betraying the nerves she could not quite contain.
“Are you… seeking to relieve me of my duties?” she asked quickly. “Because I would very much like to remain. Your mother has been exceedingly kind to me, and I am more than willing to take on additional work if needed.”
“No, no. Nothing of the sort,” Alaric said at once, his brows drawing together in concern. He had not meant to alarm her. “You are quite wonderful at what you do. We would never consider dismissing you unless it was your own wish.”
He paused, rubbing the back of his neck as he realized how strange this must seem. Seeking her out before dawn, asking her to sit and talk, without any clear purpose to justify it. He felt… absurd.
“What I meant to ask,” he added, clearing his throat, “was simply what you might have planned for the day.”
Alia blinked at him.
“My plans, sir?”
“Yes,” he said, allowing himself a small, awkward smile. “I suppose I am asking exactly that.”
Something in his tone seemed to ease her. She relaxed slightly, her hands still folded but no longer so tightly.
“Well,” she said, “I had asked Lord Cillian to accompany me to the grove later this morning. He had questions, and I thought it best he saw things for himself rather than rely on explanation alone. Lady Evelyne mentioned she may join us as well.”
She was taking them to the Solwyn Grove. To the tree.
A sudden, unwelcome trace of darkness moved through his mind, carrying the memory of that voice—the thing that had once threaded through his thoughts, whispering, guiding, commanding.
Bring the alpha to the source. The tree.
Alaric went still, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table.
That was the warning. But why?
Why had it mattered so much?
“I… would very much like to accompany you,” he said suddenly, the words escaping before he had fully considered them.
Alia’s expression brightened at once. “Of course, Mr. Stonebridge. I would be glad for your company.”
“Thank you,” he said, rising from his seat. “I shall forgo breakfast and make myself ready. I will meet you in the foyer?”
“Yes,” she replied, already returning to her task, though now with a calmer steadiness.
***
Alia guided them beyond the quiet road to Shaw Manor, through the overgrowth, across moss-covered stones inlaid with ancient mosaics, and beneath a crumbling archway.
Around the exposed roots stood weathered stone shrines, each marked with faded sunbursts and celestial symbols, their presence hinting at how deeply the tree reached into the land.
Its trunk was so vast that everyone had to tilt their heads back to see the canopy, its branches spreading above them in a great sheltering crown.
This was the tree Cillian had seen again and again in his mind.
The same tree he had studied in old history books while trying to understand what was happening to him.
But the tree in his visions had looked dead, and the illustrations had shown it full of life.
This tree before them seemed somewhere between the two.
Reborn, perhaps. Not fully bloomed, but no longer lifeless.
Cillian understood why Alia loved coming to the grove. It was beautiful and peaceful, with grass and flowers gathered around the roots. Some blossoms had begun to bow beneath the cooler autumn air, but they were still alive.
Encircled by old stone, overgrown vines, and tangled greenery, the tree rose like the queen of the grove.
The space around it felt like a hidden sanctuary, a place made for rituals and magic, sheltered from the world by bramble and wild growth.
Something inside Cillian warmed in its presence.
His heart, perhaps. Or his blood. He could not tell.
He only knew that the closer he came to the roots and towering trunk, the more that warmth spread beneath his skin.
And Alia looked breathtaking beside it. As she neared the tree, her skin seemed to brighten, as though the grove itself had recognized her.
The pale blonde strands of her hair caught the light, shining richer and healthier than before, and a soft radiance settled over her features.
She knelt near the base and dipped her head as if greeting the tree.
Bowing to its power. Respecting its purity.
Cillian knelt beside her without thinking and bowed his head in silence. When they both lifted their faces, his eyes met her hazel ones, and a strange calm settled through him. She felt like home. Like safety.
“Cillian?”
Evelyne interrupted the silence and Cillian turned to face the three of them, Evelyne, Kaldrek, and Alaric, standing in disbelief, their eyes wide.
“What? What is it?” he asked nervously.
“Your skin is… It’s glowing,” Alaric murmured. “Both of you.”
Cillian’s attention shifted to Alia, and he realized the glow of her skin was not merely warmth or color from the grove.
It was light. The same kind of light that lived within him.
He stumbled back in surprise.
“Whoa.” Cillian’s hands hit the ground behind him as he steadied himself. “You can heal? I mean, you have light. You—” The words tangled before he could make sense of them.
“Yes, Cillian. I too can summon light and this tree is our mother source. Can you hear her sing to you?” Alia asked calmly.
Kaldrek stepped closer to the tree and tipped his head back in silence, then lowered his gaze to them, to the roots, as if trying to make sense of the scene before him.
“You both look so… beautiful,” Evelyne breathed as she stared at Cillian.
His eyes dropped to his palms, now glowing even brighter where his hands touched the ground and the roots pushed through the dirt and grass. When his gaze returned to Alia, she was smiling brightly.
“Listen to her. She’s singing your name.”
Cillian hesitated. This was all so otherworldly.
“Go on,” Alia urged.
Cillian pushed himself back onto his knees and bowed his head. Closing his eyes, he released a long, slow breath, just as Lorena had taught him. The Ironwolf healer may not have been a witch, but she had shown him exactly how to steady himself.
A few seconds passed with only the impatient shuffle of feet behind him. Most likely Kaldrek.
“Touch the roots, Cillian,” Alia softly encouraged him.
Cillian reached out with trembling hands and lightly gripped the nearest root.
Then he felt it.
Heard it.
Heard her.
A beautiful, golden voice hummed and sang in his ears, vibrant with something like joy. The sound grew louder as he focused, and warmth spread through his blood, down to his feet and out through his fingertips, just as it did whenever he summoned light.
But this did not burn. It felt smooth. Silken. Alive.
“Holy…” Alaric said from behind him. “Look. At. That.”
The tree’s voice was so angelic, so kind and gentle. Like a mother’s lullaby soothing him deeper and deeper into calmness.
“She has welcomed you,” Alia whispered. “She says she has been waiting for you to come home.”
Footsteps drew closer behind him, and Cillian slowly opened his eyes to glance over his shoulder.
Kaldrek stood there, his brown eyes wide, yet strangely vacant, as though some part of him had slipped beyond reach.
He stared at the tree, utterly transfixed.
For several seconds, he did not move at all, and the stillness grew uneasy.
What had begun as curiosity sharpened into something darker. Hungrier. Almost possessive.
Then Kaldrek tilted his head like a predator catching the scent of prey.
“Kaldrek?” Evelyne called, and he seemed to snap out of his trance.
“Why don’t you step back and give Cillian some space? Wouldn’t want you to interfere with this moment,” Alaric teased, though concern seemed to flicker in his bright blue eyes.
Evelyne moved forward to grab Kaldrek’s hand and pull him toward her. “Are you all right?” she whispered, and Cillian saw him clear his throat and adjust his posture.
Cillian stood and felt the warmth drift away, though not fully. But the singing stopped, and Alia rose to stand with him, still wearing a smile that made his heart skip a beat.
A few seconds later, Evelyne broke the silence. “You both can summon light?”
“That is right, my lady,” Alia answered. “We are its kin.”
Cillian remembered the stories Lorena had shared with him. The stories of the Solgrove Kin—but the townspeople and covens called them something else.
“Sunweavers,” he mumbled.
“You know your history, my lord?” Alia asked in surprise.
“Not much, I must admit. Only stories of the light-bringers who once lived upon these lands centuries ago.”
“That is right. The witch covens in Velenshire called us Sunweavers, though we call ourselves the Solgrove Kin. And this tree is our mother.” Alia gestured to the Solwyn Tree and dipped her head in respect once again.
Cillian’s head spun. He was not merely a new Lord of Caltheris, not merely a light wielder born of prophecy, not merely a wolf—but kin to the Solwyn Tree as well?
How was that possible?
“Perhaps we should talk more another time, over tea?” Alia suggested. “I’m sure you have many questions for me. You all look quite surprised, actually.”
Alaric huffed a laugh. “That’s an understatement.”
“I think that would be a great idea, Alia,” Evelyne agreed. “I must admit I’m a bit dizzy over all of this news, and I’m sure Cillian’s mind is unraveling with thoughts.” She looked to him. “Are you well, brother? You are starting to lose color.”
He was not well. He was incredibly weak…
And down he went.