CHAPTER SIX
Iris packed while the house slept. Not quickly.
Not angrily. Not with trembling hands or broken sobs or clothing thrown into trunks.
That would have made it easier somehow. A scene would have given the pain shape.
It would have turned leaving into a storm everyone could point to later and say, yes, that was when it happened.
Instead, she folded her dresses one by one and placed them inside a plain leather bag she'd used years ago when she and Lucien traveled to visit border villages.
She chose the simple gowns first. The soft blue one with mended sleeves.
The brown riding dress Agnes always claimed made her look like she was about to argue with a magistrate.
Two nightgowns. A cloak. Her brush. A small tin of lavender balm she barely used anymore but couldn't bring herself to leave behind.
She did not take jewels.
She did not take ceremonial robes.
She left the silver Luna circlet inside its velvet box.
That belonged to the house.
Or maybe it belonged to the woman she had been trying to remain.
The bedroom was dim except for the low amber glow from the hearth. Lucien slept on his side of the bed, one arm bent beneath the pillow, his dark hair falling across his forehead in a way that made him look almost boyish. There were faint shadows under his eyes. Even asleep, he looked tired.
Iris paused with one hand on the wardrobe door.
She still loved him.
That was the cruelest part.
If the love had died, she could have left with clean edges.
She could have told herself the marriage was over and walked away with anger carrying her like armor.
But love still lived in the corners of the room.
In the cup he used every morning. In the old blanket he refused to replace because she had fallen asleep under it during their first winter.
In the drawer where he kept every note she had ever slipped into his coat before patrol.
Love remained.
She was the one disappearing.
A soft knock came at the door connecting their chamber to the sitting room.
Iris froze.
Lucien stirred but did not wake.
She crossed the room and opened it only enough to find Agnes standing in the corridor with a candle in one hand and a shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders.
The older woman took in the bag at Iris's feet.
Her expression changed, but she did not gasp.
Agnes had never wasted energy on theatrics.
"I was hoping I was wrong," she murmured.
Iris looked back at Lucien, then stepped into the corridor and pulled the door nearly closed behind her.
"What are you doing awake?"
"At my age, sleeping through the night is a myth told to comfort young people." Agnes glanced toward the bag again. "Where are you going?"
"Oakbend."
The answer came easier than expected.
Agnes's brows rose. "The healer village?"
"Only for a while."
"A while is what people say when they don't want to explain."
Iris almost smiled.
"I need quiet."
"You have a library."
"I need quiet where no one asks me to decide flower arrangements for visitors celebrating my husband's child."
Agnes's mouth tightened.
There it was.
The truth, ugly and small enough to fit inside an ordinary sentence.
"I don't blame Elodie," Iris added.
"I know you don't."
"She's just a little girl."
"And you're just a woman who has been expected to smile while everyone rearranges her life."
Iris looked away because kindness was harder to survive than cruelty. If Agnes had scolded her, Iris might have stood straighter. If she had begged her to stay, Iris might have become practical.
Instead, the cook saw her.
That nearly broke her.
"I left instructions for breakfast," Iris whispered. "Elodie likes the apples cut into rabbits, but not if the ears are uneven. She notices."
Agnes gave a wet laugh and wiped under one eye with the heel of her hand.
"That child has standards. I respect it."
"Mara needs broth in the mornings before tea. The healer says her stomach is still unsettled from the journey."
"I'll handle it."
"Damon forgets to eat if council meetings start before noon."
"Damon forgets most things that aren't shaped like a report."
This time Iris did smile.
A real one.
Small, but real.
Agnes stepped closer. "Does he know?"
Iris did not ask who.
The answer was obvious.
"No."
"You're leaving him a letter?"
"Yes."
"Good. If you'd vanished with nothing, I'd have marched to Oakbend myself and dragged you back by your braid."
"My braid is not as sturdy as it used to be."
"Then I'd use both hands."
The humor softened the moment without erasing it.
Agnes reached out and touched Iris's cheek, rough thumb gentle against her skin.
"You are not wrong for needing yourself back."
The words settled somewhere deep.
Iris nodded because speaking was suddenly impossible.
When Agnes walked away, Iris returned to the room.
Lucien still slept.
She sat at the small writing desk near the window and took out paper. For several minutes, she held the pen without moving.
There were so many things she could write.
I am angry.
I am lonely.
I waited for you.
I defended you even when I needed defending too.
But none of those felt like the whole truth, and Iris was too tired to leave behind something incomplete.
At last, she began.
Lucien,
I am not leaving because of Elodie.
She stopped there, staring at the ink until it blurred slightly.
Then she continued.
I am not leaving because you betrayed me. You didn't. I believe that, and I need you to know I believe it.
I am leaving because I don't know how to stay without losing the last parts of myself I still recognize.
For years, we have both been grieving a future we never held. I thought if I loved you well enough, if I served the pack well enough, if I endured every quiet look and careful condolence with enough grace, then someday the ache would become smaller.
It didn't.
It became our marriage.
We stopped speaking about us. We spoke about healers, duties, bloodlines, council expectations, and what everyone else needed. Somewhere inside all of that, I stopped feeling like your wife and became another responsibility you were too honorable to neglect.
I know you love me.
That is what makes this harder.
But I need to remember who I am when I am not being useful to everyone else.
I need to wake in a room where no one has already decided what I should feel.
Please don't turn this into a council matter. Don't send guards as though I have been stolen. Don't make Damon chase me before breakfast. He'll complain the entire way, and no one deserves that.
I am going to Oakbend. I will be safe.
Take care of Elodie. Not as an heir. As a child.
And Lucien...
She paused again.
The pen hovered over the page.
I still love you.
She nearly crossed it out.
Not because it wasn't true.
Because it was.
She folded the letter before courage could fail, sealed it with plain wax, and placed it on his bedside table where he would see it when he woke.
For one reckless moment, she wanted to touch him.
To brush the hair from his forehead. To kiss his shoulder.
To leave some small proof that she had not walked away cold.
Instead, she stood very still until the urge passed.
If she touched him, she might stay.
By the time the eastern sky paled, Iris had left the Alpha House through the garden entrance.
The morning air smelled of damp leaves and woodsmoke. Two guards at the lower gate straightened when they saw her, but neither questioned the Luna. She had spent years training them not to challenge women moving with purpose.
Her horse, Fern, waited in the stable with a saddle already fastened.
Damon stood beside her.
Iris stopped.
He held up both hands.
"Before you start sharpening your tone, Agnes told me."
"That woman cannot keep a secret."
"She can. She simply chose violence."
"Are you here to stop me?"
Damon looked offended.
"I value my limbs."
Despite everything, Iris laughed.
He smiled faintly, then handed her a wrapped bundle.
"Bread. Cheese. Two apples. Agnes added three honey cakes and threatened me when I suggested that was excessive."
"Smart woman."
"Terrifying woman."
He helped secure the bundle to her saddle, his movements brisk and careful.
"Lucien will panic."
"I know."
"He'll pretend he isn't."
"I know that too."
Damon's expression sobered.
"Should I tell him where you went?"
"I wrote it in the letter."
"Good."
"I also told him not to send you after me before breakfast."
His eyes narrowed.
"You mentioned me specifically?"
"You would complain."
"I would complain with dignity."
"You would not."
For a moment, the stable felt almost normal.
Then the quiet returned.
Damon rested one hand against Fern's neck.
"He loves you."
Iris looked toward the house rising beyond the garden walls.
"I know."
"That doesn't sound like enough anymore."
"It isn't."
He nodded once, as though the answer hurt but made sense.
No one else came to the gate.
No dramatic farewell waited in the courtyard. No shouting. No pack gathering to watch their Luna leave.
That was fitting.
Most endings did not announce themselves.
Iris mounted, adjusted her cloak, and looked back only once.
The Alpha House stood golden in the early light, beautiful and enormous and full of people who needed her.
For the first time in years, need was not enough to make her turn around.
When Lucien woke two hours later, sunlight had already crossed half the bedroom.
He reached instinctively toward Iris's side of the bed.
The sheets were cold.
Her letter waited beside him.
He read it once standing.
Again sitting.
A third time with his hand pressed over his mouth.
Damon found him there.
Lucien looked up, pale and stunned.
"She went to Oakbend."
Damon stayed by the door. "Yes."
Lucien folded the letter carefully, as if rough handling might damage what little she'd left behind.
"She'll come back in a few days."
Damon did not answer.
Lucien looked at the empty side of the bed, then at the wardrobe where her plain dresses were missing and the Luna circlet remained untouched in its box.
"She just needs time."
The words sounded reasonable.
Practical.
Safe.
So he held onto them because the alternative was too frightening to face.
"She'll come back," he repeated.
But the room did not agree.