CHAPTER EIGHT
Oakbend was quieter than Iris remembered.
The village rested in a broad valley surrounded by old oak trees whose branches reached over narrow dirt paths like patient guardians.
No training fields echoed with clashing swords.
No council bells interrupted breakfast. The loudest sound most mornings came from chickens protesting one another or retired wolves arguing over whose tomatoes deserved the largest prize at the autumn market.
It was the kind of place people visited when life had become too heavy to carry alone.
Healers came here to recover after long winters.
Former warriors settled here when old injuries no longer allowed them to patrol.
Widows found neighbors who understood silence without trying to fill it.
Nobody hurried through Oakbend.
Even the wind seemed to move more gently.
By the time Iris reached the village square, Fern's pace had slowed on her own, as though the mare understood there was no reason to rush.
A cheerful voice called from across the herb garden.
"I knew that horse before I recognized you."
Iris looked up to find an older woman waving a wooden spoon in her direction.
Maeve.
Nothing about her had changed except the color of her hair. Once dark as polished walnut, it had surrendered almost completely to silver. Her smile, however, remained exactly as Iris remembered from childhood.
Warm.
Honest.
Impossible to ignore.
Iris climbed down from the saddle.
Maeve didn't bow.
She didn't greet her as Luna.
She simply crossed the garden and pulled Iris into a hug that smelled of rosemary and fresh bread.
"You've lost weight."
"I've barely been here a minute."
"I'm efficient."
Despite everything, Iris laughed.
Maeve leaned back, studying her face with the practiced eye of someone who had spent decades treating wounds that rarely bled.
"You look tired."
"I am."
"Good."
Iris blinked.
"Good?"
"It means your body finally admitted what your pride refused to."
Maeve took Fern's reins.
"Come inside. You can explain your dramatic entrance after I feed both of you."
The cottage felt exactly as Iris remembered.
Dried herbs hung from the ceiling beams. Clay pots crowded every windowsill. A sleepy orange cat occupied the best chair near the fire with the confidence of someone who had won that territory years ago.
Maeve pointed toward another chair.
"Not that one."
"Because it's the cat's?"
"Because he'll bite you."
The cat opened one lazy eye.
As if to confirm the warning.
Iris smiled again before realizing she'd done it.
That made twice.
Maeve noticed.
"I'll count that as progress."
"There isn't much to celebrate."
"I didn't ask you to celebrate."
The older woman disappeared into the kitchen.
"I only asked you to sit down."
For the first time in what felt like years, Iris obeyed without wondering who might need her instead.
No servant knocked at the door.
No council member arrived carrying reports.
No one asked where the Alpha was.
She simply sat.
The realization felt strangely unfamiliar.
Maeve returned carrying thick vegetable soup, fresh bread still warm from the oven, and a generous slice of apple cake.
Iris looked at the dessert.
"You're serving cake before asking questions?"
"I'm old enough to know people answer more honestly after sugar."
"That doesn't sound medically supported."
"It has worked for forty years."
Iris surrendered.
The first spoonful of soup nearly made her close her eyes.
It tasted like childhood.
Like summers spent collecting herbs instead of worrying about council meetings.
Like afternoons where the biggest decision she'd faced involved choosing between blackberry pie and honey biscuits.
"When was the last time someone cooked for you?" Maeve asked.
"I don't remember."
"No."
The older woman shook her head.
"You remember."
Iris stared into the bowl.
"I just don't like the answer."
Maeve let the silence remain.
She never rushed people toward confessions.
Eventually, the words came anyway.
"I spent so much time making sure everyone else had what they needed that somewhere along the way..." Iris stopped, searching for language that finally felt honest.
"...I forgot I was allowed to have needs too."
Maeve nodded slowly.
"So you came here to remember."
"I think so."
The answer surprised Iris as much as anyone else.
The afternoon passed quietly.
Not because there was nothing to do.
Because nobody insisted every minute be productive.
Maeve introduced her to the small vegetable garden behind the cottage and casually handed her a basket.
"Those beans won't pick themselves."
"I suspected as much."
"Good. I'd hate for your education to be incomplete."
Iris spent the next hour laughing at herself after repeatedly dropping vegetables into the wrong basket.
An elderly former patrol captain wandered past and offered entirely unnecessary advice.
"You're harvesting like someone who grew up around books."
"I did grow up around books."
"Tragic."
"You wound me."
"I'll recover."
Maeve rolled her eyes.
"Don't encourage him. He still believes carrots respond better to compliments."
"They absolutely do."
"They're vegetables."
"They appreciate kindness."
The absurd conversation continued until Iris found herself laughing so hard she nearly dropped the basket altogether.
The sound echoed across the garden.
Bright.
Unrestrained.
Completely unexpected.
Everyone turned toward her.
Not because she had laughed.
Because it sounded genuine.
For one impossible moment, she forgot everything waiting beyond Oakbend.
Forgot the Alpha House.
Forgot council chambers.
Forgot bloodlines.
Forgot expectations.
She was simply a woman laughing in a vegetable garden because two stubborn old friends were arguing with complete sincerity about emotionally supportive carrots.
The laughter faded.
Guilt arrived almost immediately.
The smile slipped from her face.
Maeve noticed the change.
"What happened?"
"I shouldn't..."
"You shouldn't what?"
Iris looked toward the distant hills.
"Lucien is still there."
Maeve remained quiet.
"He's trying to hold everything together."
"I know."
"And I'm here laughing."
"You say that as though joy is something you've stolen."
"It feels that way."
Maeve brushed loose soil from her hands before walking over.
"Iris."
She waited until Iris looked at her.
"If someone you loved forgot how to smile..."
Her voice was gentle.
"...would you want them to feel guilty the first time they remembered?"
Emotion tightened Iris's throat.
"No."
"Then don't ask more of yourself than you'd ask of anyone else."
The words settled deep inside her.
Not as comfort.
As truth.
That evening, Iris unpacked the last of her belongings into the small room Maeve had prepared. There was a narrow bed beneath the window, a quilt stitched with tiny wildflowers, and a bookshelf that leaned slightly to one side because one leg was shorter than the others.
It wasn't grand.
It wasn't the Alpha House.
It already felt easier to breathe.
Before extinguishing the lamp, Iris looked out across the sleeping village.
For the first time in years, tomorrow belonged entirely to her.
The thought should have felt freeing.
Instead, it carried equal parts relief and sorrow.
Because she was slowly remembering who Iris had been before becoming Luna.
She just wasn't sure whether Lucien would recognize that woman when they met again.
Or whether she would recognize the man waiting for her.