Chapter 49
Avilyna
THREAD AND NEEDLE
The town still held its charm, my memories not far off.
Aged stone buildings, cobbled streets and winding paths that lead us straight to the center square, where merchants are already calling out to passing shoppers.
But the warmth I remember, the laughter, the easy smiles, are gone. Now, it’s all tension and seriousness.
A desperate edge to every voice. People don’t just sell here anymore; they hustle to survive.
The war has left scars that run deeper than broken walls.
It carves through people, hollowing them out.
Some have lost homes, others loved ones, and a few have lost everything.
In the quieter corners, I see them. Old men begging for coins, children crying, not tantrums, but real hunger. And it hits me harder than I expected.
“Why aren’t there shelters for them?” I ask, unable to keep the frustration out of my voice.
“There are,” Nalaka answers, her voice flat.
“Just…Not enough. The ones that do exist are already packed. Kallahan doesn't have the workers or the funding to build more. And if you can’t make a living here, you won't last.” She glances around the square, eyes scanning.“Not everyone has the luxury of being able to leave, and not everyone wants to leave their home either. Ever since the Bloodmoon War, this is what it’s been for most mundanes, especially the ones who can channel none of Kvirr’s power.
This city’s brutal on people, it chews them up. ” Nalaka’s voice stays cool, clinical.
But I see it, the way her gaze softens, just a little, when it lands on two small figures near a broken post. A boy, maybe seven or eight, standing in front of a little girl as a human shield. Thin arms, jaw tight, brave in the way only kids who’ve been through too much can be.
Nalaka doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t speak. Just swings down from her horse in one smooth motion and walks toward them.
She reaches into her coat, pulls out a small pouch, and writes something down on the notepad at her belt.
When she presses the Legion seal into the page, it glows faintly gold.
Then she kneels in the mud until she’s eye-level with the boy.
He stiffens, pushing the girl a little farther behind him.
“What’s your name?” Nalaka asks gently.
“Noah,” he says, voice small but firm. After a pause, he adds, “Miss.”
“And the girl?”
“She’s my little sister, Dove.”
Nalaka nods. “How old are you, Noah?”
“Nine.”
Nine... He wasn’t even alive when the war ended, and still, he’s one of its casualties.
“And your parents?” Noah doesn’t answer; he just looks down, sniffling, not dressed appropriately for this weather, his little fists balling at his sides. Without pushing, Nalaka places the pouch with the note in his hand, closing his fingers gently around it.
“Take this to the library,” she says. “Give it to the steward. They’ll know what to do. Everything’s going to be okay.” She pauses. “Do you want me to walk you there?”
“No! I’m big enough. I can walk by myself,” Noah insists, chin lifted, his small shoulders squaring.
“Attaboy,” Nalaka says with a soft grin, ruffling his dirty hair before swinging back onto her horse.
Noah takes Dove’s hand, his fingers clutching the pouch, the first real piece of hope he’s held in a long time.
Just before they vanish around the corner, he turns and calls out, voice clear and bright.
“Thank you, Miss!”
I watch them disappear into the crowd, the moment lingering longer than it should.
“Elveron’s lucky to have you as its future ruler,” I say before I can think better of it.
Nalaka doesn’t smile, doesn’t deflect with modesty or wear the compliment like armour.
She just exhales, slow and heavy. Her eyes drift somewhere far away, as if I’ve brushed against a part of her that still bruises.
She clearly was born for this, heir to a kingdom, raised with duty braided into every word.
Trained to lead, to protect, to carry this weight, and she does it like a second skin.
Me? Most days, I’m still figuring out how to stand upright in a world that keeps trying to swallow me whole. And yet… Instead of pride, my words seem to settle like a shadow across her face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Her gaze stays fixed ahead, but there’s a sigh tucked into the word.
“We’re all doing our best, Lyna. Don’t be so hard on yourself.
You were thrown into a whole new world, and you’re still standing, moving forward…
Honestly? I’m not sure I could’ve done the same if our roles were reversed.
” She reaches out and squeezes my shoulder, the kind of gesture that says everything she won’t let herself say out loud.
And for a moment, I don’t argue. Not because I believe her, but because she does.
It reminds me of someone else I know, the broody blond type.
Quiet intensity, all sharp edges and self-sacrifice.
The kind who carries more than his share just to make sure no one else has to.
And just like with him, I wonder how long she can carry the weight before it breaks them.
The thought doesn’t have time to linger; we arrive in front of a boutique.
It looked like it was plucked straight out of a fairytale, so wildly out of place among the weathered stone and worn-out storefronts.
In the window, a mannequin stands wrapped in deep azure silk, a fabric that catches light.
It shimmers in the sun as starlight caught in motion.
Even from the sidewalk, I feel it, that pull, as if the boutique already knows my name.
Spicy, sweet, overwhelming aroma that drifts and envelops me.
Essence.
I clamp down, focusing on my shielding, picturing the meadow in my mind. But slowly, the image blurs. The colours distort and shift, it becomes the manor instead. The gates stand open. I try to close them, to make them budge shut. Using all my will. Pain explodes through my head.
A pain I know all too well now, followed by darkness.
King Loras leans in, that familiar grin tugging at his mouth, half mischief, half warmth.
His hazel eyes sparkle as if he’s about to tell us the punchline of a joke only he knows.
Always making everything sound like a secret mission, as if you’re being let in on something rare and important.
To anyone else, he might seem theatrical; to me, he’s just Dad.
“Alright,” he says, dropping his voice like we’re plotting a heist. “Shielding your mind isn’t about building a wall so tall no one can climb it. It's about knowing when to open the door, and when to lock it tight.”
Kai slouches beside me like he’s being forced to eat asparagus. He’s already annoyed, already acting as if he is too good to be here. And honestly? I’d rather be training, too. He’s not the only one destined to become a great warrior. But Dad says shielding is just as important, maybe even more.
King Loras paces the study, the star of a play. His velvet tunic sweeps behind him, part of the performance. My dad’s black hair is always the perfect kind of messy—effortless, as if it styles itself. I definitely get that from him.
Kai scowls. “Why do I have to learn this? I’m not some witch-in-training. I’m a lycan.”
Dad just chuckles, unfazed. He smiles, the kind that makes other grown-ups second-guess themselves and curious kids lean in closer. The King looks like the hero of a bedtime story who decided being predictable was boring, but too warm for me and Alek to ever really scare us.
“Because, young Brackwell, knowledge is power, but power without protection? That’s just an invitation.
Like leaving the castle gates wide open with a banner that says, ‘Come help yourself.’ People don’t respect what they can exploit.
” While talking, Dad hands me a small wooden shield.
It’s just a training piece, but somehow, it makes everything feel more solid.
As if the lesson isn’t just in our heads, but something I can actually hold on to.
“Now, picture this,” he continues. “Your mind is a castle. You’ve got walls and secret passageways if you’re clever. But the key is to know when to lower the drawbridge or when to bolt the gates.” Kai sighs but shifts forward, just enough to show he’s listening. Dad’s grin returns, playful.
“Let’s try it. I want you both to imagine a shield. Something that blocks out anything you don’t want others to see or hear. Feel its energy. It doesn’t have to be perfect; it just has to work. If you're feeling static… You’re on the right track.”
Kai groans but closes his eyes, as if he’s wrestling with a bear.
And I know what I am talking about, I saw him wrestle a cub when he was a pup because they both wanted the same fish.
Following suit, I close my eyes and try to imagine what my mind looks like.
A tower, maybe, with soft light inside and thick stone walls.
No, that isn’t right. A place where nothing can hurt me…
The clearing.
The only place where I feel like I belong. I imagine a shimmering veil lifting itself, serving as a barrier between my safe haven and chaos.
The King lights the thurible, walking with it, and smoke leaks out of it.
The air around us becomes heavy with perfume.
I yawn, the weight of it brushing against my thoughts.
Coaxing me toward comfort, toward quiet, toward sleep.
But I hold tight to my shield. Feeling the magic buzzing through the fabric, leaving sparks as the essence holds tighten slowly.
Dad claps once, sharp and proud. His voice cuts through the haze as he extinguishes the embers.
“Good job! See? You’re learning. Knowledge is power, yes! But guarding that power? That’s wisdom, and that is a much rarer thing. If you hadn’t shielded, sleep would have taken hold of you, leaving you defenceless.” The King adds, bringing his arm behind his back.