[redith].
The mont I heard Draven say, "Alright. You can et her," I was already on my feet.
The door opened slowly, carefully—as if Draven feared even the movent of air might shift his mother’s mood.
And then, I saw her. Lady Oatrun.
The woman I had only heard about, imagined, and feared... yet the sight of her still struck sothing sharp through my chest.
The first thing I noticed was her beauty. Not the delicate beauty of soone pampered or protected.
No—hers was haunting, ageless, almost ethereal, the kind that made understand, instantly, why Draven looked the way he did. Handso.
Her hair was long and black, falling like silk down her back. Her skin was pale as moonlight—paler than mine and smooth, untouched by age or stress lines.
She looked young, too young, as if ti itself had forgotten her.
But her eyes... those black eyes held a shimr of sothing fractured, fragile. Sothing dangerous.
I had overheard everything—the confusion, the denial of Dennis, the rising panic, the violent edge. So when she stepped into view, calm and composed, it felt like eting the eye of a storm that had rely paused... not passed.
Draven was beside her, tense in a way only I would notice. Dennis, slightly behind him, looked like soone holding his breath.
My heart beat once—hard. ’This... is their mother?’
And sohow, despite knowing she was ill, despite everything I had heard, I found myself straightening my posture and smoothing my expression.
Lady Oatrun looked at . Her gaze swept over my eyes, lingered on them. And I saw a flicker of recognition she shouldn’t have had.
Her lips parted. And in a soft, breathy whisper, she said, "You..."
I swallowed.
Then Draven stepped closer to her carefully. "Mother, this is redith. My wife."
But she didn’t look away from . Her gaze softened—warm, almost reverent, like she was looking at sothing far more than a stranger.
And then she said, with unsettling certainty, "You... are exactly as I imagined."
A chill travelled down my spine because she wasn’t supposed to rember imagining anything at all.
Just then, she looked at Draven, then back at and smiled, a soft, affectionate smile... directed at .
"Moons," she breathed, stepping closer. "She is beautiful."
I blinked, completely caught off guard by that complint.
Her gaze drifted between Draven and , studying us as if we were a puzzle only she could solve.
"You two are total opposites," she mused lightly. "How did that goddess match you?"
My brows pulled together. Before I could respond, she gasped softly and said with excitent:
"Oh, I know! There is a like-term. The base is the sa."
I had no idea what that ant. And judging from the fleeting confusion on Draven and Dennis’s faces, neither did they.
But what troubled most wasn’t her words. It was her energy.
Her aura was chaotic—fractured—swirling like a storm made of broken mories and sothing far older than any wolf. And for a mont, I began to doubt myself.
But just then— "Your feelings are valid," Valmora whispered suddenly inside .
I stiffened. If even Valmora sensed it, then the situation was far from ordinary.
Before I could ask anything, Lady Oatrun reached for my hand, her touch surprisingly warm, surprisingly human, and guided toward one of the sofas with the eagerness of a mother welcoming her child ho.
I let her. Then she sat beside , still holding my hand in both of hers.
"My son didn’t love you the last ti he ca to visit ," she said, voice soft as a sigh.
My breath hitched.
She smiled at , eyes softening. "But now... now he looks at you as though you are the only breath he can take."
My heart trembled. Then, without warning, her smile fell completely. Her eyes darkened with a sharp clarity I hadn’t seen yet. It wasn’t madness or confusion, but awareness.
"But my people," she murmured, "won’t like you."
A chill crawled down my spine as my pulse quickened. And her voice dropped to a whisper.
"You will bring the end of us."
I stared at her, unsure if I should breathe or freeze. What was that supposed to an?
Before I could gather my thoughts, she suddenly laughed—a warm, hearty sound that didn’t match the words she had just spoken.
"But it doesn’t matter," she said cheerfully. "Just as long as my son is safe."
My stomach twisted. She was speaking in circles, shifting between affection, prophecy, and sothing that felt dangerously close to truth.
I glanced at Draven and Dennis, silently begging them to intervene. And they listened. They stepped forward imdiately.
Draven cleared his throat gently. "Mother, I think you should calm down. You will scare your daughter-in-law away."
Lady Oatrun dropped my hand and turned to Draven.
"Do I look like I can scare her?" she asked with an offended expression. Then, with eerie certainty, she added, "Don’t you know who she is?"
My heart lurched as panic shot through . ’Did she... know? Did she see through ?’
Before fear could fully grip , Draven cut in sharply. "She is my mate, redith Carter."
Everything in the room shifted. Lady Oatrun’s expression twisted in raw, imdiate, violent anger.
"Out," she snarled. "Both of you. Out of my living room."
Dennis stiffened. Draven’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t move. "I won’t leave without my wife," he said with a low, steady voice.
Lady Oatrun’s eyes flicked to again, and just like that, her rage dissipated. She softened completely. Then she took a small breath and said, almost kindly, "I won’t eat her."
I blinked at that remark.
"I like her," she continued calmly. "She makes calm."
Draven stiffened. But I understood imdiately that this wasn’t about or her. This was Valmora soothing her fractured mind. And she had no idea.
Finally, Draven exhaled, his shoulders lowering slightly in defeat. "We will leave," he told his mother softly.
Then he looked at , and his voice slid through my mind, steady and protective:
"If you feel even a hint of danger, do anything you must to protect yourself. Don’t hold back."
My chest tightened, but I nodded.
Then he gave Dennis a small signal, and without another word, both brothers stepped out of the living room and closed the door behind them.
The mont the door clicked shut, Lady Oatrun let out a breath and slowly lowered herself onto the sofa beside again.
The shift in her energy was imdiate. There was no anger, no confusion. Just a strange, quiet calm.
Then, in a low voice filled with sothing that sounded mournful, she murmured, "That poor boy... It’s a pity."
I blinked, unsure I heard correctly. "...Who?" I asked.
Her eyes softened with unmistakable sorrow before she answered, "Dennis."
A small jolt ran through . "What happened to him?" I pressed gently.
Lady Oatrun shook her head slowly, the movent graceful yet heavy, as if carrying a truth long unspoken.
And then she said it—clear, smooth, with no hesitation, no distortion, no madness clouding her voice.
"He is not my son... but everyone thinks he is."
My heart slamd painfully against my ribs as I went completely still.
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