Three days had passed since the incident at the training grounds. Three days since Elara had lost control of her voice, forcing an entire pack of werewolves to submit against their will. Three days of self-imposed isolation in the guest room. Refusing all visitors except Cora, who silently delivered meals and medicinal tea.
Elara sat by the window, watching the forest beyond the glass as morning mist curled between ancient trees. The pendant at her throat remained cool and dormant, as if nothing extraordinary had happened.
A knock at the door broke her reverie. Soft and hesitant. Not Cora's usual confident tap.
"Elara?" Marlowe's voice, surprisingly gentle for the stern elder. "May I enter?"
Elara considered refusing, as she had refused Damon's attempts to speak with her. But something in the elder's tone suggested this was not merely a social call.
"Come in," she said quietly.
The door opened to reveal Marlowe, her silver hair pulled back in its customary severe bun. Her sharp eyes missed nothing as she took in Elara's disheveled appearance and the untouched breakfast tray.
"Self-pity does not become you," the elder said, though her tone held no judgment.
"It is not self-pity," Elara countered. "It is self-preservation. For everyone's sake."
Marlowe closed the door and moved to sit in the chair opposite Elara's. Despite her age, she moved with grace and purpose, her back straight, her gaze steady.
"The pack has survived far worse than a Siren finding her voice," she said. "And they will recover from this, too."
"I forced them to submit," Elara said, the words bitter on her tongue. "I took away their choice, their will. Just like Viktor wants to do with his ritual."
"There is a difference," Marlowe replied. "Viktor seeks domination for its own sake. Your power surged unintentionally, without malice."
"The result was the same."
"Intent matters." Marlowe leaned forward, her eyes intent on Elara's face. "But so does understanding. And control. Both of which you lack at present."
The blunt assessment stung. But Elara could not deny its truth. "I have tried to control it my entire life," she said. "Suppressing it. Hiding it. And the one time I tried to explore it, disaster struck."
"Because you are working against yourself," Marlowe said. "Fighting your nature rather than embracing it. And because you do not understand where your power comes from or why it responds as it does."
Elara turned back to the window, watching a hawk circle above the treeline. "Damon says the same thing."
"He may be young for an Alpha, but he is not a fool." Marlowe's lips curved in a small smile. "Usually."
"So what is your solution?" Elara asked, unable to keep the edge from her voice. "More experiments? More opportunities to lose control and hurt people?"
"Not experiments," Marlowe said. "Memories."
Elara turned to face the elder fully. Confusion replaced some of her defensive anger. "What do you mean?"
"Your fear of your own power is not new. It dates back to childhood, perhaps even earlier." Marlowe's gaze was penetrating, as if she could see through layers of Elara's carefully constructed defenses. "Your instinct to suppress your voice, to hide what you are, that was not born three years ago in Chicago. It is much older."
The observation was uncomfortably accurate. Elara had always known she was different, had always felt the need to hold back, to control her voice. But the origins of that fear were hazy, buried beneath years of careful self-containment.
"My mother," she said softly. "She always told me to be careful with my voice. To never sing too powerfully. To never let anyone see how people responded to me."
"And do you remember why?" Marlowe pressed.
Elara frowned, searching for memories that seemed just out of reach. "She said it was dangerous. That people would not understand."
"But did she explain what you were? Did she tell you about Sirens, about your heritage?"
"No. Or, I do not think so." Elara's frown deepened. "My memories of that time are oddly blurred."
"As I suspected," Marlowe said, nodding as if confirming a theory. "There may be more to your past than you consciously remember. Knowledge that could help you understand and control your abilities."
"What are you suggesting?"
"A ritual," Marlowe said. "One designed to access hidden or suppressed memories. It is a technique our pack has used for generations to help traumatized wolves recover lost time."
Elara's instinctive response was refusal. The thought of deliberately accessing forgotten memories. Of potentially uncovering more trauma or pain was deeply unsettling.
"I do not think that is a good idea," she said. "Not after what happened at the training grounds."
"That is precisely why it is necessary," Marlowe countered. "Your power is awakening whether you wish it to or not. The Blood Moon approaches. Viktor is hunting you. Jonah Thornwood is hunting you. You cannot afford to remain ignorant of your own potential or the reasons for your fear."
Put that way, it was difficult to argue. But still, Elara hesitated. "What does this ritual involve?"
"Herbs to relax your conscious mind. A guided meditation to access deeper memories. My presence as an anchor to prevent you from becoming lost in the past." Marlowe's expression softened slightly. "Nothing invasive or dangerous. And you will remain in control throughout."
That last point, control, was the most compelling. If there was any chance of understanding her abilities better, of gaining true control rather than mere suppression...
"Would it help me prevent another incident like the training grounds?"
"I believe so," Marlowe said. "Understanding is the first step toward mastery."
Elara took a deep breath, weighing her options. Continuing as she was, afraid, isolated, refusing to engage with her heritage, seemed increasingly untenable. Especially with the Blood Moon approaching and multiple threats converging.
"Alright," she said finally. "When?"
"Now," Marlowe replied. "Before you can talk yourself out of it."