(Meg's POV)
Exile doesn't begin with distance. It begins with a decision—the moment you choose not to fight for what's already gone.
The night I leave, the moon hangs thin and tired above the pines. A waning crescent. The elders say that kind of moon pulls endings close, carving space for what must die before something else can live. I don't believe them most nights, but tonight, I do.
The air tastes of metal and pine sap. My breath ghosts white in front of me as I cross the last stretch of city lights. Every step feels heavier, as if the earth already knows I won't be coming back.
Martins waits where the asphalt ends and the forest begins. His stillness doesn't look human. Wolves have a way of standing that claims the ground under them; he does it without trying. The scent of rain clings to his jacket. Beneath that—smoke, steel, something distinctly his.
"You're sure," he says. His tone is low, almost a warning.
"Yes."
The word comes out quieter than I intend. The bond between us tightens immediately, pulsing through my ribs, asking questions I can't afford to answer. I ignore it and rest a hand against my stomach. The movement steadies me, reminds me why this has to be done.
"They erased me," I say. "Not just from Aldden. From every registry. If I stay, they'll stop pretending diplomacy matters. They'll hunt."
Martins' jaw tenses. For a heartbeat, his eyes flicker—his wolf pushing close to the surface. "Let them try."
I shake my head. "And give them exactly what they want? A rare-blood heir guarded by a Supreme Alpha? That isn't protection, Martins. That's a declaration of war."
The silence that follows feels heavy enough to crush us both.
"I won't raise my child under observation," I continue, softer now. "Not in a house full of politics. Not where every smile hides an angle. I choose exile."
He steps closer until the warmth of him brushes my skin. "Exile strips your protections," he says.
"I know."
"You'll be vulnerable."
"I know."
"The bond—"
"I know," I repeat, a whisper this time.
He stops. His silence tells me what his words won't: he understands that this isn't a plea for permission. It's a promise.
"You won't follow me," I say.
He looks at me then, really looks, and for a second I almost falter. "If I don't—"
"They'll follow you," I interrupt. "And if they follow you, they'll find me. Then everything I'm sacrificing tonight becomes meaningless."
His wolf rises again, furious at restraint, but instinct bows to reason. Barely.
I step forward, fists gripping the front of his jacket. He smells like safety and fire and all the things I've already lost. His hands come up, framing my face with the same care you give something breakable.
"Say it," he murmurs.
My throat burns. "I need you to let me go."
The bond lashes through both of us, white-hot and wordless.
He closes his eyes for one long, brutal second. When he opens them again, the Alpha is back—the controlled version, the one who can order death without raising his voice.
"Then I'll protect you the only way left," he says.
He turns and walks deeper into the forest. I follow. The trees swallow the sound of our footsteps, the night damp with moss and old rain. He leads us to a clearing where stone ruins lie half-buried in earth—what's left of an ancient binding circle.
"This place is neutral," he says quietly. "No pack holds claim here. No one will sense what you do."
I nod and step into the center. The ground is cold and rough under my bare feet. My wolf stirs, uneasy. She knows what's coming, and she doesn't like it.
Binding is not loss. It's surrender disguised as survival.
I pull the ritual blade from my coat pocket, its edge dulled by years but sharp enough to draw truth. My hand doesn't shake. I drag it across my palm. Pain blooms bright and immediate. Blood follows—silver-threaded, unmistakable.
"I bind my power to silence," I say, the words steady but heavy. "I choose obscurity over claim. Exile over dominance."
The air changes.
It starts as pressure, then turns into pain. The world tilts, vision narrowing until everything becomes pulse and ache. I fall to one knee, gasping as something inside me tears free and folds in on itself. My wolf howls—deep, raw, betrayed.
Martins moves, hands strong on my shoulders, anchoring me without interfering. His warmth is the only real thing in the storm.
"I swear," I manage through clenched teeth, "to remain hidden until the Moon calls me back."
The magic obeys.
It snaps shut like a door slamming.
The forest stills. My heartbeat stutters, then finds a slower rhythm. Territory sense vanishes. The constant hum of power that used to live under my skin goes quiet. I'm still me—but dimmed. A flame hidden behind glass.
When the world steadies, Martins is crouched in front of me, his face pale and drawn.
"It's done," he says softly.
I nod, too tired to speak.
He helps me stand. My legs feel unsteady, my pulse sluggish. Even the bond between us feels muted, like a conversation happening underwater.
"You won't be easy to track now," he says.
*Good," I whisper.
At the boundary, where the trees thin and the road waits beyond, he presses something small and metallic into my hand. "A communicator. One use. If you're cornered, call."
I curl my fingers around it. "Thank you."
"This isn't goodbye," he says, voice rough.
I meet his eyes. "It is."
For a moment, neither of us moves. The air between us hums with everything we won't say. Then he nods once—respect, surrender, heartbreak—and steps back.
I walk away before courage can turn into regret.
The forest swallows the sound of my footsteps. I don't look back, not even when the bond thins to a faint echo at the edge of my senses. Each step forward feels like a wound and a promise at once.
The human world rises ahead—faint lights, the scent of fuel and wet concrete. I keep walking until the trees give way to gravel and the sky begins to pale.
That's when it happens.
Pain slices across my abdomen, sharp enough to make me stagger. My breath catches. Panic surges.
But then warmth spreads—slow, deliberate, protective.
A movement. Small, insistent.
I press both hands to my stomach, tears stinging my eyes. The pulse under my palms is steady, powerful, certain.
My child moves again, as if to remind me what all this cost was for.
Even bound, even hidden, the energy inside me hums with life too ancient to erase.
I close my eyes and breathe through it, the ache settling into something like awe.
"Easy," I whisper. "We're safe now."
But I can feel the lie in my own voice.
The power doesn't fade back into quiet. It grows, spiraling under my ribs, testing the edges of the binding spell. The air around me vibrates faintly, and for a terrifying heartbeat I think the ground itself is listening.
I kneel there in the mud, clutching my stomach, heart pounding in rhythm with a heartbeat not my own.
Even bound. Even buried.
This heir is already stronger than me.
The dawn breaks pale and thin through the trees. The moon, now almost gone, watches from the horizon like a closing eye.
I rise slowly, wiping blood and soil from my hands. My steps feel lighter than they should. My body aches, but something new hums beneath the exhaustion—a pull I can't name yet.
As I step onto the empty road, wind catching my hair, a strange calm settles through me.
Exile hasn't saved me. It's simply changed the battlefield.
Somewhere far behind, I know Martins is still standing at the border, fighting the instinct to follow.
Somewhere farther ahead, the future is already waiting, teeth bared.
And with chilling certainty, I understand the truth exile just taught me.
I didn't escape fate.
I only delayed it.