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Instead, he had relived the first full moon after she had left. The chains biting into his neck and limbs.

He felt them again in his sleep—the bite of iron around his wrists, the brutal restraint of it. His wolf had been feral with need, clawing at the inside of his ribs, reaching for something that was no longer there.

The agony had not been clean.

Then the dreams had shifted.

Flashbacks came unbidden—the days after he recovered enough to stand. The slow return of strength to muscles that had wasted within days without her. The grim resolve that had settled over him to do right by Fae.

He dreamed of descending into the locked chamber beneath the lockhouse.

The smell of decay had struck him first—there had been nothing but a pile of rotting bark and damp leaves in the centre of the stone floor. The shape of a body, but no body. No dried blood or bones. There were just the discarded remains of something that had shed its skin.

He had stood there for a long time with Maxen and Sion, staring at it.

The next blow had come swiftly.

Eira and Bowen were gone.

The message had arrived before dusk—three figures spotted near the northern border. A woman matching Rowena's description, with two young wolves with her. They had crossed into the trees before the patrol could intercept.

The search had lasted for weeks and yielded nothing. No scent trail that lasted beyond the marsh.

He had wanted to tear the forest apart. They were children still, and they were with that dangerous creature.

But he had known then…time was gone.

He had to go after Fae. He had waited as long as he could.

He dreamed of how the full moon had risen while he was still at sea. The boat had rocked violently beneath him, salt spray stinging his face. The moonflower essence had burned in his veins like poison. While it had dulled the bond, it did not remove it. It left him feeling half-alive, half-starved, suspended in a state worse than either.

His wolf had howled inside him, enraged and betrayed. And then he had begun to separate from him.

When he had come out of it, he had been weakened and saw things that were not there. His wolf had turned hostile, suspicious of him and unwilling to listen, as if he had become the enemy.

It had felt like a miracle when Sulien had managed to drag him to the hidden gates of Fukamori—the last thing he remembered before dawn woke him was the scent of orange blossoms.

Blaidd sat up slowly in the narrow bed, staring at the pale morning light filtering through the dusty window.

Fukamori, this small, hidden village tucked into the folds of forest and mountain.

The fact that he had found it—against exhaustion, against feral instincts, against despair—was nothing short of a wonder.

Or perhaps it was simply the last thread of the bond left to him.

And he had followed it here to her.

***

The second bath of the morning was no warmer than the first.

Blaidd poured the cold water over his head without flinching, letting the shock wake him. The chill cut through the remnants of sleep and sharpened his senses. He welcomed it. He needed his wits about him.

By the time he dressed, Sulien was already waiting near the door, arms folded. A little boy waited to show them the way while eyeing their tattoos warily. Blaidd attempted a smile, but that only made the child look more alarmed.

"Don't smile; it makes you look like you are chewing on rocks," Sulien said. "We are to meet the elders. Best not keep them waiting. They already think we are trouble."

Blaidd grunted in acknowledgement. They stepped out into the pale winter light and made their way down the narrow path that cut through the village. The air was crisp, clean, edged with woodsmoke and frost.