For three years, Emerie had been married to Allan, the son of an Alpha. Allan had always believed it was Emerie who drugged him, forcing him into the marriage. Determined to divorce her, he chose to be with her sister Jolene instead. But what he didn’t know was that Emerie was already terminally ill when she left him. When Allan finally uncovered the truth and desperately searched for her—could he still win her back?

– Diagnosis of Fate

“Miss Emerie, you understand what this means, don’t you?”

The healer’s voice was gentle, but Emerie barely heard it over the buzzing in her ears.

“No cure?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

The healer gave a sympathetic smile. “We can manage your pain. Six months, if we begin treatment immediately.”

Emerie nodded slowly, her fingers tightening around the paper cup. “Thank you.”

“I’m so sorry.”

She stood. “I’ll settle the bill.”

“No need today,” the healer said. “You should rest. Please—tell someone close to you.”

Emerie smiled politely. “Of course.” She walked out before the lies tasted bitter in her mouth.

The corridor outside felt impossibly long. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. Her boots echoed on the tile. And then—

“Emerie?”

She froze. That voice. She turned. Allan stood just ten feet away, one arm wrapped protectively around Jolene.

Jolene beamed. “What a surprise! Were you here for a check-up too?”

Emerie swallowed. “Just... routine tests.”

“You look pale,” Allan said.

She forced a smile. “Flu season.”

Jolene’s hand dropped to her belly. “Well, at least you’re here. We’re getting the sonogram today. Twelve weeks!”

“Congratulations,” Emerie said, her voice even.

Allan’s smile was faint. “Thanks.”

“I’ll let you two go. Don’t want to keep the baby waiting.”

“You sure?” Jolene tilted her head. “You could come see the image. It’s just a blob right now, but it’s our blob.”

Emerie’s stomach clenched. “Maybe another time.”

They disappeared into the obstetrics wing, pastel walls adorned with painted rabbits and bouncing foxes. Emerie stood still until the door clicked shut.

Then she pulled the diagnosis scroll from her pocket and pressed it to her chest.

No one would see her cry. Not today.

---

Back outside, snow drifted down in slow spirals. The cold soothed her flushed cheeks. She walked blindly, her boots crunching through slush, her mind spiraling faster than the snowflakes.

Allan had smiled at Jolene like that once—no, maybe he always had. Maybe he never stopped.

Her fingers brushed her pocket again. The scroll crackled. Six months.

She reached the gates of the pack’s central square and turned toward the woods, but a voice called from behind.

“Emerie, wait.”

She turned slowly. Allan jogged to catch up, brushing snow from his shoulders. “You didn’t say where you’re staying. You’ve looked tired lately. If you’re sick—”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“You’re not my husband today, are you? You’re Jolene’s partner now.”

He blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” she murmured. “I’m just tired.”

“You’ve been off since the New Year. Is it because of the council vote?”

Emerie laughed softly. “The council? Allan, no.”

His brows furrowed. “Then what is it? You’re hiding something.”

She stared up at him. “Would it change anything if I was?”

“Maybe,” he said. “I don’t like guessing. You used to trust me.”

“Did I?” she whispered, more to herself than him.

Before he could respond, a nurse peeked out the obstetrics wing. “Mr. Allan, we’re ready for you!”

Jolene waved from inside.

“I have to go,” he said. “Let’s talk later, alright?”

She nodded. “Later.”

He jogged back, and the door shut behind him.

Emerie turned again, walking toward the forest, snow soaking her boots.

---

At home, silence greeted her like an old friend. She dropped her bag by the door and turned up the heat.

A blinking light on the answering crystal caught her eye. She tapped it.

“Allan here. I’ll stay with Jolene tonight. Don’t wait up.”

She tapped it off. “I won’t.”

The kitchen was too clean. She boiled water, made ginger tea, then poured it down the drain untouched.

Upstairs, she passed the door to Allan’s study, paused, then pushed it open.

Books. Ledgers. A cracked inkpot.

And a photo of their wedding. Still framed. Still dusty.

She picked it up. Her smile in that photo had been real. His had not.

A sharp ache stabbed her chest. Not the curse—this pain was older, colder.

Emerie sat in the chair he used to avoid. Her fingers found the locket from her mother, still cracked down the side.

“I’m dying,” she whispered. “And no one will care.”

The house creaked. She stood, returned the photo, and closed the study door.

---

Her phone buzzed that night. A text from Jolene.

Hope you're resting! Let’s do lunch soon ?

Emerie stared at it. Then deleted it.

She curled beneath the quilts in her room.

The one Allan had never entered.

---

“Morning, miss,” the housekeeper greeted the next day.

Emerie nodded. “No breakfast for me. I’ll be out.”

The housekeeper hesitated. “Will the Alpha be returning tonight?”

“Not tonight,” Emerie said. “Probably never.”

The woman blinked but said nothing.

---

In the forest near the east ridge, Emerie sat with her journal. She pressed the diagnosis scroll flat and began copying it word for word.

Each syllable was a death sentence.

Each stroke of ink was a burial.

“You don’t have to disappear,” she whispered. “You could tell him.”

But she knew better.

Allan would pity her. That was worse than hate.

And Jolene?

Jolene would smile through it, then throw a memorial gala and name her daughter after her.

No.

Emerie tore the page from her journal, folded it into a crane, and placed it on a pine branch.

“Fly far,” she murmured.

---

That evening, Allan returned.

Emerie was in the dining room, finishing broth.

“You’re here,” he said, surprised.

She nodded. “Didn’t feel like staying at the clinic.”

“Are you sick?”

“No.”

“Then what tests did you run yesterday?”

She met his gaze. “Why do you care?”

“I’m your husband.”

She raised a brow. “For now.”

He stared at her, searching for something. “You’re different lately. Sharper.”

“Time changes people.”

“You used to wait up for me.”

“I used to think you might come home.”

He exhaled. “You’re angry.”

“I’m dying,” she said calmly.

He froze. “What?”

She smiled. “Just a metaphor.”

But his face had gone pale.

---

When he left, she went to the washroom.

Stared at the mirror.

Blood dripped from her nose.

She caught it in a cloth, watching it bloom red like petals.

When it stopped, she washed her hands and pocketed the stained handkerchief.

Proof.

---

Back in her room, she packed a bag. One cloak. One tonic. One cracked locket.

She placed the diagnosis scroll inside.

And the divorce papers.

Tomorrow, she would slide them across his desk.

No tears. No screams.

Just her signature.

And the open road.

– A House of Ice

The hearth crackled, but the room remained cold.

Emerie stood in the foyer, the door closing behind her with a final click. Her fingers were stiff around the divorce scroll, its ribbon still taut. She exhaled into the silence.

The house smelled like lavender and smoke—Jolene’s favorite candle, no doubt. The irony didn’t escape her.

She turned toward the study. Allan’s voice greeted her first, echoing from the crystal recorder.

“Staying over. Jolene’s nausea hit hard tonight. Don’t wait up.”

Emerie tapped the crystal off.

“I won’t,” she said to the quiet.

She moved through the house like a ghost—each footstep soft, deliberate. In the kitchen, she filled the kettle, then stopped. Her hands trembled. She dropped the tea bag into a cup and leaned on the counter.

The scent of ginger rose faintly.

“It won’t help,” she murmured to herself.

From the dining hall came muffled laughter—memories, not sound. She saw herself at twenty, sitting across from Allan, eyes filled with fragile hope.

“Do you want more soup?” she had asked then.

“No. And stop hovering,” he’d replied, not unkindly, but never warm.

She shook the memory away and carried the tea to his study.

The door creaked open. His scent still lingered—pine and iron. The room was untouched.

She sat in his chair. Pulled open drawers. Receipts. Letters. One envelope marked “Wedding Vows – Draft.”

She didn’t open it.

Instead, her gaze fell on the corner shelf where her mother’s locket once rested. She had taken it months ago, but the absence now felt symbolic.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she said aloud.

The door behind her opened. She turned sharply.

Mary, the housemaid, blinked at her. “Miss Emerie. I—I didn’t know you were home.”

“I’m not, really,” Emerie replied. “What is it?”

“I brought in the afternoon mail. Just bills.”

Mary hesitated, then added, “You look... pale.”

“Too much fresh air.”

Mary lingered. “Do you need anything?”

“No.” Emerie’s tone was final.

But as the maid turned to leave, she softened. “Thank you, Mary.”

Mary nodded and disappeared. The door clicked again.

Emerie stared at it.

She stood and went upstairs, boots muffled by thick carpet. She passed Allan’s room—Jolene’s scarf on the door handle.

Her own room, as always, was immaculate. Everything folded, undisturbed. A museum of a marriage.

She sat on the bed, folded the divorce scroll, and laid it on her nightstand.

Her breath hitched. She opened the drawer, took out the locket, and opened it.

The tiny portrait inside was faded—her mother, young and fierce-eyed. Emerie traced the edge with her thumb.

“Would you have stayed?” she whispered. “Would you have begged for love?”

The silence answered her.

---

That night, sleep came like a thief. Fitful and cold.

She dreamed of wolves—three pups tumbling through snow. One turned to her, its eyes silver like hers. But as she reached for it, the snow turned to ash.

She woke with a gasp. Sweat dampened her neck. Her ribs ached.

Outside, wind rattled the shutters.

---

The next morning, she descended to the dining hall. Jolene’s laughter greeted her from the courtyard.

Emerie paused at the window.

Allan stood beside Jolene, brushing snow from her hood. His fingers lingered. Jolene leaned into him with ease.

“I’m thinking Lily if it’s a girl,” Jolene said cheerfully.

“Noted,” Allan replied with a chuckle.

“Lily Whitestone,” Jolene tested aloud. “Sounds like royalty.”

“Let’s hope she doesn’t inherit my temper.”

Jolene giggled. “Or my sweet tooth.”

Emerie turned away.

She entered the dining hall. Several warriors sat at the far table, talking in low voices.

“Did you hear? Allan brings Jolene those honey pastries every morning now.”

“She’s glowing,” someone whispered.

“Poor Emerie. Still hanging around like a shadow.”

Emerie poured broth into her bowl and sat down quietly.

One of the warriors—Kalen—offered a stiff smile. “Morning, Luna.”

“Emerie,” she corrected gently.

The others fell silent.

She sipped her broth. It tasted like ash.

---

After breakfast, she walked past Allan’s parents’ suite and paused as voices drifted through the door.

“—She tricked you, Allan,” his father was saying. “You owe nothing to that woman.”

“She’s pregnant with my child,” Allan said, voice low and angry. “That’s not nothing.”

“She’s not your mate.”

“She’s better than a trapper.”

Emerie’s breath caught.

His mother chimed in. “You need to clean this up. A new Luna, a fresh start.”

Emerie backed away slowly, nausea rising. She turned, stumbled toward the nearest washroom.

She barely reached the sink before the blood came—hot and sudden.

Crimson splattered white porcelain. Her hands trembled.

She grabbed tissues, dabbed her nose, eyes burning. The bleeding slowed.

She stared at the mirror.

Her reflection looked foreign—pale, eyes hollow, lips tight.

“You are not the villain,” she told herself.

She wet a towel, wiped the sink clean, and pocketed the blood-spotted handkerchief.

Proof that time was running out.

---

Back in her room, she wrote a single line on parchment:

I won’t let him bury me with shame.

Then she folded the divorce scroll again, placed it in a folder, and took one last look at the locket.

She whispered, “I’ll survive. Even if I die doing it.”

---

At twilight, snow began to fall again.

She walked the perimeter of the pack estate, cloak pulled tight.

A courier crossed her path. “Evening, Luna.”

She offered a thin smile. “Not for long.”

He blinked. “Ma’am?”

“Nothing.” She walked on.

---

That evening, the council’s invitation arrived.

Allan and Jolene were to be presented formally as Luna and Alpha-consort at the spring equinox ball.

Emerie didn’t react. She carried the envelope to the fire and tossed it in.

Flames devoured it with a soft hiss.

Then she turned to her room and packed.

One cloak. One healer’s tonic. One cracked locket.

The handkerchief joined them last.

The bag wasn’t heavy. Neither was she anymore.

---

She found Allan in his office.

He looked up, surprised. “Emerie?”

“I came to deliver something.”

She walked to the desk, laid the divorce scroll before him.

He stared at it. “You...”

“It’s signed.”

His fingers hovered over the ribbon. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I do.”

He hesitated. “Are you sure? It’s not too late to—”

“I’m sure.”

His jaw clenched. “Where will you go?”

“Where people don’t look at me like a mistake.”

He opened his mouth, but she turned before he could speak.

She paused at the door.

“Congratulations, Allan.”

“Emerie—”

“I hope she gives you everything I couldn’t.”

Then she left.

---

Snow crunched beneath her boots as she crossed the courtyard.

Past servants hanging garlands.

Past warriors saluting stiffly.

Past her own history.

The gates closed behind her with a finality that rang in her bones.

The wind bit her cheeks. She smiled through it.

Somewhere ahead, the unknown waited.

But it was hers.

And for the first time in years, she belonged only to herself.

– Blood on Porcelain

“She really left?”

“Yes,” Allan muttered, jaw tight. “Signed the papers and walked out.”

His father snorted. “You’re lucky. Now marry Jolene and repair what she damaged.”

“She didn’t damage anything,” Allan said sharply.

His mother raised a brow. “You don’t still pity her?”

“I don’t know what I feel,” he snapped, rising from the chair. “She looked... wrong. Pale. Thin. Like she was burning from the inside out.”

“Guilt,” his father dismissed. “Let it go, Allan. Focus on the future.”

Allan didn’t answer. He walked out.

---

In the dining hall, the conversation swirled like smoke.

“Did you hear? Emerie signed the divorce scroll herself.”

“Jolene’s already looking at Luna gowns.”

“Finally. A real Luna.”

Emerie sat near the end of the table, alone. Her spoon clinked quietly against the bowl.

Kalen passed by. “Don’t let them get to you.”

“They’re not wrong,” Emerie said softly. “I’m not Luna anymore.”

“You’re still here,” he said. “That counts.”

She gave him a faint smile, but her hand trembled as she lifted the spoon.

Across the hall, Jolene entered, cheeks flushed, a tray balanced in her hands.

“Sweetened tea, light honey,” she chirped, setting it before Allan. “Your favorite.”

He blinked. “You remembered.”

“Of course.” She rubbed her belly lightly. “Our girl will probably have your appetite.”

Laughter rippled through the table.

Emerie stood abruptly. Her chair scraped. The entire hall paused.

“I’m done,” she said simply, placing her bowl aside. Her throat burned.

She walked out before anyone could speak.

---

She made it to the corridor before her vision blurred.

“Emerie!”

She turned. Jolene was hurrying toward her, silk sleeves fluttering.

“I didn’t mean to—are you alright?”

Emerie steadied herself against the wall. “Yes.”

“You look awful.” Jolene frowned, then smiled. “Sorry. I mean... Are you getting sick again?”

“Again?”

“Oh, well... I heard you’d been going to Greywood. Just a flu, right?”

Emerie nodded slowly. “Something like that.”

“Do you want me to bring you anything? I still have ginger candies from when I was queasy.”

“No, thank you.”

Jolene reached into her coat and pulled out a small envelope. “Actually, I wanted to give you this.”

Emerie hesitated. “What is it?”

“My invitation list. For the wedding.”

Emerie didn’t take it.

“You’re still family,” Jolene said sweetly. “Half-sisters, remember?”

Emerie smiled without warmth. “Yes. Half.”

---

She ducked into the washroom before her stomach could turn.

The porcelain sink gleamed under harsh lighting. She leaned over it, gripping the edge.

A sudden pressure exploded behind her eyes. Warmth flooded her upper lip.

Blood.

Again.

She gasped, fumbling for tissues. Crimson splashed across the white basin, swirling down the drain like melted rubies.

Her knees buckled.

She braced herself, heart hammering.

Too fast. Too soon.

She coughed once, the taste of iron sharp in her mouth.

---

A soft knock on the door.

“Emerie?”

Allan.

She stared at the mirror. Her reflection looked like a ghost in mourning.

“I’m fine,” she called, voice steady despite the blood pooling on the tissue in her palm.

“I saw you leave the dining hall.”

“I’m fine,” she repeated.

A pause. “I was going to check on you yesterday, but... I didn’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing to say, Allan.”

“I keep thinking... Did I ever really know you?”

Emerie wiped the blood from her lips, then opened the door. He stepped back, startled.

“You look—”

“Don’t,” she cut him off. “You don’t get to act concerned now.”

He frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”

She hesitated. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.”

“Then maybe you should’ve asked before signing the divorce.”

His expression darkened. “You wanted it. You shoved it at me like it was a gift.”

“And you accepted it like a favor.”

Silence stretched.

She folded the bloodstained handkerchief into her coat pocket.

“I’m not your Luna. I’m not your problem.”

“You’ll always be—”

“Don’t,” she said again. “Not unless you mean it.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. “Where will you go?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“You won’t survive alone, Emerie. You’re not built for that kind of isolation.”

She looked him dead in the eyes. “Then I’ll die my way. On my terms.”

---

She returned to her room and collapsed on the bed, her heart pounding.

Her bag was already half-packed. She added herbs, the medical scroll, and a fresh cloak.

The room spun.

Breathe. Just breathe.

She lit a candle. The flame flickered wildly.

Her mother’s locket sat on the table. She clutched it like a lifeline.

---

A knock.

She didn’t answer.

Another knock.

Then Jolene’s voice. “You left so quickly earlier. Are you mad at me?”

Emerie didn’t move.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Jolene continued. “I just thought... maybe we could be civil, you know? After everything.”

Emerie opened the door. Jolene looked startled.

“You should stop,” Emerie said.

“Stop what?”

“Pretending you don’t enjoy watching me fade.”

Jolene blinked. “I—I’m just trying to be kind.”

“You won,” Emerie said simply. “So why keep circling the corpse?”

Jolene flushed. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” Emerie said, voice colder than the window glass. “But then, neither was what you did three years ago.”

Jolene’s mouth opened, then snapped shut.

Emerie stepped back and closed the door.

---

Later that night, Emerie sat by the fire, watching embers turn to ash.

Kalen appeared quietly beside her.

“I heard what happened,” he said.

“Which part?”

“The sink.”

“Ah.”

“Do you want me to get the healer?”

“No,” she said. “I know what she’ll say.”

“Emerie—”

“I have six months,” she interrupted. “Give or take.”

Kalen’s eyes widened. “What...?”

She pulled the scroll from her pocket and handed it to him.

He read in silence. His jaw tightened.

“I’m sorry.”

She took it back. “Me too.”

---

The next morning, Emerie packed the last of her things.

No goodbye note.

Just the weight of her silence.

She crossed the courtyard at dawn, mist curling around her boots.

The gates stood open.

No guards stopped her.

And when the sun broke through the clouds, it caught the silver locket at her throat like a promise.