The call to the legal elder was far easier than I imagined it would be.

For years, I thought the words would destroy me once they finally left my mouth. I thought speaking them aloud would feel like tearing apart the last remains of my life. But when the elderly she-wolf on the other end of the communication crystal asked quietly, “State the nature of your request,” my voice did not tremble at all.

“I would like to dissolve my mating contract,” I said clearly.

The silence that followed lasted only a heartbeat, yet something inside me shifted during that brief moment.

Like a lock quietly snapping open after years of rust.

Like chains loosening around my ribs one by one.

For so long, I had lived inside a cage I built myself, convincing my heart that sacrifice was love and endurance was loyalty. The moment I finally spoke those words aloud, I realized the cage door had never truly been locked.

I had simply been too afraid to walk out of it.

When I returned to the packhouse afterward, the halls were empty and still. Usually, the silence inside that place felt heavy enough to suffocate me, but today it felt different somehow. It no longer felt like a prison filled with ghosts of everything I had lost.

Instead, it felt unfinished.

Like a space waiting to become mine again, even if only temporarily.

Without hesitation, I made my way toward the small storage room near the back corridor of the packhouse—the dusty little chamber Theron always mocked as my “junk closet.”

The memory almost made me laugh bitterly now.

“Why do you keep useless things like this?” he used to complain whenever he saw me organizing the boxes inside. “The room smells like paint and old cloth. Throw them away already.”

But those boxes had never contained junk.

They contained pieces of me.

I knelt slowly before the first wooden chest and lifted the lid carefully. Dust swirled into the air as I peeled back the protective cloth covering the canvases beneath.

My breath caught instantly.

Painting after painting rested inside the box, preserved carefully despite the years that had passed. Landscapes bathed in moonlight. Forests glowing beneath silver skies. Portraits of wolves standing proudly beneath the full moon. Every brushstroke carried fragments of the woman I used to be before life taught me to make myself smaller.

Back then, I used to paint beside the bedroom window for hours while sunlight spilled across my hands. I remembered how happy I felt mixing colors together, humming softly to myself without worrying whether anyone approved of it.

Then Theron came into my life.

“It is pointless,” he told me one evening after watching me paint for nearly an hour in silence. “Art does not feed a family, Elyria. Stop wasting your time on childish things and focus on becoming a proper wife.”

And because I loved him, I listened.

Little by little, I folded away my dreams just like I folded away every other part of myself that he found inconvenient.

But even then, I never stopped completely.

In the quiet hours before dawn, while everyone else slept, I still painted secretly. Sometimes I painted with tears running down my face. Other times, I painted with anger burning quietly inside my chest. I sold a few pieces anonymously during traveling markets and seasonal festivals between packs, saving every moonstone coin I earned without Theron ever realizing where the money came from.

Enough to survive.

Enough to hope.

Slowly, I unwrapped each canvas and spread them across the floor around me.

And for the first time in years, I allowed myself to truly look at them again.

They were beautiful.

Not perfect.

But alive.

The woman who painted them had been lonely, exhausted, and aching for freedom long before she admitted it to herself.

That afternoon, after staring at my work for nearly an hour, I finally reached for the communication crystal resting on the shelf beside me and called Alaric.

He answered almost immediately.

“Elyria?” His voice carried surprise, then concern. “Is everything alright?”

I swallowed hard before answering.

“I am ready.”

There was a stunned pause.

Then his laughter burst through the crystal, warm and genuine.

“Moon Goddess above,” he breathed. “You are serious?”

I smiled faintly despite myself.

“Yes.”

“Elyria, this is incredible.” Excitement filled his voice now. “I have been waiting years for you to say that. The gallery has an empty wing prepared for the autumn exhibition, and I swear to you, your work belongs there more than half the artists already displayed.”

My chest tightened painfully at the sincerity in his voice.

No mockery.

No dismissal.

Only belief.

“I want it,” I whispered. “I am tired of hiding.”

“And you never should have hidden in the first place.”

Those words stayed with me long after the call ended.

By evening, I had carefully packed my best canvases into protective cloth and delivered them personally to Alaric’s gallery near the central district. By the time I returned to the packhouse, faint streaks of paint stained my fingers, and exhaustion settled into my shoulders, but for the first time in years, my heart felt strangely full.

I had done something for myself.

Not for Theron.

Not for the pack.

Not for anyone else.

Just me.

That night, I sat alone on the edge of the bed scrolling absentmindedly through the public memory feed displayed inside the crystal tablet resting in my hands. I only wanted distraction, something mindless to quiet my thoughts before sleep.

Then I saw my son’s newest post.

My breath caught instantly.

There he stood smiling beside Marisella beneath strings of silver lanterns aboard the Moon Tide Voyage. His arm rested comfortably around her shoulders while Father stood proudly behind them with Theron at his side.

They looked like a family.

Whole.

Happy.

And I was nowhere in the image.

A sharp wave of anger surged through me so suddenly that it startled me.

Not sadness.

Not grief.

Anger.

My gaze dropped toward the caption beneath the memory image.

Grateful for the people who have always been my strongest support system.

I stared at the words for a long time.

Support system.

The same people who watched me disappear piece by piece without ever reaching out to stop it.

The same people celebrating a sacred union built from betrayal while pretending I had never existed.

Then what had I been to them all these years?

A servant?

A placeholder?

A ghost wandering through their lives unnoticed?

I tightened my grip around the crystal tablet before whispering softly to myself, “Just a little longer.”

The words sounded steadier than I expected.

“In a few more weeks, I will be gone from all of your lives.”

And for the first time, the thought did not terrify me.

That night, I did something Theron would have absolutely hated.

I opened my wardrobe and reached for the deep red dress he once criticized relentlessly.

“It is too tight,” he told me the first time I wore it. “Too loud. Women your age should not dress like they are seeking attention.”

So I hid it away afterward despite secretly loving the way it made me feel beautiful.

Tonight, I wore it anyway.

Then I carefully applied the new cosmetics I purchased for myself earlier that day, the same kind Theron claimed I no longer suited. When I finished, I stared at my reflection for several long moments.

I looked alive.

Not young.

Not perfect.

Alive.

And somehow, that mattered far more.

An hour later, I found myself standing inside a tavern near the lower market district.

It was not grand or elegant like the exclusive lounges Theron preferred visiting during alliance gatherings, but the place pulsed with warmth and life. Music drifted softly through the crowded room while wolves laughed together beneath glowing lanterns. The scent of wine, cedarwood, and freedom filled the air around me.

For once, no one there knew me as Alpha Theron’s neglected mate.

I was simply another woman enjoying her evening.

I settled onto one of the stools near the bar and ordered a glass of deep crimson wine.

Then I drank it slowly without worrying whether someone would criticize me for it.

Halfway through my second sip, the communication crystal tucked inside my purse suddenly began glowing insistently.

Unknown transmission.

Then another.

And another.

I sighed softly before ignoring them all.

Moments later, messages began flooding through instead.

Elyria, what is going on? Why am I blocked?

Another one followed immediately after.

This is childish. Answer me.

Then another.

I already apologized. I even gave you freedom to enjoy yourself for the week. What more do you want?

The final message arrived seconds later.

Where are you right now?

I stared at the glowing words calmly.

There it was again.

Not concern.

Not regret.

Control.

Theron could not stand the idea of losing access to me. He could not tolerate the thought of me stepping outside the role he created for me all these years.

The obedient wife.

The quiet woman waiting patiently for his attention.

But I was done waiting.

Slowly, I lifted my wine glass and took another sip before opening the camera function on the crystal tablet.

Behind me, lantern lights glowed warmly against the tavern walls while music and laughter blurred into a beautiful haze of noise. I raised my glass slightly, letting a small smile touch my lips as I captured the image.

Then, without hesitation, I posted it publicly onto the memory feed.

No explanations.

No tags.

Only a single caption beneath the photo.

What a beautiful evening for dancing, wine, and freedom.