|chapter 5|

|Talitha|

|four years later|

“Erna? Erna, baby, where are you?” I call out, eyes sweeping the dim interior of the chapel for my little pup. The scent of frankincense still lingers in the air, as the golden light from the afternoon sun pours in through the many stained glass windows, scattering colors across the stone floor.

A sudden bang echoes through as a wooden door slams shut at the rear of the sanctuary, followed by the hurried patter of tiny feet. I turn around just in time to see a small figure dart out from the corridor where the priestess keeps her study—her flaxen hair flying like a silken banner behind her as she deftly weaves between the rows of oaken pews.

I click my tongue sharply. “Erna, not so fast, little dove!” But before the warning has finished leaving my lips, my daughter is already standing before me, breathless and beaming, her grin so wide it could shame the sun.

I open my mouth to scold her, as I often do when she barrels through sacred spaces like a whirlwind. Yet as I look down at this tiny soul—this gift born of strife and sorrow—the reprimand quickly dies in my throat. Instead, my chest tightens with a familiar ache. Gratitude and grief... entwined like threads on a loom.

So much heartache heralded her coming into this world. So many sleepless nights spent in fear and doubt. And yet, not once have I looked upon my pup with regret. Not even when staring into her chocolate brown eyes, on some days, reminds me of that vile, wicked man who had bedded me with sweet lies, only to plunge a dagger through my heart afterward.

My daughter, Erna, is my light during dark times and the steady ground beneath my feet when the world quakes.

“Mama?” Her small voice draws me back to the present and I blink a few times to chase the burn behind my eyes as her tiny fingers wrap securely around mine.

With a smile, I guide her to a nearby pew then sit, gathering her up into my lap as though she were no heavier than a loaf of bread. I brush back strands of her long, unruly hair, fingers moving slowly through its golden length, exactly the same shade as mine.

“Hello, sweetling.” I murmur, cradling her close to me.

“Hi, Mama,” she replies, flashing that gap-toothed grin that never fails to warm me through.

“And where have you been hiding since, hm? I’ve searched high and low for you.”

“Oh,” My daughter mutters, glancing down at the little wooden doll clutched in her hand—the same one I carved for her last winter by firelight, which she's never without—before shrugging sheepishly. “Grandmama was telling stories.”

“Ah, storytime already?” I arch a brow with a smile, considering the fact that the sun is still high up in the sky outside. “Is it not a touch too early for tales?”

Erna snaps her head up, shaking it with such vigor her hair sways like a curtain. “No! Grandmama says she can tell me stories any time. She bronised to tell me more at bedtime.”

“Bronised?” I echo with a frown and she nods, firm in her conviction. I take a second to decipher what word she's just mispronounced and when I finally do, laughter escapes my lips. “Do you mean ‘promised’, baby?”

“Yes,” she nods again. “Bronised.”

I chuckle, leaning in to press a kiss to her forehead from how undeniably adorable she is. “Well then, you're right, Nana. And if Grandmama has given her word to tell you tales whenever you like, who am I to argue? But next time, little one, tell Mama before wandering off, alright?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Good girl.” I praise, continuing to brush my fingers through her hair until we're interrupted by a familiar voice.

“I’d not mind a bit of that cuddling myself.”

Erna and I glance up as a familiar, motherly figure approaches us, her robes of deep blue and white billowing about her like a swan’s wings in the gentle breeze. Her smile, ever warm and patient, lights up her ageless face like the first sunlight breaking after a long winter.

Mother Elvyra, the priestess of this town's, Eldwyn, antique chapel, was once my saving grace. She had been the one who came upon me that ill-fated night four years back, on her way back from a birthing in which she'd aided a human mother and blessed the squalling newborn.

That night she'd found me slumped in a shadowed alley, drained nearly to death, spirit worn and body frail. Yet instead of passing me by, she had taken me in without an ounce of hesitation. Mother Elvyra was also the one who revealed the truth I hadn’t yet known—that I was with child.

I recall the terror that gripped me at the revelation—raw and unrelenting. And with good cause. My life had laid in utter shambles. There was no roof over my head, not a dime in my pocket, and no garment beyond the rags on my back. I'd been wandering the woods and streets hungry, cold, and lost. It was a wonder how I hadn't ended up a scrawny meal for a rogue wolf.

The idea of bringing forth a child into such a world, especially after the fate Cain had subjected me to? It'd felt like a cruel jest. How could I nurture another soul when I could scarcely provide and care for my own? The burden had loomed so daunting that, for a fleeting moment, I considered snuffing out the life growing inside of me before it had even begun.

However, thankfully, the thought was promptly banished by Mother Elvyra who had told me that children are blessings—pure and undeserved—and abortion was still taking a life no matter what form it existed in, and the last thing I wanted to do was bear the blood of an innocent on my hands. She'd counseled me against punishing my unborn child for the sins of his/her father. And every day I look at my Erna, I'm grateful to Mother Elvyra for her wise words and help over the years.

“Mama. Mama.” My daughter wriggles on my lap, pulling me from my thoughts. She bounces eagerly, eyes fixed on the vast field beyond.

“Where to, little dove?” I ask, steadying her so she doesn’t tumble off my lap.

She points toward the open archway where the laughter of children spills in from the green behind the chapel. A moment later, young Julie appears in the doorway, breathless but beaming.

“Erna!” she calls, hopping in place. “Come play with us!”

Erna’s eyes light up as she glances at me, already pleading without a word. I sigh, defeated before the battle even begins, and set her down. We make our way to Julie, who, like my daughter, can also barely contain her excitement.

“Julie,” I say, crouching to meet the eyes of the little lass two years Erna's elder yet is bonded to her as tightly as her mother is to me, “mind you both. Don’t play too rough and keep an eye on her, will you? You two keep an eye on one another, alright?”

They both nod firmly, even as their feet itch to skip away. Before I can say more, a warm hand rests on my shoulder and I look up to find Mother Elvyra watching me with that ever-knowing smile.

“Come now, child,” she says. “Let the younglings be free. You’ll tire their ears before their feet.”

Sighing, I finally concede and pat both girls on the head. “Alright, off you go.” They bolt before I finish speaking, and I can’t help but call after them, “Not so fast!”

Mother Elvyra chuckles softly behind me before stepping to my side, and together, we watch the children play in the sunlit field as townsfolk tend the crops in quiet diligence.

For a moment, all is silent between us—until she speaks.

“You know you need to let go of that fear and guilt someday.”

Her words don’t catch me off guard. After spending four years by her side, I’ve come to expect just how easily she reads my thoughts, no matter how I try to mask them.

“I’m trying, Mother,” I murmur. “Truly, I am. But it is much easier said than done.”

She hums low in her throat. “True. That I know too well.”

I glance at her, brows arched at her cryptic words, but Mother Elvyra only offers that knowing smile. “Forgiveness, of yourself and of your mate, won’t come easy. But you mustn't live with it, else it rots your joy, and your daughter’s too.”

I nod, the weight of her words settling into my bones. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, her voice softer now as she continues to watch me. “Mayhap I ought to heed my own counsel.”

That stirs my curiosity. “Do you carry regrets too, Mother?”

Her smile is faint… almost sorrowful as she replies, “Don’t we all?”

Her hand grazes my hair one last time before she straightens, her features smoothing back into her signature look of serenity—one I'm just now noticing hides a myriad of stormy emotions.

“Earlier today, word reached me,” she says, tone turning serious. “The Alpha King will ride into Eldwyn in three days, child. We must prepare.”