The grand gates of Malven estate creaked open, familiar yet unwelcoming. Elira walked out of the carriage with a royal air, despite the pain in her bones. She tilted her head politely in return to the household staff's courteous nod, which was given more out of habit than warmth.
“I’ll see my father,” she said without pause.
One of the older servants bowed. “The Duke is in his study, my lady.”
She turned toward the main hall, her pace swift—until a voice stopped her cold.
“Well, well… What is Lady Rennar doing here?” A bitter smirk honed the sarcasm in the words. "Instead of running like a restless ghost back to her father's house, shouldn't a new bride be taking pleasure in her brave husband's glory?"
Elira turned slowly.
Alvero Malven leaned against the stone column, arms crossed, eyes glinting with resentment.
Her brother.
As always, he wore the expression of a man who expected to be disappointed—and delighted in preemptively being cruel about it. “Or did your beast hunter finally tire of playing husband to a frigid little fox?”
Elira didn’t flinch. “Still as eloquent as ever, I see.”
The mockery in his gaze deepened. “You always were better with words. And everything else, I suppose. Father’s perfect little tool.”
The insult landed flat. She had heard it all before. From the moment they were old enough to walk, Elira had outshone him—in court, in study, in the quiet elegance that their father valued. While she had accompanied Duke Malven to councils and gatherings, Alvero had been left behind. A spare son with nothing sharp enough to offer.
The bitterness festered. It always did.
“I’m not here to trade jabs, Alvero,” she said coolly. “Step aside.”
“Of course.” He bowed low, mockingly. “Far be it from me to delay Malven’s finest weapon.”
Even with her back to him, she could feel his glare piercing her back as she passed him without giving him another look.
She knock the door on Duke Malven's study room and declare her present. Soon enough, her father let her in without a second thought.
“Elira.” His voice was clipped. Not cold, just… detached. “I trust you’re adjusting to your new household.”
She didn’t answer. Not because she couldn’t—because she knew he didn’t care.
Without waiting, Duke Malven slid a scroll toward her across the polished desk. “The Crown is preparing to reallocate certain territories near the northwestern frontier. Untamed forest, mostly. Worthless to most. But with proper clearance, it’s a gold mine—silver veins, medicinal flora, trade routes.”
Elira’s fingers curled loosely at her side. “And you plan to claim it?”
He finally looked at her. His eyes, so like hers yet void of warmth, were calculating. “With Kael Rennar’s name behind the petition, the Crown will sign it within the month. He’s the war hero. The beast hunter. What better justification to claim a dangerous region than marrying its executioner to my bloodline?”
Elira's mouth clenched. She didn't say anything, but her face conveyed resentment and disapproval.
Duke Malven raised a brow, mildly amused. “Don’t be naive. You were born for this. It’s only logical to put that to use. Besides, you won’t need to lift a finger—just ensure Kael speaks when the time comes.”
“I doubt Kael is the type to play puppet.”
“Then make him think it’s his idea.”
Her breath caught. He spoke as if Kael were a tool, as if her marriage were a merchant’s contract, signed for gain and abandoned for sentiment.
She remained silent, though. Because she had known it from the start, deep down.
“There will be a noble council vote next month,” he continued. “Secure Kael’s support before then. If Rennar backs our claim, no one will question it. And if he refuses…” He waved a hand, dismissing the thought. “You’ll find a way to make him see sense. You are your father's daughter after all”
Elira’s gaze drifted to the window, to the sky that stretched wide beyond the estate walls. It felt farther than ever. Caged. Strategic. Weaponized. That was what she had always been—nothing more than the perfect puppet of House Malven.
Her throat tightened.
"Father," she began, voice calm despite the tremble in her clenched fists. "I want to ask you something."
Duke Malven didn’t look up. His pen continued to scratch across parchment, calculating gains, territories, names. Always names.
She stood straighter, summoning strength she wasn’t sure she had. "The tonic you had me drink regularly… was it truly for my health?"
His hand paused mid-sentence.
"Or was it to suppress something inside me?" she asked softly. "Something... uncontrollable?"
The silence grew heavy.
Finally, Duke Malven set his pen down. Slowly. Deliberately. 
His eyes were like shards of black ice when they met hers; they were piercing, evaluating, and unforgiving.
With her nails digging into her palms until she bled, she braced herself and continued, "Is it because you knew all along..."
"That I was half wolf?"
The room dropped into silence. Not even the fire dared to crackle.
And then—
PLAKK.
With a savage slap that reverberated throughout the room like a whip crack, his palm struck her cheek.
His voice was thunderous as he growled, "You fool!"
She didn't scream even though her face was burning. She wouldn't. Her cheek throbbed, but her eyes remained fixed on him, unblinking and cold.
And deep inside her, something growled.
Her wolf.
He growled, "You talk about things you don't understand."
 "Things that should’ve remained buried."
"And yet you fed me poison every day to keep them buried," she whispered.
His eyes flared. But for a moment—just one—she saw it.
Fear.
Not for her. But of her.