The rain lashed against me, each drop a punishment. My fists still burned, knuckles split and raw, painted with Lionel's blood, but the ache in my chest was worse. The storm echoed what raged inside, each flash of lightning searing through the cracks in my walls—the ones I'd spent years building, thanks to Margaret. Her voice had been there, whispering in the back of my mind, reminding me of the monster she said I was. Always. I stumble up the steps, soaked to the bone, my clothes heavy, clinging like regret. When she opened the door, the warmth from inside rushed out, but it couldn’t reach me. Not really. Her eyes—those soft, worried eyes—searched me, but all I could feel was that familiar dread. She could never know what I’d done, how much of a wolf I truly was. She asked me something, but it was just sound, vague, drowned out by the rain and the chaos in my head. Lionel had been close to her, too close, and I snapped. He didn’t know what I was—what I was capable of—but he found out. Just like Margaret said he would. You're no hero, Rigel, her voice sneered. Wolves don’t offer fairytales. I tried to protect her, like I always had, silently from the shadows. But she never knew. She never could. My chest tightened. She asked me again of why I got myself into this position. I met her gaze, the storm outside nothing compared to the one inside me.

“Because you are my Tearsmith, moth.” That's what she was. My tearsmith. My moth- that the fire in me was tempted to burn and make mine forever. Yet I couldn't.