Chapter Four: Quiet Sins Do Not Stay Buried
The argument started over something small.
That was how it always began.
Freya stood in the storage room beside the east hall, holding a folded cloak in her hands. It was old—her father's. One of the last things he had worn before he fell ill. She had asked a servant to keep it safe, away from dust and careless hands.
But it was gone.
"Where is it?" Freya asked quietly.
Her stepmother looked up from sorting jars, irritation flickering across her face. "What are you talking about?"
"My father's cloak," Freya said. "The grey one. It was kept here."
Her stepmother waved a hand. "Old things were cleared out. There was no reason to keep it."
Freya felt something twist in her chest.
"You had no right," she said.
The woman scoffed. "It was only fabric."
"It was his," Freya replied.
Her stepmother turned fully now, her lips pressing thin. "You are clinging to ghosts. The pack must move forward."
Freya's fingers tightened around the empty space where the cloak should have been.
"You always said that," she murmured.
The woman frowned. "Said what?"
"To let go," Freya said. "To forget."
Her stepmother sighed sharply. "Must you make everything dramatic?"
Freya lifted her eyes. "Must you make everything disappear?"
Silence settled between them.
This woman was not powerful. Not truly. She had no alpha strength, no commanding aura. She ruled only through whispers, timing, and patience. Through standing beside stronger men and letting them believe the ideas were theirs.
Freya saw it now.
"You overstep," her stepmother said stiffly.
"You always told me my mother did too," Freya replied.
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Her stepmother froze.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then the woman laughed softly. "Your mother was weak."
Freya's heart pounded. "She was kind."
"She was inconvenient."
That word unlocked something buried.
The room seemed to fade, replaced by darkness, damp air, and the sound of chains.
---
Flashback
The dungeon was quiet that night.
Too quiet.
Freya lay on cold stone, barely awake, barely breathing. Pain pulsed through her body in waves she no longer tried to fight. Time had become meaningless.
Then footsteps.
Slow. Careful.
A torch flared to life, its light casting long shadows across the walls.
Her stepmother stood there.
Alone.
Freya's lips parted in disbelief. "You…"
The woman hesitated at the threshold, as though unsure she belonged in such a place. "They told me you were still alive."
Freya tried to laugh, but it came out as a broken sound.
"You came to see if I was dead?" she whispered.
The woman stepped closer. Her face looked pale in the torchlight. Not cruel. Not triumphant.
Tired.
"I didn't plan this," she said.
Freya's eyes burned. "You planned enough."
The woman's gaze flickered. "Do you know why your mother was sent away?"
Freya's breath caught.
"She was sick," Freya said. "That's what you told everyone."
"Yes," the woman said quietly. "That's what I told them."
Her fingers tightened around the torch.
"She wasn't sick," the woman continued. "She was… inconvenient. She loved your father too openly. She softened him."
Freya felt cold spread through her chest.
"You whispered lies," Freya said.
"I suggested distance," the woman replied. "I encouraged concern. Others made the decision."
"You pushed her out," Freya whispered. "You made her leave."
"Yes."
The word landed heavily.
"She died alone," Freya said.
"I know."
"Did you feel anything?" Freya asked.
The woman swallowed. "At the time, I felt relieved."
Freya closed her eyes.
"And now?" she asked.
Silence stretched.
"Now," the woman said softly, "I feel haunted."
Freya laughed weakly. "Good."
The woman flinched. "You were never meant to end like this."
"You made sure I would," Freya replied.
"I tried to protect the pack," the woman said.
"You destroyed my family."
The woman looked down at Freya's stomach, then away. "I didn't stop him."
That was the worst confession of all.
"I knew," the woman whispered. "And I did nothing."
Freya's voice trembled. "Then leave."
"I wanted you to know," the woman said. "Before it ends."
"It will never end," Freya replied. "Not for me."
The woman backed away, the torch shaking in her hand.
"I am sorry," she said.
Freya opened her eyes, fury and grief burning together. "Sorry is for accidents."
The woman turned and left.
The darkness swallowed everything again.
---
Present
Freya blinked.
The storage room returned.
Her stepmother stood before her, breathing unevenly.
"You remember," the woman said slowly.
"Yes," Freya replied.
Her stepmother's voice dropped. "That night… I didn't think you would survive."
"I didn't," Freya said calmly.
The woman stared at her. "What do you mean?"
Freya stepped closer. Not threatening. Just certain.
"You took my mother," Freya said. "You stood by while I was destroyed. And now you throw away my father's things like they never mattered."
Her stepmother's eyes filled—not with tears, but fear.
"You were always too quiet," the woman said. "Too observant."
Freya nodded. "You mistook silence for ignorance."
The woman shook her head. "You have no power here."
"Not yet," Freya agreed.
A long pause.
Then Freya spoke again, softer.
"But sins like yours don't stay buried."
Her stepmother swallowed. "Are you threatening me?"
"No," Freya said. "I'm reminding you."
She turned toward the door.
Behind her, the woman whispered, "You should have waited for your mate."
Freya stopped.
"I know," she said quietly.
And this time, she meant it.