Chapter 14
The day Dorian came to the border, the sun broke through the clouds for the first time in weeks.
He arrived leaning heavily on Neil, a shadow of the Alpha he once was. His body was ravaged — thin, grey-skinned, his empty eye socket uncovered now, and the black veins of the curse visible all along his neck and jaw. His remaining golden eye was dim, but when it found Lyra in my arms, it ignited with something I could only describe as wonder.
Lyra stared at him with her impossible heterochromatic eyes — one silver, one gold — studying him with the same intensity she studied everything new.
Caspian stood beside me, solid and warm, his hand resting lightly on my lower back. Not possessive. Just present.
Dorian stopped ten feet away. He didn't try to come closer. He just looked at Lyra like she was the sun, and he'd been living underground for a hundred years.
"She's beautiful," he whispered. His voice was paper-thin, barely carrying across the space between us. "She looks like you."
Lyra babbled something and reached one small hand toward him — curious, not recognizing him, just drawn to movement.
Dorian's composure cracked. Tears slipped silently down his gaunt face, and he made no move to wipe them.
"I know I don't deserve this," he said, his eye fixed on her tiny reaching hand. "I know I lost the right to be anything to her. But Elara—" He finally looked at me, and his shattered expression held no pretense, no manipulation. Just naked, agonizing truth. "Thank you. For letting me see her. For letting her exist in a world where someone like Caspian will be her father."
He said Caspian's name without bitterness. That surprised me.
Caspian gave a single nod of acknowledgment. Nothing more.
Dorian looked at Lyra one final time — drinking in every detail of her face, memorizing her — and then slowly, painfully, turned away.
He stopped after a few steps.
"Elara."
"Yes?"
"The stars," he said, so quietly I almost missed it. "I folded a thousand of them for you. That night, in the snow. They're still buried somewhere near the Thornridge border." A ghost of a smile crossed his ruined face. "I just... wanted you to know that you were wished for. Even if it was too late."
Then Neil helped him walk away, and I watched his broken figure disappear into the tree line.
That was the last time I ever saw Dorian Blackwood alive.
He died seventeen days later, alone in his cabin, with my old healer's scarf pressed against his chest — the one I'd accidentally left behind the night I fled Shadowfang.
Neil told me that when they found him, the curse marks had spread over his entire body, turning his skin black. But his face was peaceful. Almost smiling.
I didn't attend the funeral. I didn't cry.
But that night, after Lyra was asleep and Caspian was reading by the fire, I walked outside and looked up at the stars.
A thousand of them, buried somewhere in the snow.
I stood there for one long minute, breathing in the cold air. Then I exhaled — slowly, completely — and let it all go.
Every last piece of him. Every memory. Every what-if.
Gone.
I walked back inside, where the fire was crackling and Caspian looked up at me with those grey eyes full of quiet, steady love.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
I climbed into the space beside him, tucked myself against his warmth, and smiled.
"Everything's perfect."
And it was.
Outside, the northern lights began to dance across the sky — green and violet and infinite — and somewhere, in a crib down the hall, my daughter slept soundly, dreaming of nothing but the safe, boundless life ahead of her.
I was exactly where I was meant to be.
He arrived leaning heavily on Neil, a shadow of the Alpha he once was. His body was ravaged — thin, grey-skinned, his empty eye socket uncovered now, and the black veins of the curse visible all along his neck and jaw. His remaining golden eye was dim, but when it found Lyra in my arms, it ignited with something I could only describe as wonder.
Lyra stared at him with her impossible heterochromatic eyes — one silver, one gold — studying him with the same intensity she studied everything new.
Caspian stood beside me, solid and warm, his hand resting lightly on my lower back. Not possessive. Just present.
Dorian stopped ten feet away. He didn't try to come closer. He just looked at Lyra like she was the sun, and he'd been living underground for a hundred years.
"She's beautiful," he whispered. His voice was paper-thin, barely carrying across the space between us. "She looks like you."
Lyra babbled something and reached one small hand toward him — curious, not recognizing him, just drawn to movement.
Dorian's composure cracked. Tears slipped silently down his gaunt face, and he made no move to wipe them.
"I know I don't deserve this," he said, his eye fixed on her tiny reaching hand. "I know I lost the right to be anything to her. But Elara—" He finally looked at me, and his shattered expression held no pretense, no manipulation. Just naked, agonizing truth. "Thank you. For letting me see her. For letting her exist in a world where someone like Caspian will be her father."
He said Caspian's name without bitterness. That surprised me.
Caspian gave a single nod of acknowledgment. Nothing more.
Dorian looked at Lyra one final time — drinking in every detail of her face, memorizing her — and then slowly, painfully, turned away.
He stopped after a few steps.
"Elara."
"Yes?"
"The stars," he said, so quietly I almost missed it. "I folded a thousand of them for you. That night, in the snow. They're still buried somewhere near the Thornridge border." A ghost of a smile crossed his ruined face. "I just... wanted you to know that you were wished for. Even if it was too late."
Then Neil helped him walk away, and I watched his broken figure disappear into the tree line.
That was the last time I ever saw Dorian Blackwood alive.
He died seventeen days later, alone in his cabin, with my old healer's scarf pressed against his chest — the one I'd accidentally left behind the night I fled Shadowfang.
Neil told me that when they found him, the curse marks had spread over his entire body, turning his skin black. But his face was peaceful. Almost smiling.
I didn't attend the funeral. I didn't cry.
But that night, after Lyra was asleep and Caspian was reading by the fire, I walked outside and looked up at the stars.
A thousand of them, buried somewhere in the snow.
I stood there for one long minute, breathing in the cold air. Then I exhaled — slowly, completely — and let it all go.
Every last piece of him. Every memory. Every what-if.
Gone.
I walked back inside, where the fire was crackling and Caspian looked up at me with those grey eyes full of quiet, steady love.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
I climbed into the space beside him, tucked myself against his warmth, and smiled.
"Everything's perfect."
And it was.
Outside, the northern lights began to dance across the sky — green and violet and infinite — and somewhere, in a crib down the hall, my daughter slept soundly, dreaming of nothing but the safe, boundless life ahead of her.
I was exactly where I was meant to be.