Chapter 2
The broken wooden sword lay at Selene’s feet, splintered near the hilt, its blade dulled from rough play and careless neglect.
Theo had thrown it without a second thought–not as a request, but as a demand. A child’s declaration of dominance over the woman who gave him life.
Selene bent down slowly, joints aching from the relentless cold and bone–deep exhaustion. She picked up the toy sword, turning it gently in her numb fingers. A jagged crack ran along its length, the grip dangerously loose in her hand.
This wasn’t something she could fix overnight–not with fingers stiffened by frost, and certainly not with her heart fractured beyond
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Theo’s voice broke through again, sharp with frustration. “I said I want it fixed by tomorrow! You promised!”
Selene raised her gaze to meet his, her expression carefully blank. “I made no such promise.
“You just don’t want to do it!” Theo stomped his foot angrily. “You’re useless! I already told Tiara I’d give it to her tomorrow. Now you’re making me look like a llar!”
Selene gripped the sword firmly, feeling its weight anchor her resolve. Her voice emerged steady, low, and unyielding “Theo, Lam your mother–not your servant.
”
Her words were quiet, yet landed heavily between them.
Theo froze, momentarily stunned. His eyes flickered uncertainly, then instinctively sought out Thorne, who had just appeared in the kitchen doorway.
Thorne approached easily, apron still tied neatly around his waist. He assessed the tension calmly, then knelt beside Selene, placing a steaming hot water bottle gently in her lap.
“Let your mother rest tonight,” he said softly, voice measured and calm. “She’ll fix it in the morning.” His hand reached out, brushing softly against Selene’s hair. “There’s no need to argue with a child.“.
Selene shifted away from his touch.
“I’m not arguing,” she corrected quietly. “I’m setting a boundary. I’m finished fixing his toys. I’m done cooking his meals. I’m through being this household’s ghost.”
Thorne’s hand froze awkwardly mid–air. Slowly, he drew it back, Silence settled between them, uncomfortable and fragile.
After a tense moment, Thorne broke the stillness, attempting to restore normalcy. “Dinner’s ready.”
He retreated briefly to the kitchen and returned holding a bowl of steaming, creamy fish soup, carefully placing it in front of her.
“You’ve always liked this, haven’t you?” he said, gently prompting. “Especially on cold nights.”
Selene stared down at the bowl. Its aroma rose pungently–oily, sharp, unwelcome.
She hadn’t tasted it for years. Hadn’t wanted to.
She didn’t move.
ཨ་ཨོཾ་ཨོཾ་ཇ ེ་ཆ
“It’s your favorite,” Thorne repeated, confusion creeping into his voice
Selene finally looked–up, her lips parting slightly. “No,” she whispered. “It’s not mine.”
Thorne blinked, clearly taken aback.
“It’s Marina who loves fish soup. Not me. I despise the smell. I always have.”
A tense silence followed her words.
Finally, Thorne said flatly, “You’re sisters. Your tastes should be similar.”
Chucker 2
Selene laughed, a single, bitter sound.
He didn’t know her at all. Thorne knew the map of her body, the rhythm of her breathing in sleep, even the lingering scent of the wolf that never awoke–but he had never once asked what she loved, what she hated.
Every memory, every preference he remembered belonged solely to Marina.
“I hate it,” she repeated softly, firmly.
Thorne didn’t respond. Instead, he picked up the spoon, pressing it gently into her palm.
“Fish is good for your heart,” he murmured quietly.
THA
There it was again–the hidden motive. She was no longer his luna, no longer even his wife. She was merely a vessel, a body with a heart
destined to be harvested.
Selene grasped the spoon, forcing herself to eat. Each mouthful felt thick and bitter, like swallowing sorrow.
She finished silently, stood without another word, and turned away. “I’ll be in the guest room.
Of course. In eight years of marriage, they had never shared a bed–not even once.
Because Thome said he was a light sleeper.
Because she had always acquiesced, belleving compromise meant closeness.
What a fool she had been.
The next morning arrived with a pounding headache and limbs heavy as lead. She barely registered the hour until insistent banging
echoed through her door.
“Mom! Bad mom! Why aren’t you up yet? I need breakfast!”
Selene groaned and forced herself upright, muscles screaming in protest. She glanced at the clock and her stomach sank.
Eight–o–three.
Theo had to leave at seven–thirty.
She staggered to the door, pulling it open just as Theo’s boot connected sharply with her shin.
Pain exploded through her leg as she stumbled backward, gripping the doorframe for support.
“Where’s your father?” she managed through gritted teeth.
Theo shrugged carelessly. “He’s busy. He has a real job. You’re always home, doing nothing–you can’t even get up to make breakfast. You’re pathetic.”
Selene stared at the boy she had carried, raised, nursed through sickness and fears.
Now, he regarded her exactly as Thorne did.
“Aunt Marina’s right,” Theo added scornfully. “You’re lazy. You’re not even a real mother.”
Selene’s voice shook. “Can’t you see I’m sick?”
Theo paused, eyes narrowing coldly. “If you can’t even take care of yourself, then you don’t deserve to be my mother.”
Without another glance, he grabbed his bag, turned his back, and left.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Selene slid to the floor, leaning against the cold frame. Her hand clutched at her chest as the Moonmark beneath her skin pulsed gently
steadily, painfully.
Chapter 2
A silent countdown.
Not long now.
Chucker 2
