Chapter Three: The Day the World Began Again
Freya was reborn on the day her father was buried.
The irony of it would come to her much later, when memory and understanding finally aligned. But in that moment—lying cold against the earth, her cheek pressed to soil darkened by tears—she knew only grief.
Her father's grave was still fresh.
The mound of earth rose like an accusation against the sky, flowers scattered in disarray as mourners stood in quiet clusters. The pack had gathered in solemn colors, heads bowed, voices hushed. An alpha had fallen, and the world had shifted in response.
Freya knelt at the front.
She had not moved since the ceremony began.
Her hands were clenched into the fabric of her dress, knuckles pale, body trembling from exhaustion rather than weakness. She had cried until there was nothing left in her—until the tears burned and her chest ached and her vision blurred.
She had cried for the father who had loved her without condition.
For the alpha who had taught her strength with gentleness.
For the one person who would never have allowed her fate to unfold the way it had.
If he had lived, she would never have been traded.
If he had lived, she would never have been silenced.
If he had lived, destiny would not have been so cruel.
"Father…" she whispered, her voice breaking as it had a hundred times already.
The word felt wrong in her mouth. Too final. Too heavy.
The wind moved through the trees, carrying the scent of earth and mourning. Somewhere behind her, the pack elders murmured prayers to the ancestors. Freya heard none of it. Her world had narrowed to the grave before her and the emptiness inside her chest.
Her stepmother stood at a distance, dressed in pristine black, her expression composed. Her brother stood beside her, tall and solemn, already wearing the weight of leadership.
Neither approached Freya.
They let her grief exist alone.
That, too, would come to matter later.
Freya leaned forward, placing her palm against the soil. It was still warm from the sun. Still real. She pressed her forehead down, surrendering to the ache that refused to lessen.
"I'm tired," she whispered, though she wasn't sure to whom. "I tried to be strong."
Her body swayed.
The world tilted.
Someone called her name—distant, distorted—but she could not lift her head. The grief had become too heavy, pressing down on her chest until breathing felt like work.
Her vision darkened at the edges.
And then—
Nothing.
---
Darkness did not feel like sleep.
It felt like falling.
Freya was weightless, untethered, drifting through something vast and silent. There was no pain here. No fear. Only awareness—sharp and sudden, like waking underwater.
Memory rushed in like a storm.
Not this life.
The other one.
Blood and betrayal.
Cold stone and iron restraints.
A voice that had once sworn vows and later spoken lies with ease.
The absence of mercy.
The loss that hollowed her out beyond repair.
Her soul recoiled.
No.
She tried to pull away, but the memories clung to her, wrapping around her spirit like chains.
I died.
The realization came with terrifying clarity.
She remembered the end—not the pain, but the promise she had made in the darkness.
If fate ever gives me another chance…
A warmth stirred beneath the memories.
Gentle. Persistent.
A presence.
Freya felt it then—a pull deep within her soul, ancient and undeniable. Not toward pain. Not toward fear.
Toward something waiting.
A bond unbroken by death.
Her breath hitched.
Arthur.
The name surfaced without explanation, without doubt. It was not spoken aloud, yet it resonated through her being like a call answered at last.
Her mate.
The one she had never waited for.
The one fate had bound to her long before betrayal ever touched her life.
Power surged.
Not violent. Not consuming.
Steady.
The darkness cracked.
---
Freya gasped.
Air rushed into her lungs, sharp and burning, dragging her back into her body with sudden force. Her eyes flew open as she sucked in breath after breath, her heart pounding wildly.
She was lying on something soft.
Not stone.
Not cold earth.
Fabric. Cushions. A bed.
Voices surrounded her now—real, clear, urgent.
"She's awake!"
"She fainted—get water!"
Freya blinked rapidly, disoriented. The ceiling above her was unfamiliar, carved wood instead of stone. Sunlight streamed in through tall windows, warm against her skin.
Her body felt… small.
Light.
Unburdened.
She lifted her hands slowly, staring at them in shock.
They were unmarked.
No scars. No restraints. No lingering pain.
Her breath trembled.
"I—" Her voice cracked. It sounded younger. Softer.
A woman leaned into view, her expression tight with worry. "Easy, Freya. You cried too much. You collapsed at the graveside."
The words settled slowly.
Collapsed.
Graveside.
Her father.
This life.
Freya swallowed hard.
"How old am I?" she whispered.
The woman frowned slightly. "Eighteen, child. You frightened us."
Eighteen.
The same age.
But everything was different.
Freya closed her eyes, pressing her palm against her chest. Her heart beat steadily beneath her skin—strong, alive.
I'm back.
The realization crashed into her with overwhelming force.
She had been given another chance.
Not by mercy.
By fate.
Her jaw tightened as memory and understanding aligned at last.
This was the day her father was buried.
The day her world had once begun to fall apart.
But now…
Now, it was the day everything changed.
Freya sat up slowly, ignoring the protests around her. A calm settled over her—deep, resolute, unlike anything she had known before.
She was not the same girl.
Not anymore.
She remembered what awaited her if she made the same choices. She remembered the cost of ignoring destiny. She remembered the price of loyalty offered to the wrong people.
And she remembered the vow she had made in the dark.
Her fingers curled into the sheets.
"I will not repeat my fate," she said quietly.
The words were not meant for the room.
They were meant for the universe.
She would wait for her mate.
She would recognize him when the bond awakened.
She would not trade herself for power again.
And those who had betrayed her?
Freya's gaze hardened.
They would answer for it—this time, on her terms.
Somewhere far beyond the pack's borders, the Autumn stirred.
Arthur opened his eyes with an unexplainable sense of loss—and something else.
Hope.