Chapter Two-Hundred-And-Eighteen
**3rd Person POV**
Reginald though was not the type to dwell on such things. He was the heir apparent of his father. One day, he would inherit the throne of one of the strongest packs in the entire werewolf clan. So he could not allow his mind to dwell long on women, especially a woman committed to another. The same was true for Harlin. The three were discussing their plans to travel to Dome. They had outlined the possible reasons a vampire kingdom had invited them to a wedding when they had no prior relationship. It was even strange because the two clans had a relationship of distrust.
“It would not be so strange if they had invited the Dark Moon pack alone. I know Lady Tristan's father was a vampire,” said Reginald.
“Do you think this is a trap? We're all heirs. If we attend this wedding and they hold us as hostages or end our lives…” Charlotte allowed her voice to derail. Reginald and Harlin shuddered at the possibility.
“If they do that they risk an all-out war with the entire werewolf clan. I doubt they would want to risk that,” said Reginald.
They could only hope.
*****
Harlin had one personal assignment before he could leave the pack. He wanted to know more than anything else he wanted to see Aunt Irene before he left. He suspected that she had never left the palace. He had observed that at a certain time of the day, Aunt Alison would disappear and when she returned she usually had a depressed face. He had asked her one day if he could visit Aunt Irene. After all, according to her, Aunt Irene was getting better where she had gone for her treatment. His aunt had struggled to keep her face from disintegrating into a frown. She had told him that Irene would be home very soon but very soon was still nowhere in sight.
On this particular day, he tailed his aunt's movement hoping that she would lead him to Aunt Irene. Aunt Irene had been there for him when Aunt Alison was too busy with running the pack. She had been the one to tuck him in bed and read him bedtime stories. She was the one who had been there when he had said his first words and when he had stood on his feet for the first time. He and Aunt Irene shared a special bond and he was afraid to think that death would sever that bond. He knew if anything happened to Aunt Irene while he was away in Dome, he would regret not having seen her one last time. He was finally able to see where Aunt Alison slunk into.
He should have known that when Alison told him to stay away from this place as Irene's sickness had become communicable and traces of it were still in the air, she had been lying. He held no grudge against her for doing so. He knew that if the situations were reversed, he would do the same.
He hid himself and waited for the right time. When Alison left the room and he was sure she was out of sight, he slipped into the room.
Harlin stepped into the dimly lit chamber, and his breath caught in his throat. The air was thick with the scent of damp herbs and sickness, a cruel mixture that did little to mask the stench of decay. His aunt, Irene, lay motionless on the narrow cot, her once-vibrant face drained of all colour. The only sign of life was the faint rise and fall of her chest, each breath shallow as if even the act of living had become a burden too great to bear.
Her skin, once smooth and warm, was now pale as wax, stretched too thin over the sharp ridges of her bones. Little boils covered her arms and neck, angry and swollen, some of them burst open, leaving dark, crusted trails against her fragile skin. Sweat clung to her forehead, matting strands of her once-lustrous hair, now dull and brittle.
Harlin felt his heart shatter at the sight. He moved to her side, sinking to his knees beside the cot, his trembling hands reaching for hers. Her fingers were cold, limp in his grasp, and he clutched them desperately as tears welled in his eyes.
"Aunt Irene," he choked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Please, stay with me. Be strong... I know it's hard, but—" His voice faltered, breaking under the weight of his sorrow. His tears fell onto her hand, but she did not stir. She lay still, caught in the grasp of whatever cruel illness had ravaged her body.
He knew he had to leave. Aunt Alison would soon come looking for him, and yet, he could not bring himself to pull away. His heart ached at the thought of leaving her alone in the dark, of her slipping away without him there.
But just as he was about to rise, he felt it—a weak, trembling pressure against his fingers. His breath hitched. He looked down in disbelief as Irene's frail hand clutched his with what little strength she had left.
Then, softly, barely above a breath, she spoke.
"Harlin."
His name, a whisper in the silence.
His tears came faster, and he grasped her hand tighter, pressing it against his forehead as relief and grief warred within him. "I'm here," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm right here."
“Your mother…” he heard her say. He placed his ear closer to her mouth hoping to catch what she was saying but her voice was so frail that he struggled to hear what she was trying to say.
“When you're all better you can tell me about my mother, okay?” he said to her. He had not grown up knowing his mother or remember seeing her but Aunt Irene and Alison would always tell him stories about his brave mother.
“No, no… she's there,” she struggled to be louder this time.
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