Chapter 3

The Valley Where Wind Speaks Professor Christopher was the only person who'd ever dared criticize Xethes publicly. He'd been my thesis advisor years ago, before my life contracted into those palace halls. At pack gatherings, he'd openly questioned Xethes' "management approach." While other academics gave sympathetic nods, Chris actually spoke truth aloud. When I appeared at his door in the pre-dawn darkness—still wearing my travel clothes, my eyes hollow from two days of walking—he asked only one question. "How long do you need to begin again?" He sent me to Windvale Research Station, a remote facility nestled deep in mountain gorges. The team there was studying geothermal energy deposits, assessing their ecological impact. The work was brutal. Navigating through caverns where stone scraped skin. Traversing mudflats that sucked at boots. Collecting samples during nights cold enough to crystallize breath. Nobody cared that I'd been a Luna. I was just "the newcomer," struggling through basic survival training. But something unexpected happened. I realized I hadn't actually lost myself. I'd been a competent geologist once, before the palace. The technical knowledge was still there, encoded in my hands, my eyes, my instincts. When I examined layered stone walls, I saw what others missed—color variations indicating mineral densities, fractures suggesting water flow patterns, crystalline striations that read like geological history. The team leader was Marcus—mid-fifties, with a gaze that demanded excellence and offered nothing but fairness. One day, I correctly predicted an underground water channel's direction using only rock formation analysis. At the team briefing that evening, Marcus made an announcement that shifted something fundamental in me. "Leya has exceptional understanding of subsurface structural dynamics. Everyone listens to her geological assessments from now on. That's not a suggestion." The recognition was different from anything Xethes had offered. This wasn't performative praise. Marcus cared only about what I could actually accomplish. For the first time in five years, I was valued for my genuine capability. The peace lasted two weeks. Xethes arrived on an afternoon when storm clouds gathered above the valley. He wore his expensive wolf-fur coat, and Veda followed like a shadow behind him. He hadn't even removed his polished boots before addressing me. "Your performance art has continued long enough," he announced, his voice superficially pleasant but fundamentally empty. "It's time to come home. The public is noticing the Luna's absence. Gossip accumulates." I didn't acknowledge him. I continued cataloging my rock samples. The dismissal infuriated him. "As punishment," he declared, "I'm rescinding Norton's warrior honors. His name will be permanently removed from all pack records." He expected anguish. Expected me to break. But a young geologist named James suddenly stood. "I... I heard Norton was already buried?" His question came uncertainly. "About a month ago?" Silence dropped across the entire encampment. Xethes' expression shifted—confusion, then calculation, then something approaching horror. He turned to Veda for explanation. She started stammering, contradicting herself. Finally, one of his attendants spoke the truth with devastating clarity. Norton's funeral had happened a month ago. Veda had decided everything alone, without waiting for Xethes' authorization. She'd determined how his body would be buried. I saw understanding bloom on Xethes' face—the realization that Veda had undermined his authority so thoroughly that he'd become irrelevant to decisions supposedly under his control. He opened his mouth to speak. I'd already turned away. I walked back to the research tents without looking at him. I didn't acknowledge any explanation he might attempt. I simply disappeared into the darkness, leaving him standing among researchers who'd suddenly become very busy with immediate tasks. For the first time, he understood something: I was beyond his reach.