Page 53 of Fat Betrayed Mate
"The third trial begins at sunset," she announces when I open the door. "Despite current circumstances, the council has voted to proceed."
I bristle. "Elder Victoria, with everything happening—"
"Especially because of everything happening." Her pale eyes are steady, implacable. "Our traditions anchor us, child. Without them, we're just people hiding in the woods."
I want to argue that hiding in the woods sounds perfectly reasonable, given the armed hunters prowling our borders, but Maisie appears at my elbow, saving me from potential disrespect toward an elder.
"Hi, Elder Vic-toria! Are you here for the sleepover?"
Victoria's stern expression softens slightly. "Not today. But perhaps your mother and I can arrange something special for you this evening."
"She'll be fine with Luna," I say quickly. The last thing I need is Elder Victoria spending extended time with Maisie, whose every mannerism screams Thomas Ennes to anyone paying attention.
"Of course. Sunset, Fiona. The sacred Hollow."
After she leaves, I spend the day in a strange suspension between normalcy and dread. I help Maisie with her letters, we read stories, I braid her hair. Normal mother-daughter activities that feel surreal when I know I might be hours away from confessing truths that could shatter everything.
The Hollow sits at the heart of Silvercreek's territory, a natural amphitheater carved from living rock and ancient trees. It’s the space where, only weeks ago, my name was drawn in that cursed lottery. Moonlight filters through the canopy as I arrive, creating patterns of silver and shadow on the moss-covered ground. Thomas is already waiting, his broad shoulders tense beneath his shirt.
"Nervous?" he asks as I approach.
"Terrified," I admit, because honesty seems appropriate for a trial built around truth.
Elder Victoria emerges from the shadows, as if she has been part of the landscape all along. She carries a small brass bowl that gleams in the moonlight, filled with herbs that smell of sage and something sharper—wolfsbane, but the ceremonial kind that won't poison, only reveal.
"The Trial of Truth," she begins, her voice carrying the weight of generations, "requires participants to share the truths that have shaped them. Not secrets meant to harm, but the foundational experiences that made you who you are."
She lights the herbs, and fragrant smoke begins to curl between us. I feel something shift in the air—not magic exactly, but an awareness, like the forest itself is listening.
"The spirits of our ancestors witness your words," Victoria continues. "Lies spoken here will be known. Truth will be honored."
Thomas and I stand facing each other across the sacred fire, and I wonder if he can hear my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Thomas Ennes," Victoria says. "Speak your truth."
He's quiet for a long moment, staring into the flames. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, raw.
"I've spent six years on my own. Six years telling myself that loneliness was noble. I’m not sure I believe it anymore. I think that makes me weak." He looks up, meeting my eyes across the fire. "I've been with other people since then. Tried to make connections, build something real. But nothing ever felt right. Like I was going through the motions of a life instead of actuallyliving it. And so I crawled back to my loneliness every time, because it was… safer, there.”
The smoke between us seems to shimmer, and I catch the faint scent of pine and snow—Thomas's signature smell, but deeper somehow, layered with grief.
"I spent most of those years angry," he continues. "At the situation, at the choice I had to make, at the person I became because of it. But mostly, I was angry at myself for being too much of a coward to find another way."
My throat tightens. This isn't the confession I expected—no grand declarations or attempts to win me over. Just raw honesty about the cost of his choice.
"Truth is witnessed," Victoria says solemnly. "Fiona Wright."
I close my eyes, gathering courage I'm not sure I possess. When I open them, Thomas is watching me with an expression I can't quite read.
"My father spent my entire childhood teaching me that love was conditional," I begin, my voice steadier than I feel. "That acceptance came with a price, and that price was making yourself smaller. We knew our place. Most days, a part of me still feels like that little girl, you know. Knowing my place."
The words taste bitter, dredging up memories I've tried to bury.
"He isolated my mother from the pack she was born into, made excuses for why she couldn't attend gatherings, slowly cut her off from everyone who might support her. He convinced her she was lucky he tolerated what she was—unnatural, he called it. A freak of nature, he was generous enough to love despite her flaws."
Thomas's hands clench into fists at his sides, but he doesn't interrupt.
"When she got sick, he told her it was her own fault. That her 'unnatural' side was finally consuming her from the inside. She believed him." I pause, steadying myself. "After she died, that same treatment turned on me. Every aspect of my shifter nature was something to be ashamed of, something that made me difficult to love."
