Knots of the Hybrid Queen: Claimed by Four Alphas

Chapter 77: Remembering

Marcus’s funeral was the forty-fourth I’d attended since becoming Hybrid Queen and I was running out of ways to process grief that didn’t involve completely shutting down, which probably wasn’t sustainable but neither was feeling every death like it was personal. ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm

Except this one was personal. Marcus had been there from the beginning. Had coordinated our battles. Had believed in the alliance when it was just desperate hope.

And he’d died defending it while I was fighting The Root.

"He knew the risks." Isabelle’s voice came quiet from beside me. "He chose to stay. Chose to defend. That was his decision."

His decision. Right. Except if I’d been here instead of sealed in a prison maybe he’d still be alive.

"You were saving reality." She continued like she could hear my spiral. "Fighting The Root. Killing it permanently. Marcus knew that. He was proud to hold the line while you finished it."

Proud to hold the line. That should have made it better. Didn’t.

The pyre burned and I watched forty-three more fires join the one hundred thirty-six in my memory, and tried not to focus on how the count kept climbing.

"You’re thinking like you did before." Kael’s voice was quiet. "Like you’re still the desperate survivor trying to keep everyone alive. But Selene—" He pulled me against his side. "You’re not that person anymore. You spent thirty years fighting The Root. Thirty years mastering your power. You’re different now."

Different now. Right. Except I’d spent thirty years as consciousness fighting in a prison and only three months had passed here, and my brain was struggling to reconcile the two timelines.

I had thirty years of combat experience. Thirty years of tactical knowledge. Thirty years of growth.

But my body was only three months older. Still twenty-one physically. Just with the mind of someone who’d fought for decades.

The disconnect was disorienting.

"We’re all adjusting." Draven’s clinical assessment. "Thirty subjective years compressed into three months real time. Our consciousness aged while our bodies didn’t. That’s—" He paused. "That’s unprecedented. We’re figuring it out."

Figuring it out. Right. One day at a time. One funeral at a time. One decision at a time.

The alliance gathered after the funeral for what Morgana was calling "restructuring discussions" but what really meant figuring out if we were still an alliance or just one hundred seven survivors camping in ruins.

"The Fae are gone." One of the visiting Alphas—I think his name was Derek but thirty years of memories were making recent names fuzzy. "The Root is dead. The demon binding is broken. What’s left to ally against?"

What’s left. Right. We’d formed this alliance to fight specific threats and now those threats were gone.

"Each other." My voice cut across the debate and everyone turned to look at me. "We ally against isolation. Against going back to separate packs and covens and councils that don’t talk to each other. We’ve proven supernatural factions can work together. We don’t dissolve that because the immediate crisis ended."

Don’t dissolve it. Right. Because unity was stronger than separation even without demons.

"What does that look like?" Another Alpha. "Long-term. What’s the structure?"

The structure. Good question. We’d been running on crisis management and desperate improvisation for months.

"Independent stronghold." The answer came from the thirty years of tactical thinking. "Self-sufficient. No external factions controlling us. We share resources. Share knowledge. Share defense. But we’re not beholden to anyone. Not packs. Not covens. Not courts. Just us."

Just us. One hundred seven fighters choosing to stay together because unity worked.

"I’m in." Isabelle’s voice first. "Marcus died defending this. I’m not letting that be for nothing."

"Agreed." Another voice. Then another. Then twenty more.

By the end of the discussion ninety-three of the one hundred seven had voted to stay. Fourteen were leaving—going back to their original packs, their families, their old lives.

Ninety-three. The same number we’d lost to the demons. The symmetry was either meaningful or coincidental and I was too tired to figure out which.

"We rebuild starting tomorrow." Kael’s Alpha command filling the space. "Clear the ruins. Salvage what we can. Build new structures. Anyone staying, you’re here to work. Anyone leaving, you have three days to settle affairs."

Three days. Right. Time to say goodbye to the fourteen who’d decided one hundred thirty-six deaths was enough.

That night I found myself alone with all four mates in the one intact building—a storage shed that was now serving as temporary leadership quarters—and the silence was heavy with thirty years of things we hadn’t processed.

"How are you actually doing?" Riven’s question directed at all of us. "Really. Not Hybrid Queen political answer. Real answer."

Real answer. That was—I didn’t even know where to start.

"I have thirty years of memories." The words came out before I could stop them. "Thirty years of fighting The Root. Learning its patterns. Mastering temporal magic. Strategizing with you three through the bonds. I remember all of it. Every day. Every battle. Every moment of thinking we might fail."

Every moment. Thirty years compressed into three months of real time.

"But my body is still twenty-one." I continued. "Still physically the same as when we went in. The disconnect is—" I couldn’t finish because I didn’t have words for what it was.

"Disorienting." Draven finished. "Our consciousness aged three decades. Our bodies didn’t. We’re temporally displaced from ourselves."

Temporally displaced. Right. That was one way to put it.

"Do you regret it?" Thorne’s question was direct. "The prison. The thirty years. Do you wish we’d done something different?"

Did I regret it. That was— ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

"No." The answer was immediate. Certain. "We killed The Root. Permanently. Saved reality. And we were together. I don’t regret any of it. I just—" I had to stop. "I just wish the cost wasn’t so high."

The cost. One hundred thirty-six dead. Forty-three more during the Fae attack. An alliance in ruins.

"We make it worth it." Kael’s voice was firm. "We rebuild. We make this alliance into something that lasts. Something that makes their sacrifice mean something."

Make their sacrifice mean something. Right. By building something better than what we’d had before.

Through the bonds I felt all four of them with thirty years of unified combat experience, and maybe—maybe we actually could do this.

Maybe surviving was the first step. Rebuilding was the second.

And maybe eventually we’d find something that looked like peace.