Chapter 151: Seren’s Mediation
The morning room was bright with sunlight.
Seren had chosen it deliberately; neutral ground, far from Rowan’s quarters and Lysa’s chambers. A place where no one had history. A place where they could start fresh.
Iris sat on the window seat, her arms crossed, her eyes fixed on the garden below. Lysa sat on the couch, her hands folded in her lap, her posture rigid. Between them, Seren sat in a high-backed chair.
"Thank you for coming," Seren began. "Both of you."
Iris said nothing. Lysa nodded.
"I asked you here because I’ve been where both of you are." Seren’s voice was calm, measured. "I’ve been the daughter who lost a parent. And I’ve been the woman trying to earn a place in a family that didn’t want her."
Iris’s jaw tightened. "You don’t know anything about me."
"I know you’re thirteen. I know your mother died. I know your father wasn’t there." Seren leaned forward. "I also know that you’re angry. Not at Lysa, at the world. At the unfairness of losing someone you loved."
Iris’s eyes glistened, but she didn’t look away.
"And Lysa," Seren continued, "I know you’re trying. I know you’re afraid of making things worse. I know you’re walking on a tightrope with no net."
Lysa swallowed. "I don’t want to replace her mother."
"Then don’t." Iris’s voice was sharp. "You can’t. She was mine. Not yours."
"I know." Lysa met her eyes. "I’m not trying to take her from you. I’m trying to find a place for myself. Not beside her; beside your father. And maybe, someday, beside you."
Seren stood and walked to the window.
"I lost my father when I was young," she said quietly. "Not to death—to indifference. He was a human who married a wolf. When she died, he couldn’t face what she had become. Couldn’t face me."
Iris’s expression flickered.
"I spent years hating him. Years wishing he would come back. Years wishing he would just *disappear* so I could stop hoping." Seren turned to face them. "When my mother remarried, not to a wolf, to a human—I hated him too. On principle. Because he wasn’t my father. Because he was trying to take a place that wasn’t his."
"What changed?" Iris asked.
"Nothing. And everything." Seren sat on the arm of the couch. "He never tried to replace my father. He never pretended to be something he wasn’t. He just... stayed. He showed up. He made breakfast and asked about my day and waited. For years, he waited."
Iris’s hands unclenched. "Did you ever love him?"
"I learned to. Slowly. Painfully. Not as a father—as a friend. As someone who loved my mother and wanted the best for me." Seren looked at Lysa. "That’s what Lysa is offering you. Not a mother. A friend. Someone who loves your father and wants to know you."
Then, Lysa turned to face her.
"Iris, I’m not going to pretend I understand what you’ve lost. I don’t. My mother is alive. My father died when I was young, but I never watched him suffer. I never held his hand while he faded."
She paused.
"But I know what it’s like to be alone. To feel like no one sees you. To want someone to just *stay*."
Iris’s voice cracked. "My father didn’t stay."
"No. He didn’t. But he’s trying now. And I’m trying. " Lysa’s eyes were wet. "We’re all just trying, Iris. None of us knows what we’re doing. But we’re here. And we’re not leaving."
Iris looked at Seren. "You said accepting a stepparent isn’t betraying your dead parent."
"It’s not."
"How do you know?"
Seren touched her locket. "Because my mother’s husband never asked me to forget my father. He asked me to remember him. To tell stories about him. To keep him alive in my heart." She met Iris’s eyes. "Your mother loved you. She wanted you to be happy. She didn’t want you to be alone forever."
Iris’s tears spilled over.
"She used to sing to me. Off-key. Every night before bed."
"That’s a good memory."
"It’s the only one I have." Iris wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I don’t want to lose it."
"You won’t." Seren handed her a handkerchief. "Memories don’t disappear when new people enter your life. They just... make room."
The silence stretched.
Iris looked at Lysa. "I’m not ready to pretend we’re family."
"I know."
"But I’m tired of being angry." Iris’s voice was barely a whisper. "It’s exhausting. And it doesn’t bring her back."
Lysa nodded. "What do you want to do?"
"I want to stay. At the palace. For a month." Iris looked at Seren. "If that’s allowed."
Seren smiled. "It’s allowed."
"And I want..." Iris hesitated. "I want to get to know you. Not as a mother. Just... as a person."
Lysa’s tears fell. "I would like that."
They sat in silence, the sunlight warm on their faces.
Not friends. Not family. Not yet.
But no longer enemies.
Rowan was waiting outside.
When Iris came out, he searched her face for signs of damage. "Are you alright?"
"I’m fine."
"She didn’t—"
"Father." Iris met his eyes. "I’m fine. Can I see the gardens now? The real ones? Not the ones by the fountain."
Rowan blinked. "Of course."
He offered his arm. After a moment, Iris took it.
They walked away together, father and daughter, taking the first steps toward something new.
Lysa watched from the window.
Seren stood beside her. "That went well."
"She still hates me."
"She doesn’t hate you. She’s grieving." Seren took her hand. "Grief looks like hatred sometimes. Give her time."
"I will."
"And patience."
"I’ll try."
Seren squeezed her hand. "That’s all anyone can do."
That night, Lysa wrote in her journal.
*Iris is staying for a month. She doesn’t like me. She doesn’t trust me. But she’s here. And I’m here. And maybe that’s enough for now.*
*Healing is not a straight line.*
*But it’s a line.*
*And we’re walking it.*
She closed the journal and went to find Rowan.
The garden was quiet. The fountain splashed. He was sitting on the stone bench, staring at the stars.
"She asked about you," he said. "After the walk. She asked what you were like."
"What did you say?"
"That you’re kind. That you’re brave. That you make me want to be better. Just as I have told her before."
Lysa sat beside him. "That’s a lot of pressure."
"It’s the truth." He took her hand. "Thank you. For trying. For staying."
"I’m not going anywhere."
They sat in silence, the moon rising, the night jasmine blooming.
The month ahead would be hard.
But they would face it together.
