Chapter 5

News of the broken bond spreads through the Silver Crest Pack like wildfire, leaping from cleaning servants to patrol lines in whispers of shock and horror.

A rejected mate is rare, but a rejected Alpha is practically unheard of.

By afternoon, the storm officially breaks.

My stepmother, Miriam, storms into the warriors' barracks, her face flushed a furious, crimson red as she begins screaming directly in my face. Her high-pitched voice echoes off the stone walls, sharp and grating.

"You ungrateful, selfish brat! You ruined your mate! Kaelen is the Alpha, and you dared to cast him aside over a school admission? Have you lost your mind?"

A school admission? Is that truly what everyone in this pack thinks this is about? Is that the lie Kaelen and his council are already spinning to protect his fragile ego?

"It wasn't just a school," I say, my voice flat as I sit on a wooden bench, slowly and methodically polishing my silver-hilted shortsword. I do not look up at her. "It was my life and my future. Yet, he stole it to give it to your daughter."

"Elara deserves a chance to shine!" Miriam sneers, stepping closer, her expensive wool cloak sweeping over the dusty floorboards. "She has a delicate soul, Celeste! You are nothing but a brute, a common soldier. You belong in the mud, Celeste. You always have, and you always will."

"Then let me stay in the mud," I reply, my voice dropping into a deadly, freezing calm.

I lift my blade and shear through a thick piece of scrap leather with a single, smooth stroke. The sharp, decisive sound of the metal cutting through the leather makes Miriam jump back, her breath hitching as her eyes dart to the polished steel.

"But remember this, Miriam," I continue, finally raising my eyes to lock onto hers. "When the winter borders fall and the wild rogue packs come hungry for our throat, it won't be Elara's pretty silk dresses or her weak, fading wolf keeping you alive. It won't be her tears that hold the line, it will be my blades."

Miriam’s face contorts with a volatile mixture of rage and sudden, cold fear. She wants to spit on me, to strike me, but she freezes. Because deep down, beneath her vanity and her greed, she knows I am right.

The Silver Crest Pack has enjoyed years of unprecedented peace and prosperity not because of Kaelen's diplomatic speeches, and certainly not because of the council’s endless meetings.

We have survived because our border patrol is ruthless, vigilant, and led by seasoned warriors like me who do not hesitate to shed their own blood—and the blood of our enemies—for every inch of our territory.

"Your father will hear of this," she spits, her voice trembling as she tries to reclaim her dominant posture. "He will strip you of your rank on the guard. You will be nothing but a common, nameless rogue by the time we are done with you! You will beg Kaelen to take you back on your hands and knees!"

"Let him try," I say.

I dismiss her, looking back down and continuing to hone the lethal edge of my shortsword with a whetstone. The rhythmic scraping sound fills the tense silence.

"My father knows exactly who keeps this family relevant in the eyes of the High King. If he throws me out to appease your vanity, he loses the only competent warrior carrying the Hart name. The rest of you are just parasites living off the reputation I built."

She shrieks in frustration, unable to find a counterargument. Turning on her heel, she storms out of the barracks, slamming the heavy wooden door behind her so hard the iron hinges groan and dust rattles down from the wooden rafters.

I let out a long, shaky breath, finally letting the tight tension in my shoulders drop.

The barracks are completely empty today. The other warriors are out on their afternoon training run, leaving me alone with nothing but the familiar, comforting scent of oiled steel, leather, and the quiet, heavy hum of my own thoughts.

Inside my head, Lyra is quiet. The fiery, chaotic thrashing from earlier has subsided, and she is now curled up in a tight, protective ball at the very edge of my consciousness.

She is mourning the loss of the bond—the physical ache of the empty space where Kaelen's soul used to brush against ours is a constant, throbbing wound—but she is not weak. She is a northern wolf.

And right now, she is angry. Just like me.

We don't need him, I whisper to her, my hand tightening around the hilt of my sword.

No, Lyra replies. Her voice is a low, resonant growl that vibrates through my bones, filling the empty spaces of my chest with a dark, primal heat. We are predators too, Celeste. We do not beg for scraps from the Alpha's table. If they will not give us our place, we will hunt and take what is ours.

I stand up, slipping my shortsword smoothly into its leather scabbard. My chest still aches with that dull, rhythmic, throbbing pain where the mate bond used to be, but I consciously push it down, locking it away in a dark corner of my mind.

Pain is just information. It tells you where you are hurt, where the strike landed, but it doesn't have to stop you from moving. It doesn't have to dictate your next step.

I grab my heavy leather training gear, buckling the guards over my forearms, and head toward the double doors leading to the main training field.

If my family and my pack want to treat me like a monster simply because I refused to let them strip away my worth, then I will show them exactly how terrifying a monster can be.

I will not play the quiet, grieving victim they expect. I will train harder, run faster, and fight bloodier. I will be the best warrior this territory has ever seen, and nothing less.

No one will ever be able to take anything from my hands again. I swear it on my blood, and I swear it on the moon.

_______

MILES AWAY IN THE ROYAL CAPITAL…

“Did you hear that?…The Alpha King…His wolf is howling!…Our Luna…Our Luna is coming!”