The night air shimmered with silver torchlight, casting wavering patterns along the carved stone walls of the Lestrange Stronghold. Banners bearing the crest of the crescent wolf fluttered above the great hall, while drums echoed across the valley—steady, rhythmic, like the pulse of the pack itself.
It was meant to be a night of celebration.
Helene’s Moon-Day—the day she officially ascended as Chief Healer of the Circle—had drawn every noble wolf, every merchant lord, and every envoy from the allied clans. Tables groaned beneath roasted stag and honeyed mead. The scent of spice and smoke mingled with fur and perfume. Laughter rose high, mingled with the clinking of goblets.
Yet for all the splendor, Alpha Myron Lestrange could not feel at ease.
Something was wrong.
He sat beside Helene at the high table, surrounded by elders and advisors, yet his gaze kept drifting beyond the crowd—past the dancers, past the glittering chandeliers—toward the open archway that led into the night. He searched for one face that was nowhere to be found.
Savina.
Her absence hung like frost in his chest. She should have been there, radiant in her Luna’s silver mantle, greeting guests at his side. Instead, her seat remained empty, untouched.
“Myron,” Helene’s voice purred beside him, soft and honeyed. She slipped her arm through his, tilting her head with practiced sweetness. “You’re distracted. Are you looking for Savina again? Has she started brooding?”
The name scraped against his temper. He frowned, irritation flickering behind his dark eyes. That did sound like Savina—stubborn, prideful, impossible to please.
His expression hardened, his tone edged with contempt.
“What right does she have to brood? If she wants to sulk, let her. The world doesn’t stop turning for her moods.”
Helene laughed softly—a low, melodious sound that seemed to soothe the surrounding tension. She tugged at his sleeve, her golden hair brushing against his arm.
“Don’t waste your night on her. Come, everyone’s waiting for you. It’s your presence they honor, not hers.”
Obliging, Myron rose. Together they reentered the great hall, where hundreds of eyes turned toward them with reverence. The Alpha of the Lestrange bloodline—strong, unshakable—and the radiant healer newly elevated to power. Myron greeted each clan elder, his hand steady as steel, securing alliances and favors with each handshake, each diplomatic smile.
But the unease never left him.
The moon hung full and heavy above, and somewhere beneath its glow, a whisper gnawed at him—a pull he refused to acknowledge.
Then an elder at the head table raised a goblet, his laughter booming.
“Lord Lestrange! Are you planning to replace your Luna already? A Moon-Day feast and a healer’s promotion—it all feels rather domestic, doesn’t it?”
The jest rippled through the room like wildfire. Laughter followed—sharp, gleeful, mocking.
Helene flushed, lowering her gaze in feigned shyness. Her fingers brushed against Myron’s, waiting, silently urging him to respond—to make their closeness official in front of everyone.
Myron opened his mouth—
—and a sound cut through the night.
A deep, resonant howl that did not belong to wolf or wind, but to something older. It rolled down from the valley cliffs, long and hollow, making the very walls of the fortress tremble.
The laughter died instantly.
Then came the second sound—booming, rhythmic, amplified by the horn-stones of the funeral guild.
“Lord Lestrange! We are here to hold a burial for your kin!”
Every wolf in the hall froze.
Outside, the courtyard blazed with motion. Over a hundred mourning wagons had arrived—black, grim, drawn by skeletal steeds whose eyes glowed faintly blue. Cloaked figures marched beside them, draped in gray garments of grief. Funeral horns wailed low and sorrowful, echoing across the mountain like the cry of the dead.
The wind carried the scent of incense and ash.
Myron’s heart dropped. His face went pale, rigid as stone. He pushed through the crowd and stormed down the steps, the guests following in stunned silence.
“Who ordered this?” he roared, his voice splitting the night. “Who dares bring such omens to my gates?!”
The leader of the mourners—a weary old wolf with white hair and trembling hands—stepped forward, bowing deeply. “My lord, we were summoned by Lady Savina Lestrange. She instructed us to arrive this night and hold the burial for your child. Where shall we lay the ashes?”
The words struck like thunder.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. The nobles exchanged glances, murmurs rising like static.
Indeed—there had been no sight of the young Alonzo for days. Nor of his mother.
Myron stood frozen. For a moment, he heard nothing but the pounding of his pulse.
Then Helene stepped forward, fury blazing in her eyes. “Lies!” she spat. “Lord Myron’s cub is under my care, receiving the best healing in the Circle. You insolent fools—this is blasphemy!”
She turned to Myron, her voice trembling, softening into hurt. “Myron, I told you—this is Savina’s doing. She’s jealous, jealous that you treat me kindly. She’s trying to shame us on my Moon-Day.”
Her hands reached for his arm. “You know I would never harm your son. Don’t you believe me?”
For a heartbeat, uncertainty flickered in Myron’s gaze—then vanished.
“Of course I believe you,” he said flatly.
He turned toward the mourners, his voice like ice. “There is no funeral here. Leave this ground before I burn your wagons to ash.”
But the old wolf only bowed lower, shaking his head. “Forgive us, my lord, but Lady Savina paid in blood-oath. We must fulfill her command. She ordered us to circle your hold one hundred times—no more, no less.”
And with that, the mourning procession moved again.
The horns bellowed, deeper, louder, until the sound swallowed the valley itself.
Inside the hall, the walls quaked with it. Wine spilled. Goblets shattered.
Helene’s composure broke. Tears streaked her face, anger twisting her beauty.
“Myron!” she cried. “This was supposed to be my night! Look at this disgrace! When word spreads, the whole Circle will laugh at me!”
She turned to flee, but Myron caught her arm, pulling her close. “Don’t be upset,” he murmured, voice strained. “I’ll handle it.”
From the back, one of the elders called out, “Alpha, if this is truly Lady Savina’s command—then summon her! End this madness!”
“Yes,” another added. “Call her through the bond. If this is a misunderstanding, clear it now!”
Myron hesitated, his throat tight. Slowly, he reached inside his cloak and withdrew the bondstone—the crystal that once linked his spirit to hers.
Its faint pulse still carried the echo of her aura.
He stared at it for a long, silent moment—then pressed his thumb to the rune and called her across the spirit link.
The bondstone flared faintly in his hand, the rune glowing with pale moonlight. A whisper, distant yet familiar, brushed against Myron’s mind—Savina’s scent, her heartbeat, her voice echoing from somewhere far beyond reach.
But when he reached deeper, the connection shuddered… and shattered.
She had severed it!
