The banquet hall had turned heavy with unease.
Even the firelight in the great iron braziers seemed to flicker lower, as if afraid to linger too long on the gathered wolves.
When Theron Moonfall returned, escorted by his retinue of elders, his expression was already carved into something severe. The moment he heard what had transpired, his hand struck the carved stone armrest beside him.
“Wicked child,” he said, voice trembling with fury. “The moment you return, you bring nothing but disgrace upon this house.”
Lyra stood still beneath the carved rafters, the Moonstone crest above her casting a pale glow over her face.
For a brief moment, she simply looked at him.
Not pleading.
Not angry.
Just empty.
Morwen, standing beside Theron like a shadow that had learned to smile, gently placed a hand on his arm.
“Do not be so harsh,” she said softly, though her eyes carried no warmth. “Lyra, today is your father’s name-day. You forgot to bring an offering, and now you’ve caused him further distress. Please… do not anger him further.”
That only fed the fire.
Theron’s eyes darkened.
“Even Virella understands what is proper,” he said sharply. “After everything I have given you, this is what you have become? An ungrateful child who knows only how to wound her own house?”
The words fell like stones.
Lyra felt something tighten in her chest—slow, suffocating.
Seven months beneath iron wards and cold stone.
Seven months of silence, of humiliation, of being called less than wolf.
And now, the first judgment she received upon returning was not relief.
But disappointment over a forgotten offering.
She exhaled once, steadying herself.
“Am I,” she said quietly, “so unimportant that even a simple offering matters more than my return?”
Theron’s face twisted.
“Silence!”
His palm struck her.
The force sent her stumbling back against the stone floor. The hall echoed with the sound—sharp, final, unquestioned.
Pain bloomed across her cheek, but Lyra did not lower her gaze.
She lifted it instead.
Straight at him.
“Father,” she said, voice shaking only slightly, “if Mother were here… she would despise what you have become.”
For a heartbeat, the hall froze.
Theron’s expression flickered—something uncertain, something buried.
But Morwen stepped closer, voice gentle as falling snow.
“Lyra,” she murmured, “you are hurting yourself with such thoughts. If Selene were here, she would only wish for peace within the pack. She would want your father to be happy.”
Just like that, the hesitation vanished.
Theron exhaled, as though soothed by the idea.
“You are right,” he said quietly. “Selene would understand.”
Then his gaze returned to Lyra—cold again, settled again.
“Do not bring your mother into this,” he said. “She would be ashamed to see you like this.”
And with that, he turned away.
Morwen followed.
Virella’s absence was not even questioned.
As if Lyra alone had always been the problem that needed removing.
Whispers spread quickly after that.
Some amused.
Some pitiful.
Most already decided.
Lyra did not respond to any of them.
She simply stood, unmoving, while the hall continued to breathe without her.
It was only later that Ronan came.
His scent reached her before his voice did—familiar, once grounding, now unbearably distant.
“Lyra.”
She turned slowly.
He stood at the edge of the hall, framed by torchlight and carved stone, his expression tight with restraint.
“You caused Virella distress,” he said. “Come with me. Apologize.”
The words landed flat.
Not a question.
Not a request.
A command shaped by certainty.
Something inside Lyra tightened painfully, but she did not step back.
“I did nothing wrong,” she said.
Ronan’s jaw flexed.
“Lyra,” he said more firmly, “this is not about pride. Virella has been preparing for this gathering since your release. You know what she endured for it. Yet you still—”
He stopped.
Because Lyra was crying.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just silently, as though her body had finally betrayed what she had been holding back for too long.
Ronan froze.
For a moment, something old passed through his eyes.
Memory.
A girl beneath moonlight, laughing as she ran through pack grounds. A girl who used to fall asleep leaning against him after training under the full moon. A girl who once believed the world would always make sense.
His voice softened, almost unwillingly.
“Why are you crying like this?”
Lyra lifted her head.
Her eyes were red, but steady.
“Ronan,” she said, voice breaking only at the edges, “if someone insulted your mother… would you apologize for it?”
Silence.
He did not answer.
That silence was answer enough.
Lyra let out a short, bitter breath.
“I will not apologize,” she said. “Not to Virella. Not for this.”
Ronan’s expression darkened.
Even the softness vanished.
“You cannot distinguish right from wrong anymore,” he said coldly. “That was Bella’s doing, not Virella’s. Stop twisting everything to suit your feelings.”
Lyra looked at him for a long moment.
As if searching.
As if hoping—foolishly—that something inside him would still answer her.
Then she spoke, very quietly.
“Ronan… did you do this on purpose?”
A pause.
The air between them tightened.
“Did you make sure I would be here,” she continued, “knowing exactly what would happen?”
His eyes flickered.
Just for a moment.
It was small.
But she saw it.
And something inside her went hollow.
Ronan quickly recovered, his voice lowering as if to smooth over what had been revealed.
“The matter of your imprisonment cannot be ignored,” he said. “It was necessary for people to see your release. To understand the truth of what happened with Virella.”
He hesitated.
Then added, more carefully:
“Once this settles, our bond will remain intact. Nothing changes between us.”
Lyra almost laughed.
It came out as nothing more than breath.
“How many times,” she said slowly, “do I have to say it before you believe me?”
Her voice steadied.
“I did not do it.”
Her gaze sharpened.
“It was Virella.”
A pause.
“And none of you… not one… ever believed me.”
Something in her cracked open fully then.
Not loudly.
Just irreversibly.
A faint smile touched her lips, sharp and exhausted.
“Ronan,” she said, “let us end the bond.”
He stared at her.
“What?”
“I said,” Lyra repeated, clearer this time, “I am releasing you from our engagement. You may bind yourself to Virella instead.”
For the first time, anger broke through his composure.
“This is not something you decide in anger,” he said sharply. “We have been bound since youth. Do you think you can simply sever it like this?”
Lyra’s voice remained calm.
“I am not angry,” she said. “I am simply giving you what you have already chosen.”
“I only see Virella as—”
His words broke off.
A summons stone in his sleeve pulsed faintly, humming with pack sigil resonance.
He glanced at it.
Then at the name that appeared within its glow.
Virella.
His expression softened immediately.
As if the argument had already ended in his mind.
Without another word, he turned and walked away.
Toward her.
Lyra watched him go.
Watched the distance widen without effort, without hesitation.
Around her, the hall continued its celebration—voices, music, ritual laughter beneath Moonstone banners.
But none of it reached her anymore.
Slowly, Lyra lowered her gaze.
She inhaled once.
Steady.
Controlled.
Then she turned away from the banquet hall that no longer felt like home.
And she did not look back.
