At the Blackwood Council’s assembly, Alpha Lucian Blackwood finally answered her mooncall—but only after confirming the pulse on the rune mirror truly belonged to Lyra Wolfhart.
“Lyra,” his voice came through the enchanted glass, smooth but glacial. “Three years ago, you did everything you could to protect Alpha Darius. You blocked my link. You cut off all contact. You even ordered me to leave Frostmere Territory. And now, suddenly, you’ve changed your mind?”
He gave a low, humorless laugh. “What happened? Your Alpha didn’t give you what you wanted?”
The grand chamber fell utterly silent. None of the pack elders dared to breathe too loudly.
In Gravenridge and Lycanthra, two bloodlines ruled above all others—the Blackwoods and the Wolfharts.
And every wolf in the realm knew the story of Lucian and Lyra. They had grown up together, both descendants of noble lunar clans. Everyone thought they would one day rise as the perfect Alpha pair—the kind born under the same moon.
When Lyra left her pack to study at Frostmere Academy, Lucian had followed, expanding his trading empire through the northern packlands.
But three years ago, he’d returned home without warning—rumor said he came back with a shattered bondmark and a broken heart.
Now, hearing the edge in his tone, Lyra replied evenly, “Yeah. I couldn’t tell the difference between a wolf and a jackal.”
That earned a scoff from the other end, the sound sharp and dismissive.
Taking the hint, Lyra didn’t argue. “Forget it,” she said coolly. “Pretend I never called.”
She was just about to sever the moonlink when his voice came through again—low, commanding, carrying the weight of an Alpha’s dominance.
“Don’t you dare, Lyra.”
There was a pause, heavy with tension, before he continued, “Rebind our link. On every channel. And send me your den’s location.”
“One moon,” he added firmly. “I’ll come to Frostmere myself to bring you back. This time, you don’t get to change your mind.”
The sheer confidence in his voice made Lyra laugh quietly, almost in disbelief. “Alright,” she said.
Later, in the Alpha’s study, Lyra placed two parchments into the silver-bound safe—her resignation from the MoonCorp and the dissolution decree, both sealed with Darius’s mark.
Then, she drew out a glass vial filled with soft, gray ash—the remains of ninety-nine moon-parchments she’d written to him over the years.
She uncorked the bottle, letting the faint scent of burnt moon parchment fill the air and took out the old soulstones—crystals that once held memories of them together.
One by one, she dropped them into the fire rune.
The flames flickered high, golden at first, then dimmed to silver-blue—the color of waning affection.
With each fragment consumed, another piece of hope turned to dust.
When the jar was finally full, so was her disappointment.
Moments later, Darius returned to the chamber. The sharp scent of smoke pricked his senses, making his wolf stir uneasily.
“What are you burning?” he demanded.
Lyra shifted slightly, blocking his view of the rune brazier. “Just some old papers,” she replied, her voice calm but cold.
Darius’s brows drew together. Through the smoke, he glimpsed something charred—maybe the outline of a crystal photo, or perhaps parchment.
But before he could get closer, a woman’s soft, teary voice called from the hallway.
Just like that, Darius turned on his heel and rushed out while Lyra quickly finished tidying up and followed him out.
At the threshold, she saw him holding Mireille’s hand, his mouth brushing against her fingertip as he drew away a single drop of blood. His eyes were filled with tenderness Lyra had never seen turned her way.
“I’m so sorry, Lyra,” Mireille said sweetly, her voice laced with false innocence. “I didn’t mean to bother you this late.”
“But the portrait on the wall…” she added quickly, feigning a wince, “It’s hung too low. I scratched my finger on the frame. It’s really dangerous.”
Lyra’s wolf stirred, not from jealousy but from scorn.
That portrait’s been hanging there for three years without harming a soul. And now, the first day she walks in—it just happens to ‘cut’ her? Wow.
No, the problem wasn’t the picture. It was the bride frozen inside it.
But before Lyra could respond, Darius cut in sharply, his tone carrying the weight of command.
“She’s right. That portrait’s in the way. Lyra, have someone take it down and move it to the storage room.”
Out of Darius’s line of sight, Mireille cast Lyra a triumphant little smirk—a silent declaration of war.
Lyra might no longer love Darius, but she wasn’t about to make things easy for the usurper who’d stolen her place under his moon.
“The storage vault’s already full,” she said flatly. “There’s no space left.”
Her quiet defiance made the Alpha’s jaw tighten.
Mireille, ever the actress, drew in a small, pitiful gasp, clutching her barely scratched finger as if she’d been mauled by a direwolf. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
“Ouch… Darius… it really hurts.”
That was all it took for Darius to snap at her.
“Then burn those damn portraits!”
