Chapter 111

Chapter 111: Chapter 111

One Month After the Showcase

The Astrlyn pack’s great hall had been draped in black.

Banners of mourning hung from every column, their silver wolves weeping crystal tears that caught the candlelight and scattered it across the stone floor. The elders sat in their customary semicircle, their faces grave, their voices hushed. At the head of the table, where the pack leader should have sat, the throne stood empty a constant reminder of the prince who had been murdered and the heir who had vanished.

Lord Varek stood before the assembly, his expression one of profound, carefully constructed grief. He wore black, as befitted a man in mourning, and his eyes were rimmed with red whether from genuine emotion or sleepless nights spent consolidating power, no one could say.

"My fellow elders," he began, his voice heavy with sorrow. "We have suffered a loss unlike any in our pack’s history. Prince Thorne—my beloved nephew—was murdered in cold blood by his own sister. A sister who then stole his identity, infiltrated the most prestigious academy in the realm, and deceived the Crown itself."

A murmur of outrage rippled through the assembly.

"And as if that were not enough," Varek continued, "her treachery led directly to the death of Crown Prince Soren Thornridge. The heir to the Seven Packs. The first Lycan in centuries. Dead because of her deception."

Elder Marric, his weathered face creased with genuine grief, spoke up. "What news of the girl? Has she been found?"

"Not yet. My best trackers are searching for her as we speak. But she has powerful abilities—abilities none of us knew she possessed. The Moonblorbbhod power runs through her veins. She will not be easy to capture."

"Then we must redouble our efforts," Elder Lyssa said, her silver hair gleaming in the candlelight. "She murdered our prince. She must answer for her crimes."

"And she will," Varek promised. "I will not rest until justice is served."

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle over the assembly.

"But in the meantime, the pack cannot remain leaderless. The Crown is in chaos. The other packs are circling like vultures, waiting to see if we will crumble. We must show strength. We must show unity." He placed his hand over his heart. "I do not seek the throne for myself. I never have. But as the only remaining adult of the Astrlyn bloodline, I am prepared to serve as regent—temporarily—until the crisis is resolved."

The elders exchanged glances. They had expected this. Varek had been positioning himself for this moment since the day his brother died.

"All in favor?" Elder Marric asked.

Hands rose around the table. Not all of them—a few elders still harbored doubts about Varek’s ambitions—but enough.

"Then it is decided," Marric said. "Lord Varek Astrlyn will serve as regent of the pack until the succession can be properly resolved."

Varek bowed his head humbly. "I accept this responsibility with a heavy heart. I will serve our pack with honor and dedication. And I will not rest until my niece is brought to justice."

The elders applauded. Varek smiled—a cold, private expression that no one saw.

Justice, he thought. Yes. Justice for my brother’s children. The boy who should have been easy to kill. The girl who refused to die. I will find you, Nyra. And when I do, I will finish what I started.

The royal palace of the Seven Packs had never felt so cold.

King Aldric Thornridge sat at the head of the council table, his sharp eyes dulled by a month of grief and sleepless nights. The council chamber was packed—advisors, military commanders, representatives from all seven packs—but the only sound was the crackle of the fire in the great hearth.

"The realm demands answers," Lord Silverwood, Selene’s father, was saying. His voice was measured, but there was an edge beneath it. "My daughter was betrothed to your son. The contract was signed in blood. And now your son is dead, killed while defending a woman who was impersonating a prince. A woman who may have murdered her own brother. The Silverwood pack deserves to know how this happened."

"You will have your answers," the King said, his voice flat. "When we have them."

"When you have them? Your Majesty, with respect, the realm cannot wait indefinitely. The other packs are growing restless. There are rumors that the Moonblood heir is still alive, that she possesses power unlike anything we’ve seen in centuries. Some are calling her the Daughter of the Moon. Others are calling her a threat that must be eliminated."

"She is one woman. A girl who has been hiding her entire life."

"A girl who brought down the crown prince. A girl whose awakening shattered the great hall of Shadowmoon Academy and killed a dozen guards with a single scream." Lord Silverwood leaned forward. "She is not just a girl. She is a weapon. And we need to know whose hands that weapon will fall into."

The King was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was heavy. "My son is dead. My wife has not left her chambers in three weeks. My daughter cries herself to sleep every night. I do not have the luxury of caring about politics right now."

"With respect, Your Majesty, you are the King. You do not have the luxury of not caring."

The council chamber fell silent. The King stared at Lord Silverwood for a long, hard moment.

"Leave me," he said. "All of you. The council is adjourned."

The advisors filed out one by one. Lord Silverwood lingered at the door, his expression unreadable, then followed.

The King sat alone in the empty chamber, staring at the fire.

Soren, he thought. My son. My heir. I should have protected you. I should have seen this coming.

But he hadn’t. And now his son was dead, and the realm was crumbling, and he had no idea how to fix any of it.

In the royal quarters, Queen Seraphina sat by the window, staring out at the gray sky.

She had not left her chambers in three weeks. Her meals were brought to her and taken away untouched. Her handmaidens spoke to her in gentle voices, but she barely heard them. The only person she allowed to visit was Freya, and even then, she could barely muster the strength to hold her daughter’s hand.

The door opened. Freya slipped inside, her dark hair unbraided, her eyes red from crying.

"Mother?" Her voice was small. "Mother, are you awake?"

"I’m always awake," the Queen said quietly. "I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see him falling."

Freya crossed the room and climbed onto the window seat beside her mother. She leaned her head against the Queen’s shoulder, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.

"I miss him," Freya whispered. "I miss him so much it hurts."

"I know, darling. I know."

"Do you think he knew? How much we loved him?"

The Queen closed her eyes. A single tear slipped down her cheek. "I think he knew. I hope he knew."

They sat together in silence, mother and daughter, united in grief.

Shadowmoon Academy had become a ghost of itself.

The corridors that had once buzzed with energy and competition were now quiet and somber. Students walked with their heads down, their voices hushed. The great hall remained closed, its shattered chandeliers and scorched floor a monument to the tragedy that had occurred. The showcase banners had been taken down weeks ago, but their ghosts lingered—faded outlines on the stone walls, memories of a celebration that had turned into a nightmare.

Finn sat alone in the Undercroft dormitory, staring at the empty bunk across from him.

Thorne’s bunk. Nyra’s bunk.

It was still exactly as she had left it. The rumpled blankets. The half-empty water skin on the table. The spare tunic folded at the foot of the bed. Finn hadn’t touched any of it. He couldn’t bring himself to.

The door opened. Marek entered, his expression as unreadable as ever, but his shoulders were slumped with exhaustion.

"Any news?" Finn asked.

Marek shook his head. "Nothing. She’s still missing. The guards searched the forest for weeks. No sign of her."

"Do you think she’s dead?"

"I don’t know."

Finn’s hands clenched into fists. "I should have done something. When that student accused her—when everyone started calling her a murderer—I should have stood up. I should have defended her. But I just stood there like an idiot, trying to process everything, and by the time I could think again, she was already—"

"You were in shock," Marek said quietly. "We all were."

"That’s not an excuse."

"No. But it’s the truth."

The door opened again. Jasper entered, his ever-present book tucked under his arm, his sharp eyes shadowed with exhaustion. Maureen Holt followed close behind him—she had become a near-constant presence at his side since the showcase, her warm brown eyes filled with quiet determination.

"Still no news?" Jasper asked.

"None," Finn said.

Jasper nodded slowly and sat down on his bunk. Maureen settled beside him, her hand finding his.

"I’ve been thinking," Jasper said. "About the accusation. About the maid who testified against Nyra. Something about it doesn’t add up."

"What do you mean?"

"The evidence. The letter with Nyra’s handwriting. The vial of poison. The bloodstained tunic. It was all too convenient. Too perfectly prepared. Someone orchestrated this."

"You think she was framed?"

"I think someone wanted her destroyed. And they were willing to kill the crown prince to do it."

The room fell silent. The weight of Jasper’s words settled over them like a shroud.

"If she was framed," Finn said slowly, "then the real killer is still out there."

"Yes," Jasper said. "And they’re probably looking for her right now."

Ragnar had not spoken a full sentence in three weeks.

He sat in Soren’s empty suite, his back against the wall, his axe resting across his knees. The room still smelled like him—pine and leather and the faint, lingering trace of his wolf. Ragnar had been coming here every day since the funeral, sitting in the dark, waiting for his best friend to walk through the door and tell him it had all been a terrible mistake.

But Soren never came.

The door creaked open. Finn slipped inside, his expression hesitant. "Ragnar? I brought you some food. You haven’t eaten in two days."

"I’m not hungry."

"You need to eat anyway." Finn set the tray down on the table and sat beside Ragnar, his shoulder brushing against the larger man’s arm. "I know you’re hurting. I’m hurting too. But starving yourself won’t bring him back."

Ragnar didn’t answer.

"Soren wouldn’t want this," Finn continued quietly. "He wouldn’t want you sitting in the dark, wasting away. He’d want you to fight. To find out who did this. To protect the people he cared about."

"Nyra," Ragnar said. His voice was hoarse from disuse. "She’s still out there. Corvin knows where she is. I’m sure of it."

"Then we find Corvin. We make him tell us."

"He won’t. He’s protecting her."

"Then we protect her too. Whatever it takes." Finn reached out and took Ragnar’s hand. "We’re a pack, remember? You and me and Marek and Jasper and Thorne—Nyra, whatever her name is. We’re a pack. And packs don’t abandon each other."

Ragnar looked at Finn—at his earnest eyes, his stubborn jaw, his hand wrapped around Ragnar’s scarred fingers. And for the first time in three weeks, he felt something other than grief.

"Alright," he said. "Let’s find Corvin."

Valeria stood at the edge of the lake, staring at the still water.

This was the place where she had first realized Soren was slipping away from her. The place where she had seen him watching the prince with eyes that had never once looked at her that way. The place where she had promised herself she would win him back, no matter what it took.

But now Soren was dead. And all her schemes, all her manipulations, all her desperate attempts to hold onto him—they had been for nothing.

He’s gone, Lila murmured in her mind. He’s really gone.

"I know."

What do we do now?

Valeria didn’t have an answer. For the first time in her life, she had no plan. No strategy. No angle to work. Just the cold, empty knowledge that the man she had loved the man she had schemed and fought and bled for—was dead.

And the woman who had taken him from her was still alive.

We could find her, Lila suggested. The Moonblood heir. We could finish what Selene started.

"Selene failed. Her plan got Soren killed."

Then we do it better.

Valeria stared at the water for a long moment. Then, slowly, a cold smile curved her lips.

"Yes," she murmured. "We do it better."

In her private chambers at Silvermoon Academy, Selene sat alone in the dark.

The curtains were drawn. The candles were unlit. She had dismissed her handmaidens hours ago, unable to bear their sympathetic looks and their whispered condolences. She didn’t want sympathy. She didn’t want condolences. She wanted—

She didn’t know what she wanted.

She kept replaying the kiss in her mind. The way Soren had cupped her face in his hands. The way his dark eyes had gazed at her with that impossible tenderness. The way his lips had moved against hers, soft and warm and devastating.

It had been an act. She knew it had been an act. He had been forced into it—by her threats, by her blackmail, by the choreography of the pageantry. None of it had been real.

But it had felt real.

And now he was dead. And she would never know if that kiss that single, perfect, devastating kiss had meant anything at all.

A tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away angrily.

I’m not supposed to feel this, she thought. I’m not supposed to care. He was a political arrangement. A contract signed by our fathers. I never loved him. I never even liked him.

But the tears kept falling anyway.