“Lyra, Alpha Darius has signed off on your resignation from the MoonCorp. But… I don’t think he realized it was you. Do you want me to let him know?”
Lyra kept her gaze on the parchment in her hands, the faint shimmer of moonlight glinting off the silver ink. Shaking her head, she said, “No need.”
“Lyra.” The steward from the Council sighed softly, as if trying one last time. “He still cares about you, you know. Everyone in the pack thought you and the Alpha were destined mates. Maybe… just think it through?”
A bitter scoff slipped past Lyra’s lips.
Little did they know—whatever bond existed between her and Alpha Darius Halvorn wasn’t mere gossip. They were already bound by the Moon.
Their union was sacred, marked by the ancient rites of their ancestors. But love and duty were two different beasts and Lyra had learned that lesson in blood three moons ago.
A rogue ambush had shattered her spine. She had needed her bonded mate to come to the healer’s hall and give consent for the Moonforge surgery that would save her.
But she lost count of the howls she sent through their mental link before he finally answered. Worse, when he did, his voice was cold and impatient.
“It’s just a minor attack. You’ll heal. Hang on—I’m still at Mireille’s moon feast.”
Mireille Vaylen.
Her closest friend.
That was the night Lyra realized her mate had betrayed not just their vow—but the Moon Goddess herself.
In the end, as she lay fighting for her life, she had to sign her own consent rune with trembling hands.
Just before she was wheeled into the Moonforge chamber, Darius arrived—his arms around Mireille.
The woman had cut her hand on a crystal chalice. For her sake, he pulled the healer aside, demanding she be treated first.
That brief delay—the minutes they lost—cost Lyra blood and breath.
She spent the next seven nights in the Healing Chamber, not knowing if she would ever walk—or shift—again.
That was when she finally accepted the truth.
Some bonds, when they rot, must be severed. Now that I’ve healed, it’s time to walk away.
Lyra looked up at the steward, her voice calm. “People change,” she said softly. “I stood by him through the hardest three years of his reign. That’s enough.”
For all those years, the woman Darius truly loved had always been Mireille.
Lyra was merely a byproduct of that one night long ago—when Darius had been drugged at a Luna’s Feast and ended up in her den.
When the scandal threatened the Alpha Council, he had offered to mate her—on one condition: no one must ever know.
Now that Mireille had returned to Frostmere, Lyra had no intention of clinging to a bond the Moon had clearly abandoned.
But before she left, she had one last thing to do. Four parting gifts—each one a celebration of the freedom they would soon have from one another.
***
With the dissolution parchment in her satchel, Lyra pushed open the carved doors to the Alpha’s chamber.
Inside, Darius stood before the great hearth, trimming the stems of moonlilies—white blossoms that glowed faintly in the dark. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms.
He had never been one for romance. He used to mock other Alphas who gifted their mates with flowers.
“Pointless things,” he’d said once on Moon’s Eve. “Dead within a week.”
In the three years they’d shared the same roof, Lyra had never received so much as a single petal.
Those lilies weren’t hers; they were Mireille’s favorite.
A few clipped stems dropped into the fire before he finally turned. “Back to duties already? How’s the recovery?”
He placed the bouquet in a crystal vase shaped like a crescent moon, adjusted a petal and added, “About that night… I didn’t mean for things to go that way. Mireille’s not like you. She’s fragile. One little scratch and she faints. Besides, there was only one healer on call.”
He smiled. “But I knew you’d be fine. You’ve survived worse, haven’t you? Grew up with nothing. A small wound’s nothing to you, right?”
Lyra almost laughed.
He had no idea—she was the only daughther of Kaiden from Wolfhart Pack in Lycanthra, an ancient bloodline said to be blessed by the first Moon Goddess. The only hardship she’d ever known began the day she bound herself to Darius.
He might have known, had she not severed ties with her family to mate him in secrecy.
But she let him believe what he wanted. Silence, to Darius, always meant obedience. For that, to him, she always had such a good temper—perfect for keeping around
He walked toward her, holding the bouquet like a prize. “Hey, do you think these are beautiful?”
As the lilies neared her, her throat seized. She turned her head, coughed once, twice—sharp and violent.
The allergy burned through her veins, a spark that triggered her wolf’s pain. He shoved her aside, snarling, “Watch it!”
Her back hit the sharp edge of the obsidian desk. The wound along her spine tore open again, blood seeping through her tunic.
While her vision swam, Darius’s attention never left the flowers.
“You almost ruined them!” he barked. “Do you have any idea how rare these are? Cultivated under moonlight from the High Vale!”
Realizing she couldn’t even compete with a bouquet, Lyra let out a bitter laugh.
I stayed three years with this male for this? I must have been blind to love such a fool.
He had never cared enough to know her body couldn’t tolerate moonlilies. Nor that her wounds weren’t yet healed.
She steadied herself, drew a breath and pulled the documents from her satchel.
“Alpha Halvorn,” she said, offering the parchment. “I need your signature.”
That made him pause. For the first time, his gaze lingered on her. When it was just the two of them, she had always called him by name only—never “Alpha Havorn.”
“You just got out of the Healing Hall,” he murmured. “You should be resting.”
Still, he reached for the parchment. Just as his fingers brushed it, his crystal communicator chimed.
Lyra caught the name glowing across the rune-lit surface.
[My Moon]
He had saved Mireille that way, while her own name in his device was simply “Lyra Wolfhart.”
That contrast said everything.
He answered with a grin, bouquet in one hand and strode toward the door.
“I won’t be back for dinner. Head home after the council meeting.”
Lyra stepped in front of him, flipped to the last page and pressed a quill into his palm.
“Sign it first.”
The Alpha’s brows furrowed. He was always cautious—never sealed anything without reading it thrice.
But just as he was about to scan the script, his communicator chimed again.
Even through the near-muted sound, Mireille’s voice purred softly, “Darius, I’ve been waiting forever… come to me now.”
For once, the ever-cautious Alpha didn’t read a single word. He flicked his wrist and scrawled his name across the silver line.
“There. Happy now? Can I leave?”
Looking at the glowing signature, Lyra nodded faintly.
“Yes. You’re free now.”
This time, she meant it. She gave him the freedom he’d been chasing since the night they met.
As he left, he tossed over his shoulder,
“This chamber hasn’t been cleaned in moons. You’re here—why don’t you handle it?”
The heavy slam of the door echoed through the chamber.
Darius’s office had always been off-limits. Not a speck of dust in sight. Only Lyra ever knew where the spare key was, which drawer housed the wipes, how he liked the edges of papers perfectly aligned.
As she approached his desk, a silver frame caught her eye.
Mireille’s smile gleamed from behind the glass—the same frame that once held Lyra’s face.
Then her gaze drifted to the wastebasket by the cabinet. Her own photo lay there—face-down, edges crumpled like discarded parchment.
Her lips curved, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. It sliced.
There had been a time when she’d called Mireille “sister.” But for Darius, her “sister” had always been his moon.
Although Lyra had once loved him, she had buried those feelings for the sake of friendship—until that fateful night three years ago.
That was when Mireille vanished, swept away by a noble from the distant Varghelm Kingdom.
That night, Darius drank too much, unaware that his wine had been spiked. What followed was a mistake—just one reckless night between an Alpha and his lost love’s closest friend.
The memories flickered through Lyra’s mind like dying embers.
She brushed a tear from her cheek, then opened the drawer. Inside lay an old photograph and a sealed letter—never opened, never answered.
For four years, she had loved him enough to write ninety-nine moon-letters. But since Mireille’s return to Frostmere, every time Darius chose her, Lyra burned another one.
The 99th letter turned to ash in the Healing Hall. The one in her hand was the last.
It was time to let go.
With a small chest of her belongings, Lyra walked out of the MoonCorp and called through her rune-etched communicator.
“Lucian,” she said calmly, “didn’t you say you liked me? One moon from now, once I get the dissolution certificate—we’ll be bonded.”
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!”
Although Lyra was taken aback, she wasn’t surprised.
Darius had always had feelings for Mireille. It wasn’t exactly unexpected that he would go this far for her.
Once upon a time, Lyra might have taken it personally. But now, she simply replied with quiet composure, “Alright.”
After all, she was leaving soon. Whether their wedding portraits were burned beneath this moon or the next made no difference.
For a second, Darius froze, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He’d only said those words out of frustration, annoyed she hadn’t given him a way to save face.
‘Wasn’t she the one who used to treasure those things the most? Why’s she suddenly agreeing so easily?’
Without another word, Lyra called a servant to take down the framed pictures from the wall. They carried them to the garden and burned them until nothing remained.
Mireille, newly returned from the coven stronghold of Varghelm, had no den of her own yet.
So, Darius offered her a chamber in the Alpha’s villa for a while.
Lyra didn’t object. Her tone was even, almost indifferent. “Sure,” she said.
She even instructed the steward to prepare the guest den next to his chamber for Mireille—then quietly moved her own belongings into a smaller room below the west wing, closer to the servants’ quarters.
As she was packing, Darius’s voice came from behind her.
“Come on, Lyra, don’t be petty. I know you’re jealous, but Mireille’s only staying here for a while.”
He leaned against the frame, arms crossed. “You hate sleeping alone. Moving down here—will you even rest properly?”
He hesitated, then softened his tone. “About those portraits—I went too far. If they meant something to you, we can take new ones. When there’s time.”
He stepped closer, reaching to hug her from behind—only for her to slip out of reach.
Turning to face him, she met his gaze. Calm. Clear.
To be fair, Darius had never been cruel. In the three years they’d been bound by oath and law, he’d done enough to make her believe—perhaps—the Moon had fated them for each other.
But every time Mireille reappeared, he never hesitated. He always chose her.
Lyra loved him. She really did. But what she wanted wasn’t love handed out with conditions or affection that came second to someone else.
“I’m not jealous,” she said quietly. “You’ve been dealing with pack matters late into the night. Sleeping alone helps me rest better.”
Her words, spoken so evenly, unsettled him more than anger would have.
Darius’s expression hardened. He wasn’t used to defiance—especially not from her. He had already lowered his pride. This was supposed to be the moment she softened, as she always had.
“Whatever,” he said curtly. “By the way—what was that document you had me sign earlier today?”
Lyra’s lips curved faintly. “A little gift for our third bond anniversary. You’ll know soon enough.”
That eased his temper a fraction.
He knew Lyra didn’t like Mireille’s presence, but Mireille had only just returned to Frostmere and he was simply helping her settle in.
Once her new manor was ready, she’d leave. He told himself that—soon, everything would return to normal. He’d still live properly with Lyra, as duty demanded.
“Alright. It’s late. You should get some rest.”
When Lyra brushed past him, he instinctively lifted his arms for the usual goodnight embrace—but she walked straight by, silent as snowfall.
He stood there, the faint scent of her fading down the corridor, his wolf restless.
Something about her was different tonight. He just couldn’t name it.
The night deepened. The silver moon slid high above Frostmere.
Lyra—already asleep—was yanked from her bed and dragged upstairs by two of the Alpha guards.
Her shoulder slammed into the wall of the Alpha’s chamber. Pain bloomed through her ribs, the breath knocked from her lungs.
Dazed, she blinked through the haze—and then heard his voice, cold and sharp as a northern wind.
“I understand your jealousy, Lyra,” Darius said, his golden eyes blazing, “but drugging Mireille? That’s a line even you shouldn’t cross.”
Her pulse spiked. “What?”
She looked up, vision swimming.
On the bed, Mireille lay trembling in Darius’s arms. Her skin flushed crimson, her breath ragged, sweat slicking her brow—her aura tangled and unstable, as if her blood was reacting to a potion or dark spell.
“I didn’t do it!” Lyra’s voice cracked.
Mireille whimpered, clutching at Darius’s chest. “I only drank the moonmilk you gave me… I didn’t have anything else…”
Lyra’s eyes narrowed, her senses sharpening. “You asked for that drink! I had some too—why am I fine, then?”
“And what would I gain from drugging you?” Her tone turned scathing. “Mireille, if you’re going to frame me, at least try harder.”
She was telling the truth. But truth had no power in the face of well-crafted tears.
Mireille began to sob harder, her voice weak and trembling. “Forget it. If she says I faked it, then maybe I did. I… I have nothing else to say.”
Lyra’s hands curled into fists. Fury boiled beneath her skin, her wolf stirring but caged. It felt like punching water—no resistance, no justice.
That was the last straw for Darius. His voice dropped to a deadly growl.
“That’s enough, Lyra! This isn’t the first time you’ve done something like this. You know what happened three years ago.”
His words dropped like a hammer.
“You really think someone with your record deserves trust?”
Just like that, one sentence condemned her.
Lyra stared at him, teeth gritted. “I’ll say it again,” she said in clenched teeth, each word crystal clear. “I did not drug you three years ago.”
That night haunted her still. She’d gone after him when she heard he was drinking alone at the Silver Den tavern. Worried, she’d followed his scent—only to find him already drugged.
Yes, she loved him. Yes, one reckless night had changed everything. But she never planned it.
He had never believed her. And from that moment on, it became the wound neither of them could heal.
“Darius, I can’t… I can’t help it…” Mireille moaned, her fingers tightening around him. Her body trembled violently, her aura shimmering with unstable magic.
Darius frowned, pushing her back slightly—but Mireille snatched a small ritual blade from the bedside drawer and dragged it across her arm.
Blood welled instantly, crimson bright under moonlight.
“I know I’m a burden,” she sobbed. “I should just disappear… so you don’t have to worry about me anymore…”
The scent of blood hit the air like lightning, primal and intoxicating.
Darius clenched his jaw, seized the blade from her hand and growled lowly, “I’ll help you.”
Lyra’s breath caught. Her eyes widened as she stared at Darius, disbelief freezing her in place. She couldn’t comprehend that he’d said those words—so easily, so cruelly.
And yet, there was no hint of guilt in his eyes. The man she once shared a life with now looked at her like a judge delivering a sentence.
“You’ve really disappointed me, Lyra.” His tone was calm, almost cold. Then his gaze shifted toward Mireille, who was curled against him like a wounded bird. “You drugged her. Whatever happens after this—it’s your fault.”
As his arm tightened around her, Mireille’s fingers trailed idly over his chest. Her eyes flicked up to meet Lyra’s—taunting, amused.
Lyra’s knees trembled. She clutched the edge of the table, forcing herself to stay upright. When she finally spoke, her voice came out laced with mockery.
“You actually think I drugged her just so you—” her finger shook as she pointed at him “—could be the antidote?”
Her voice grew steady, sharp. “There are plenty of ways to neutralize drugs, Darius. This,” she gestured at the scene before her, “was never one of them.”
“Darius…” Mireille’s soft voice broke in, trembling just enough to sound sincere. Her nails grazed the bandaged cut on her arm, opening it slightly so a drop of red rolled down. “Don’t worry about me. Let me handle this myself.”
She tilted her head, her next words angled sweetly toward Lyra. “And please don’t blame her. I know she didn’t mean to hurt me. She just… loves you too much.”
Something in Lyra snapped. She’d already decided to leave Darius, but that didn’t mean she would let Mireille disgrace her in her own home.
“My God, Mireille—do you even have any shame left? You’re clinging to my mate in my house, pretending to be some innocent victim. Did your lover forget to teach you manners?”
The sound that followed was sharp and immediate—Slap!
Lyra’s head snapped to the side. Her cheek stung.
“Enough, Lyra!” Darius roared. “Mireille hasn’t spoken a single bad word about you and yet you keep spitting venom! You disgust me!”
He grabbed her wrist. She stumbled, gasping as he dragged her toward the door.
“You like drugging people, huh? Then stand here and listen to what that leads to!”
He tore the tie from his neck, bound her wrists to the doorknob and tightened the knot until metal bit into her skin.
His eyes were ice when he said, “You brought this on yourself. Don’t blame me—or her.”
The door slammed shut.
At first came silence. Then a sound—a soft groan. A breath. Then another. The rhythm built, unmistakable, unrelenting.
Lyra shut her eyes. Tears slipped silently at first, but eventually, even those dried up. All that was left was a hollow ache spreading through her chest.
Every moan from inside the room hammered another nail into the coffin of her love.
‘This is what happens when you love the wrong man,’ she thought bitterly.
Then pain struck deep in her abdomen. A sharp, twisting ache that sent her to her knees. The cords cut into her wrists, her body hanging from the door handle, drenched in cold sweat.
Her lips moved, but her voice came out barely a whisper. Compared to the pleasure-filled sounds beyond the door, her faint gasps were nothing—completely drowned out.
The night dragged on, each second longer than the last.
When the door finally opened, dawn light spilled in.
Darius stood there, adjusting his sleeve, his voice calm as ever. “Have you learned your lesson?”
No answer.
He frowned and looked down—Lyra lay motionless at his feet.
“Lyra?” He crouched, pressed a hand to her cheek—hot as fire. Panic flickered in his eyes.
He lifted her into his arms, about to rush out.
“Darius.” Mireille’s voice drifted lazily from the bed. “You were a bit rough last night. I think something’s swollen. And… I can’t exactly ask anyone else to help with that, can I?”
No response.
She continued, “Lyra used to get fevers all the time back in college. Just take her to the hospital. Let the maid handle it.”
Then, with a sigh, “And you know my reputation. If gossip spreads, people will talk. I can’t afford that.”
Lyra’s lashes trembled. Her vision was blurry, her body numb—but she saw it.
She saw Darius hesitate.
She saw him turn.
And then she felt herself being handed off to someone else’s arms.
Darkness followed.
When she opened her eyes again, everything was white. White sheets. White walls.
The steady beeping of a heart monitor.
“Ma’am,” the doctor said gently, “you’re about three months pregnant. But the baby isn’t stable. You should—”
“Doctor,” Lyra interrupted, her voice hoarse but firm. “I don’t want the baby. Schedule the abortion.”
The doctor blinked, taken aback. “There’s no medical necessity to terminate—”
Her next words cut him short.
“My mate cheated. We’re divorced. That’s reason enough. Please schedule it. Today.”
The doctor exhaled slowly. Whatever he wanted to say, he swallowed back. “Understood. I’ll make the arrangements immediately.”
Once he left, Lyra reached for her communicator and typed a message.
[A month’s too long. Three days. Come get me in three days.]
She hit send.
Lucian replied within seconds. [Okay. I’ll come fetch you in three days.]
Seeing his rune-light agree, Lyra felt a small ease settle in her chest at last.
Her body had always been fragile and after the cleansing and the procedure, she remained under the healers’ care for three more dawns to regain strength.
It wasn’t until the day she was discharged that Darius finally came to the White Hall.
“Hey. I’m sorry. Mireille’s been on her period for the last few days and the cramps have been so bad she can’t even walk. She gets anxious whenever I’m not around,” he explained.
With her back to him, Lyra continued folding the last of her small chest and answered flatly, “Mm.”
Sensing her coldness, Darius stepped close and wrapped his arms around her from behind.
“What happened with the potion that time—yes, you went too far. You crossed a line. But I’ve reflected too. I shouldn’t have lost myself… I won’t let it happen again,” he promised.
“I know you despise Mireille because you love me, but truly, there is nothing between us. She is only a friend. And remember—you’re my mate. What is it you fear?” he pressed.
If Darius could have seen her face then, he would have noticed the disdain flashing in her eyes.
Friends? You lay with her. What friendbed fools around like that? she thought, bitter. Would it only count as “something” if Mireille bore his pup?
But Lyra no longer cared. In a few moons she would be gone for good. There was no use quarrelling over things that would soon be ashes.
“What’s past is past. I don’t wish to speak of it.” She folded the last scarf. “Aren’t you here to escort me? Let’s go.”
Darius felt a strange hollow—she had not even offered him a smile.
Fine, he thought. When Mireille departs, I’ll surprise Lyra. We will begin anew. I will let the old nights be buried.
Everything of late only proved one thing clearer—Mireille is but a friend. What I feel for Lyra… His gaze lingered on his wife. It is love.
He lifted her trunk and guided her from the healing wing.
As they reached the corridor, the attending healer approached with measured steps.
“Lyra, is this your mate? I thought—”
Fearing the healer might speak of the procedure, Lyra cut him off. “Thank you for your care. I recover well now; I will not waste the pack’s resources.” She drew Darius away and hurried from the clinic.
But no sooner had they returned to the villa than Mireille’s voice rang like a bell.
“Oh, Lyra, three years and you remain unchanged!” she sang mockingly.
Lyra shot her a warning glare, then turned to climb the stairs to finish packing.
Mireille’s next words made her halt.
“Three years ago, I was the one who slipped a draught into your cup. I told you to find him at the bar. I knew Darius loved me, but when I left, who could say he would not fall for another? You liked him too, so I set a small trap.”
She sauntered forward, one strap of her dress deliberately hanging, the faded kissmarks at her throat and chest plain to see.
“You took care of him for three years. I appreciate that sacrifice. But now I’ve come back—this house is mine no longer. It’s time for you to leave, Lyra.”
She smiled, triumphant. “You have no kin here in Frostmere. Do not cross me. Take heed: leave while you still can.”
Lyra’s body trembled with cold fury; the revelation seared through her. So it was her plan from the start, she thought.
Without hesitation, Lyra raised her hand and struck Mireille across the face.
She fixed Mireille with a hard look. “So long as I breathe in this den, you will remain the other woman. Push me, Mireille, and none of us step away unscathed.”
Mireille reeled, stunned, lips parted with outrage. Her eyes hardened as she lifted her hand to strike back—when Darius appeared in the doorway like a blade.
In an instant Mireille’s expression shifted; her voice trembled with contrition.
“Lyra, Darius and I are only friends! That night was a mistake! Please! Don’t tell anyone!”
In the next beat, she sank to her knees, begging, forehead nearly kissing the floor.
Before Lyra could speak, Darius shoved her aside roughly.
Lyra, still tender from her recovery, hit the floor hard and hurt. But it was Mireille he lifted to her feet with practiced gentleness.
When he turned to Lyra again, his eyes cut like knives. “You are being absurd, Lyra! I’ve told you—why will you not let this lie?” he demanded.
“If you spread rumors of that night, how will Mireille live with shame?”
Tears rimmed Lyra’s eyes. She bit her lip. “You didn’t ask me what truly occurred, Darius. Will you believe anything she says?”
His hands balled into fists. Seeing her so fragile stirred something in him—but in the end he sided with Mireille.
“I only trust what stands before me,” he declared. “Apologize to Mireille now. Swear you will not lay a hand on her again.”
Lyra let out a cold, mirthless laugh, chin high with pride. “I did what any woman would. I am not the one to apologize.” Her stance did not waver. “You two are the ones at fault.”
Whatever conscience may have lingered in him evaporated.
He looked down at her with the weight of pack authority. “No. This time, Lyra, you will admit your fault.”
He summoned the guards. In moments, they seized her arms and hauled her upright.
“If you will not beg forgiveness, I will execute the family’s discipline. Ninety-nine lashes—you will not endure them,” he said, believing force would bend her will.
He thought threat would break her.
Lyra met his challenge without flinch.
“I struck her,” she said, voice steady. “Because she deserved it. But I have not threatened her.” Her eyes flashed. “Darius, if you dare lay a hand on me, even just once—you’re gonna regret it for the rest of your life.”
Seeing how stubborn and unyielding Lyra remained, Darius’s expression darkened. The faint glint of his wolf eyes—amber and cold—cut through the dim light of the council hall.
“Don’t hold back,” he commanded, his voice low but deadly. “Carry out the family punishment.”
The bodyguards, all seasoned warriors of the Halvorn Pack, lowered their heads. Their hesitation lasted only a breath before the first whip struck the marble floor and cracked across Lyra’s back.
The silver-threaded lash bit into her flesh, tearing through her gown like paper. Moonlight gleamed faintly on the strands of the whip—crafted with diluted moonstone dust to suppress a wolf’s inner strength.
“Lyra,” one guard murmured between blows, his voice trembling, “do you admit your mistake?”
Each strike echoed across the hall, heavy with ritual and cruelty. It was the punishment once reserved for traitors to the pack—ninety-nine lashes, each symbolizing a severed bond of loyalty.
By the thirtieth lash, the fabric of her gown clung to her skin, soaked with her blood. The metallic scent filled the air, mingling with the wild tang of suppressed magic. Her wolf whimpered inside her, but Lyra refused to yield. Her pride—her dignity—was all she had left.
Darius stood unmoving, his face a mask of cold discipline, but beneath it, something flickered. He wanted her to break, to scream, to beg—because only then could he convince himself she was still his.
But she didn’t.
At the thirty-third lash, her knees buckled. Her vision blurred, the world around her shrinking into black and white blurs of light and pain. The last thing she heard before darkness took her was her own heart pounding—steady, defiant.
That night, her fever soared beyond what any healer could explain. Her body convulsed under the moon’s pull, her wolf torn between agony and rage. They said a fever that high could burn away the wolf spirit itself.
For three days, she drifted between worlds—the living and the moon’s shadow realm—where whispers of ancient wolves echoed through her dreams.
On the third morning, she awoke to the faint ring of her crystal communicator. The device pulsed with a blue glow—Lucian’s mark.
“I’m three hours away,” his voice said through the link, deep and steady, like an anchor in the storm.
Exhausted but determined, Lyra pushed herself upright. Every breath felt like fire, but she refused to rest any longer. She packed lightly—only her ID sigil pendant, carved from her family’s old crest.
Just as she was about to leave, another message buzzed through the network.
It was Talia—one of her former trainees in the Mooncrest Guild, where Lyra had served as a diplomat and strategist.
“Lyra!” Talia’s voice quivered through the link. “When are you coming back? Alpha Darius let that Mireille take over your duties these past few days—she’s already ruined three trade pacts! Even the Duskmoore Clan broke their alliance with us!”
Lyra closed her eyes, a humorless smile curling her lips. “He didn’t blame her, did he?” she murmured, already knowing the answer.
“No! It’s like he’s under a spell. He won’t even listen to the council. He snapped at everyone who tried to question her!”
The irony stung. She remembered when she had made a single mistake in her early days as his adviser and Darius had gone silent for a week. That felt like another lifetime—when her heart still beat for him.
Her voice was steady as she replied, “Talia, I’m no longer part of the Halvorn Pack. You don’t need to report to me again.”
The silence that followed was heavy with shock. Then, slowly, Lyra ended the call.
Her decision was final.
But before she could take another step, her communicator flared again—this time with the crest of the MoonCorp. The elders.
The moment she answered, a chorus of angry voices filled the channel.
“Lyra, as Alpha Halvorn’s adviser, it’s your duty to correct him when he’s wrong!” one elder barked. “You’ve gone missing for days! And now that woman—Mireille—has turned the guild upside down!”
“Do you even care about the pack’s reputation anymore?” another snapped.
Their accusations struck like invisible claws, but Lyra had endured far worse. Once, she might have bowed her head and borne their scorn in silence—for the sake of love, for loyalty to her Alpha. But that Lyra was gone.
“You’re all so dissatisfied with Alpha Halvorn, right?” she said coldly. “Then why don’t you grow a spine and tell him yourselves? You’re a disgrace to your titles—snarling at me when you’re too afraid to bare your fangs at your Alpha.”
The channel went dead silent. Then, one by one, the connections cut off.
Lyra stood by the window, the moon’s pale light washing over her. The truth was simple: the reason the MoonCorp had survived all these years wasn’t Darius’s leadership—it was her.
She had been the one who smoothed over his temper, repaired the broken treaties and appeased the elders when his pride drove them away. She had done it all silently, believing that love meant sacrifice.
Now, she finally saw the cost.
She opened the hidden vault behind the study’s wall—a place Darius never touched. Inside lay years of secrets and memories: her resignation letter, the divorce decree sealed in silver ink, her healing records from the lost pup and a small jar of ashes—ninety-nine burned love letters.
At the very bottom was the moon-crystal orb containing the villa’s surveillance runes. She whispered a spell and the orb shimmered, replaying Mireille’s confession from three nights ago—how she had drugged herself and set Lyra up from the start.
Lyra copied the memory rune onto a flash crystal. “A keepsake for you, Darius,” she murmured. “May it haunt you when you remember what you destroyed.”
Outside, a runic carriage—called from the drive. At the same time, her communicator lit up again with Darius’s messages.
[Lyra, Mireille ruined several alliances. I need you back. I know you’ve always hated her, but I’ll explain everything tonight.]
When she didn’t respond, the tone shifted.
[Don’t be childish. You’re my mate and my adviser. Keep this up and I’ll cut your moon allowance in half. You’ll apologize before the council.]
A humorless laugh escaped her lips. “Still trying to command me, even now.”
She blocked every channel tied to his mark and deleted every link connecting her spirit signature to his. Then she walked through the house one last time, erasing her presence rune by rune—like she had never existed there at all.
When she stepped outside, the silver carriage awaited.
Lucian stood beside it, wearing a dark suit laced with sigils of his pack. In his hand, he held a bouquet of white moon tulips—flowers that never wilted, symbols of eternal beginnings.
The sun filtered through the mist as he looked at her, eyes steady and soft.
“Lyra,” he said quietly, “I’ve come to take you home.”
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