The training grounds were older than the stronghold itself. Grey stone worn smooth by centuries of Lycan warriors, scorch marks from shifted claws still visible in the rock. I stood at the edge of the sparring circle, my leg still wrapped but functional, and watched six Lycan guards move through their drills.

The training commander—a man named Calder with silver hair and scars that mapped his entire left arm—gestured me forward. "Princess," he said. The title still felt foreign. "Your wolf needs to move. We start today."

I stepped into the circle. My wolf stirred immediately. Not the distant flicker I'd felt in the recovery chamber, but something hotter. Restless. She'd been caged too long—first by three years of forced silence under Alistair's commands, then by the severed bond, then by the broken leg that had kept me in bed for weeks.

Calder paired me with a female guard named Rhea. She was fast, precise, and she didn't hold back. We circled each other. She moved first—a testing strike, pulled at the last second. I blocked. My body remembered the movements even though I hadn't trained in three years. Alistair had forbidden it. Said an Omega had no need for combat skills.

Rhea struck again. Faster. I blocked and countered. She grinned.

Then my wolf surged.

I didn't mean to release her. Didn't even realize I had until every guard in the circle dropped to their knees. All six of them. Rhea's eyes went wide, her body forced into submission by an aura she couldn't resist.

I pulled it back immediately. The silver-white pressure withdrew like a wave retreating from shore. The guards rose slowly, breathing hard.

Calder was the only one still standing. He studied me with an expression I couldn't read. "Again," he said.

"I didn't mean—"

"I know. That's the problem." He gestured to the guards. "Reset."

We ran the drill five more times. Each time, my wolf's aura leaked out without permission. Not full force—just enough to buckle knees, force submission, make every wolf in range feel the weight of something bigger than them pressing down.

By the end of the session, I was shaking. Not from exhaustion. From frustration.

Calder dismissed the guards and approached me. "You have the most powerful involuntary aura I've encountered outside the King's own wolf," he said. His voice was matter-of-fact. "That's not a compliment. It's a liability."

I looked at him. "Can you teach me to control it?"

"Yes. But not the way you're thinking." He crossed his arms. "You don't need to suppress it. You need precision. The exact minimum to communicate dominance. Deployed with full intention. Withdrawn without residue."

"How long will that take?"

"Depends on you." He met my eyes. "How badly do you want it?"

I thought about Alistair. About the tribunal I was building. About standing before the Lycan Council with this wolf—this massive, silver-white, uncontrolled thing—and needing to be surgical rather than explosive.

"I want it," I said.

He nodded. "Then we start tomorrow. Dawn."

The investigators returned that afternoon.

I was in my chamber when the knock came. The Lycan King entered with three cloaked figures behind him. One of them was a woman I recognized immediately.

Senna Mercer. Ironveil's head healer.

She looked older than I remembered. Thinner. Her eyes found mine and held.

"Adele," she said quietly.

I stood slowly. My leg protested. "You came."

"I should have come three years ago." Her voice was steady, but I heard the guilt underneath. "I knew the official report was wrong. I kept my own copy. I just—" She stopped. "I had no way to challenge it. Not without the Alpha's support."

The King gestured to the table. "Show her."

One of the investigators placed two documents side by side. I stepped closer.

The first was labeled *Official Medical Record—Luna Adele Mercer—Bloodridge Mission Return.* I scanned it. Foreign wolf contact. Voluntary. No signs of poisoning or distress.

The second was handwritten. Senna's script. *Toxicology Report—Adele Mercer—Private Copy.* Wolfsbane detected. Severe poisoning. Defensive wounds consistent with ambush. No foreign wolf contact beyond combat engagement.

I read both documents twice. Then I set them down on the table with exact, deliberate care.

"This goes to the Lycan Council," I said. My voice was flat. "All of it."

The King nodded. "It will."

Senna stepped forward. "Adele, I'm sorry. I should have fought harder. I should have—"

"You preserved the truth," I said. I looked at her. "That's what matters now."

She nodded slowly. Her eyes were wet.

I turned to the King. "I need to study pack law. Specifically the Luna Accord provisions."

He studied me for a long moment. Then he said, "I'll arrange it."

The law books were older than anything I'd ever touched. Leather-bound volumes with pages that crumbled at the edges. The Lycan King's senior counsel—a woman named Maren with white hair and sharp eyes—brought them to the library herself.

"The Luna Accord," she said, setting the stack on the table. "Ancient. Binding. Rarely invoked, but structurally superior to individual pack authority."

I opened the first volume. The language was formal, archaic. I read slowly.

Maren left me alone. The library was silent except for the sound of turning pages.

I found it three hours later, buried in a subsection on mate bond violations. The clause was short. Precise.

*Any Alpha who formally rejects and abandons a fated mate to die forfeits his wolf and title irrevocably, subject to tribunal review by the Lycan Council.*

I read it three times. Each word. Each clause.

Formal rejection. Abandonment. Death.

Alistair had spoken the vow in front of his warriors. Left me bleeding with rogues closing in. I'd survived only because the Lycan patrol found me.

I marked the page with a strip of leather. Closed the volume. Stood.

Maren was waiting in the hall outside. She looked at my face and nodded once.

"I'm ready to file the petition," I said.

She didn't ask if I was sure. She just said, "I'll prepare the documents."

I walked back to my chamber slowly. My leg ached. The dead mark on my neck was cold.

But my wolf was awake. Fully. For the first time since the rejection, I felt her presence—not distant, not retreating, but right there beside me. Silver-white and enormous and ready.

I stood at the window and looked out at the forest. Somewhere beyond those trees was Ironveil. Alistair. Clover.

I pressed my hand against the glass.

I wasn't going back as the woman who left.

I was going back as the woman who would dismantle everything they'd built on my suffering.

And I was going to do it with the law itself.