The sheets against my skin were cool and made of real silk. I wasn't used to that.

For four years, I had slept on a lumpy mattress in the damp basement of the Ironmaw pack house, waking up every morning smelling of mildew and bitter herbs. Here, the air smelled like polished oak and crisp autumn air. Sunlight spilled across high, arched windows.

I tried to sit up, but every muscle in my body screamed in protest.

My ribs ached. My spine felt bruised from the inside out. But worse than the physical soreness was the empty, freezing crater on the left side of my collarbone.

Where Matthew’s mate mark had burned for four years, there was only cold, dead skin. The bond was gone. The thread that had tied my heartbeat to his had been snapped like dry twine. A hollow ache spread through my chest, deep and suffocating.

*Hello, Rayna.*

The voice didn't come from the room. It rumbled softly beneath my ribs, warm, grounded, and unhurried.

My breath hitched. I pressed two fingers against my inner wrist, checking my own racing pulse. "Who’s there?" I whispered aloud.

*I have been here longer than you know,* the voice answered. It wasn't loud, but it filled every corner of my mind.

Tears pricked my eyes, hot and sudden. A storm of dizziness and nausea hit me all at once. Four years. Four years of starving myself, burning my lungs over toxic cauldrons, begging for scraps of Matthew's attention, convinced I was a broken, wolfless nobody.

"I was an Omega," I choked out, staring at my trembling hands. "He threw me away like trash."

*We were never what they said we were,* she replied.

There was no pity in her tone. No soft coddling. Just steady, absolute certainty.

*He broke the lock, Rayna. That is all he did. You called me Luna. Now let me stand with you.*

I didn't entirely believe her yet. The habit of feeling small was carved too deep into my bones. But I closed my eyes and listened to the steady rhythm of her breathing beside mine. For the first time in my life, I wasn't alone in the dark.

The heavy wooden door swung open.

Lakelyn stepped inside, dressed in a tailored black suit. Behind her walked an older woman with silver hair pulled back into a tight bun, carrying an electronic medical tablet.

"You're awake," Lakelyn said, her sharp expression softening by a fraction. "This is Dr. Elara Finch, our head healer."

Dr. Finch didn't waste time with small talk. She approached the bed, clicking on a small penlight to check my pupils before running a flat scanner over my chest and throat. She pressed two fingers to the faded gray scar where Matthew's mark used to be.

The healer pulled back, her brow furrowed in deep disbelief. She tapped the screen of her tablet rapidly, her hands shaking slightly.

"Your Highness," Dr. Finch said, turning to Lakelyn. Her clinical voice couldn't hide the shock underneath. "The damage here is catastrophic. Chronic wolfsbane poisoning. Her lung tissue has severe chemical scarring, and her liver enzymes are off the charts. She’s been inhaling toxic root fumes for years without basic neutralizers."

Lakelyn's eyes darkened to dangerous gold. "And no one in Ironmaw treated her?"

"No," Dr. Finch said coldly. "They ignored it. Medically speaking, she should have gone into organ failure six months ago. But that isn't the most shocking part."

Dr. Finch turned the tablet toward Lakelyn, showing a bright holographic scan of a wolf's skeletal frame.

"It is biologically impossible for a wolfless Omega to undergo a first shift at age twenty-two," Dr. Finch stated. "And certainly not a shift of this scale. The bone density, the muscle mass, the luminous silver pigmentation in the fur... it directly mirrors the Lycan royal archive. She carries the pure bloodline of King Alistair. I have logged these findings directly into the Council's official evidence vault."

I listened to them talk about my body like a piece of evidence.

A strange sensation stirred in my chest. It wasn't the dull ache of sadness anymore. It was heat. A thin, sharp blade of pure fury.

Matthew had known I was coughing up blood in the trenches. He had seen my cracked, blistered hands every time I handed him a fresh supply of border salve. He had known, and he had let Peyton spill it all on the floor just to watch me break.

Before Lakelyn could speak, a sharp chime echoed from the secure comm unit on her hip.

She unclipped the black radio, tapped the receiver, and put it on speaker. "Report."

Static hissed through the speaker, followed by a panicked, breathless voice that made my stomach tighten.

It was Ryder Holt, Matthew's Beta.

"...ambush at the northern ridge!" Ryder’s shout was half-drowned by the blare of Ironmaw’s pack sirens. "Rogue skirmishers used wolfsbane arrows! Three warriors are down. The poison is spreading through their veins, and their skin is necrotizing! Alpha, where is the salve?"

A beat of silence passed, and then Matthew’s voice roared through the line. He sounded frantic, his usual arrogant poise completely shattered.

"Peyton is the Luna!" Matthew snarled. "She made the formula! Send her to the infirmary to brew another batch immediately!"

"She can't do it, Matthew!" Ryder yelled back, abandoning all respect. "Peyton went down to the cellar an hour ago and ruined thirty pounds of fresh roots! She doesn't even know how to balance the carrier oil! The warriors are in agony, and the whole barracks is talking. They saw Rayna shift last night. They know the salve belonged to her!"

"Shut your mouth!" Matthew screamed, his voice cracking with pure terror. "She was an Omega stray! She was nothing!"

Lakelyn reached down and clicked the radio off.

The silence that followed was heavy and cold.

Lakelyn looked over at me, a slow, razor-thin smile touching the corner of her lips.

Inside my chest, Luna let out a low, rumbling growl of satisfaction.

*Let them bleed,* my wolf whispered. *They are about to learn what happens when they throw away the only thing keeping them alive.*

Over the next three days, Lakelyn came to my room every morning like a force of nature.

She wore tailored suits, carried thick leather files, and moved with a restless, military energy. She gave me updates while Dr. Finch changed my IV fluids.

"Father is beyond furious," Lakelyn said, pacing beside the tall windows. "King Alistair wanted to march two royal battalions directly into Ironmaw territory and flatten their pack house to dust. The Lycan Council barely talked him down. They insist on a formal tribunal. We are going to strip Matthew of his title, his land, and his pride in front of every pack Alpha on the continent."

She was brilliant at handling the logistics. She set up three armed Lycan guards outside my door, reviewed Dr. Finch's medical reports twice a day, and gathered every shred of border defense records she could pull from Ironmaw's intercepted comms.

She was taking care of everything. But she was also taking over.

On the fourth morning, Lakelyn closed her folder with a crisp slap. "I’ve set your formal presentation to the Lycan royal court for next Thursday. It will establish your bloodline officially and cement our credibility before the judges seat the tribunal."

I paused with my teacup halfway to my lips.

For four years, Matthew had decided when I spoke, where I stood, and what I was allowed to eat. I had spent four years being managed like property.

I set the cup down carefully. I pressed two fingers against my inner wrist, feeling the calm, steady thrum of my own pulse.

"No," I said.

Lakelyn stopped mid-stride. She blinked at me, clearly not used to hearing that word. "Rayna, it’s protocol. The court needs to see you whole before the trial begins."

"I am not a piece of evidence, Lakelyn," I said. My voice was quiet, but it didn't wobble. "And I am not a weapon for you to aim at the Council. You don't schedule me without asking. I will decide when I am ready to walk into that room."

The bedroom went dead silent.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Pushing back went against every instinct I had developed to survive as an Omega. My learned fear whispered that I would be punished, struck, or locked in a cellar.

Lakelyn stared at me. Her golden eyes narrowed slightly, processing the resistance. Then, her shoulders dropped an inch. The sharp, commanding royal mask softened into something real.

"You're right," Lakelyn said quietly. She gave me a slow, respectful nod. "I'm sorry. I'm used to fighting wars. I forgot you just escaped one."

The knot in my chest loosened. She wasn't Matthew. She wasn't trying to own me; she just didn't know how to stop fighting.

That afternoon, Lakelyn took me down to the compound's private training yard. High limestone walls kept out the wind, and the gravel crunching beneath our boots felt crisp in the autumn air.

*Time to stretch,* Luna whispered in my mind, her presence warm and steady behind my eyes.

"Start small," Lakelyn instructed, standing a few paces back with her arms crossed. "Just reach inside and tap into the pressure. Don't push too hard. Your body is still mending."

I closed my eyes and drew a breath.

With Matthew, Alpha power had always felt like a heavy stone dropped on my chest—suffocating, bruising, meant to crush. But when I reached inward toward Luna, what answered wasn't heavy at all. It felt like silver lightning. It felt like ocean tide.

I pushed just a fraction of it outward.

A soft rush of air swept across the yard.

Twenty meters away, a fully armored Lycan royal guard suddenly stumbled. His boots slid in the gravel, and his left knee hit the stone floor with a sharp crack before he could catch himself. He looked up, his jaw slack and his eyes wide with absolute shock.

I stared at my open hands in disbelief. The skin was still rough from years of handling toxic roots.

*You have been doing this your whole life,* Luna remarked with dry amusement. *You simply had no one to aim it at.*

A faint smile touched my lips, but it vanished instantly.

A brutal, fiery spasm ripped through the center of my chest. I doubled over, clutching my ribs as a harsh cough tore out of my throat. The metallic taste of blood hit my tongue.

"That's enough!" Dr. Finch's voice cut across the yard. The head healer hurried over, pressing a cold, medicinal cloth to my lips and scanning my chest with her tablet. "Your lung tissue is still inflamed from chronic wolfsbane exposure. One trick is enough for today. Back to bed. Now."

They helped me back to my room, but as I lay against the pillows, I didn't feel weak. I closed my eyes and catalogued the feeling of my aura the exact same way I used to study rare herbs: *sharp, pure, undeniable.*

Sleep didn't come that night.

The left side of my collarbone throbbed with a hollow, freezing ache. Even though the mate bond was gone, the phantom coldness lingered in my flesh like an open wound.

*You miss the routine of him,* Luna said gently in the quiet room. *Not the male himself.*

"I loved him," I whispered into the dark ceiling. "I gave him four years of my life. The mate bond was supposed to be sacred. The Moon Goddess gave him to me."

*The bond was a cage, Rayna,* Luna replied.

"It wasn't a cage," I argued back, frustration stinging my eyes. "I chose to serve him! I wanted him to see me!"

*And that is why I stayed dormant,* Luna said, her tone unyielding yet full of sorrow. *You poured every drop of your soul into feeding a male who gave you nothing in return. You shrank yourself every single day just to fit beneath his boot. A royal Lycan wolf cannot breathe in a cage built of scraps. The bond was strangling us both.*

"That's not true," I choked out, turning on my side and pulling the blankets tight.

*It is true,* she answered softly. *His rejection was cruel. But it was the only thing that broke the lock.*

I wanted to keep fighting her. I wanted to defend the girl who had burned her lungs in the trenches, clinging to the pathetic hope that Matthew would one day call her worthy. I argued in the dark until my chest ached and my throat went dry.

Luna didn't snap. She didn't leave. She just stayed with me, absorbing every bitter word with infinite patience.

By the time pale gray dawn began to filter through the arched windows, I had run out of words.

I lay staring at the morning light, hot tears finally spilling silently down my cheeks. Luna was right.

I wasn't crying because I missed Matthew. I didn't want him back.

I was grieving for the four years I had spent tearing myself apart, trying to earn love from a man who was never big enough to hold it.

By mid-morning, Lakelyn returned to my room. She didn’t bring files this time. Instead, she set a small black comm device on the nightstand and tapped the glass screen.

"Listen to this," she said quietly. "Intercepted from Ironmaw’s command room an hour ago."

Static hissed, followed by the sound of a heavy fist slamming onto wood.

Then came Ryder Holt’s voice. It wasn't panicked like before. It was dangerously flat.

"Marcus is dead, Alpha."

A sharp beat of silence cut through the speaker. Marcus had been one of Ironmaw's senior border warriors.

"Rogue skirmish near the creek," Ryder continued, his words like cold stones hitting the floor. "He took a graze from a wolfsbane bolt. The poison spread straight to his heart. It took three hours."

"That’s impossible," Matthew’s voice broke in, strained and thin. "Wolfsbane takes a full day to kill a Delta warrior."

"It takes three hours when there’s no neutralizing salve to draw out the venom," Ryder shot back. His tone was closer to an open accusation than a military report. "Do you want to know the last time we lost a warrior to a border arrow, Matthew? Twenty-six months ago. Exactly when Rayna perfected the third-generation barrier salve."

I sat frozen on the edge of the mattress. My fingers curled into the silk bedsheet.

"Ryder laid the numbers out," Lakelyn whispered, watching my face.

On the recording, paper rustled.

"Every single successful skirmish under your command correlates to her batch logs," Ryder said, his voice hard. "Every fallen rogue, every survived ambush. We didn't win because of your tactics. We won because an Omega was brewing miracles in a damp cellar while we laughed at her. Now she’s gone, and our men are dying in the dirt."

"Enough!" Matthew roared. The sound of his Alpha tone vibrated through the speaker, ragged and desperate. "The pack's weakness is a discipline problem, not a supply problem! If the warriors can't survive a minor skirmish without relying on some kitchen grease, they need harder training! We are Ironmaw! We do not depend on an Omega!"

Ryder didn’t shout back. He didn’t argue.

He simply said, "Yes, Alpha."

The silence that followed through the line spoke louder than any shout. It was the sound of a Beta realizing his leader was completely blind.

Lakelyn switched off the device. "The cracks are spreading. Ironmaw won't survive the month."

I didn't answer. A strange, cold weight settled in my gut. For years, Matthew had taken my jars of salve, tossed them into his supply crates, and accepted the pack's cheers as his own glory. He had really convinced himself he was untouchable.

An hour later, needing air, I stepped out into the stone corridor.

The compound was quiet. Tall arched windows looked out over vast evergreen forests that stretched toward the northern mountains. As I walked, an older man in dark gray formal livery approached me from the far end of the hall.

He didn't treat me like an Omega. He stopped three paces back and lowered his head in a deep, respectful bow.

"Princess Rayna," he said softly. "A personal dispatch from King Alistair."

He held out a thick, ivory envelope sealed with heavy red wax. The Lycan royal crest—a howling silver wolf encircled by twin swords—was stamped cleanly into the center.

My throat tightened. I took the envelope. "Thank you."

The aide bowed once more and walked away, giving me space.

My thumb hesitated over the seal before breaking it. Inside was a single piece of heavy parchment, covered in bold, elegant script.

*Rayna,* it read.

*Your return is not a discovery. It is a restoration. For twenty-two years, our family has carried your absence like an open wound that refused to heal. I will not force you into a room before you are whole. I will not ask you to perform for a court that should have been guarding you from the start. I will see you when you are ready, my daughter. And not a single breath before.*

*— Alistair*

I read it once. Then I read it again.

There were no royal decrees. No demands for obedience. Just the words of a father holding back twenty years of grief behind ink and paper.

I pressed two fingers against my inner wrist, feeling the calm, steady rhythm of my pulse. I didn't cry. But deep inside my chest, Luna went entirely still. She didn't growl or push; she just rested there, warm and vast, holding the weight of those words with me.

By late afternoon, the compound grew quiet as the guards rotated shifts. I sat near the window of my recovery room, watching the sun dip behind the pines.

The soft click of the door lock made me turn.

A man in a white medical coat stepped inside, pushing a rolling metal tray. He wore a surgical mask, and a sterile blue cap was pulled low over his forehead.

He moved awkwardly, his broad shoulders hunched as if trying to shrink his size. It was a terrible disguise. A man who had spent his entire life commanding rooms had no idea how to look invisible.

He locked the heavy deadbolt behind him.

Then he reached up and pulled off the mask.

"Rayna," Matthew whispered.

His gray eyes were bloodshot. The sharp jawline he had always been so proud of was purple and swollen where Lakelyn had struck him. His dark hair was messy, and the faint stench of stress sweat and scorched wolfsbane clung to his clothes.

Before I could speak, Matthew fell straight to his knees beside my bed.

"Rayna, please," he rushed out, his voice swinging erratically between frantic begging and his usual sharp authority. "You have to listen to me. I had to bribe a compound cleaner five thousand dollars just to get the floor schedule."

I stayed completely still, staring down at him.

"The pack borders are falling apart," Matthew pressed, reaching out to grab the edge of my blanket. His hands were shaking. "The tribunal summons arrived this morning. They want to strip my title, Rayna! Over a misunderstanding! You know how Peyton is—she manipulated me. She got into my head about pack hierarchy, about appearances. It was a mistake. Severing the bond was a mistake."

He didn't say he was sorry.

He didn't ask how my cracked ribs were, or how much blood I had coughed up after inhaling root smoke for him.

"I need you to come back with me," Matthew said, his tone turning into an urgent, demanding plea. "You bring the formula back, tell the Lycan King this was all a private domestic dispute, and they'll drop the charges. We can fix this, Rayna. I need you back."