Savina’s cub was dead.

And soon after clutching his lifeless body,she herself fell into darkness.

When she finally woke,the first thing she did was travel to the Pack Archive Hall to remove her son’s name from the blood-registry.

The scribe,an old wolf with kind eyes,spoke gently:

“And the sire of the cub?”

Savina’s gaze was cold,her voice sharp.

“He doesn’t have one.”

A wolf like Myron no longer deserved the title of father.

The scribe hesitated,then said nothing more.With a quiet stroke of his blade,he split the boy’s moon-token in half and handed both pieces back to her.

When the act was done,Savina went straight to the Spirit Pyre to cremate her child’s remains.

By dusk,she returned to her den carrying the small bone urn in her arms.

The moment she crossed the threshold,Myron’s furious roar lashed out like a whip.

“Savina!You were supposed to be resting from the trials!What are you doing running about?”

A bitter laugh escaped her lips.

Their cub was gone,yet all he saw was her“running about.”

Too exhausted to argue,she clutched the urn tighter and walked past him.

Something in her hollow eyes made his chest twist in irritation more than pity.

“What are you doing carrying that cursed vessel?”he snarled.“Throw it out.Now.”

He reached for it,but in that instant,Savina’s aura flared—a crimson blaze of fury.

“If you dare touch this urn,”she hissed,her voice trembling with rage,“I swear by the Moon,Myron—I’ll fight you to the death!”

He froze.The feral look in her eyes unsettled even him.

After a long pause,he lowered his arm.

Forget it,he thought.She’s still angry about the alchemy trials.She’ll calm down in a few days.

Straightening,he said evenly,“You did well in the trials.Helene has been reinstated by the Healers’Circle—promoted to Chief Alchemist,in fact.All thanks to your…contribution.”

He continued,oblivious to the tightening of her grip around the urn.

“I’m hosting a feast for her tomorrow night at the manor.You’re still lady of this house—see that it’s prepared.”

From beginning to end,Savina said nothing.

Myron frowned slightly.“Alright,I understand.You’re upset.That’s fine—it’s even endearing once in a while.But keep that face too long,and it’ll turn ugly.”

Then,in a tone meant to appease her,he added,“After Helene’s promotion feast,we’ll go and fetch our cub together,alright?”

His words stabbed into her like knives.

Fetch him?

Alonzo could never be fetched again.

He had died the very night his father chose to protect another.

Savina bit down her grief,forcing a steady voice.

“Alright.I’ll make sure everything is ready.”

Hearing her calm agreement,Myron exhaled in relief.

She’s still the same as before,he thought.

Moments after he left,a raven-stone glowed faintly on her desk.The rune flared—the signal from Dike.A pouch of moon-coins worth two million had been transferred into her vault.

Savina lifted the stone and spoke calmly into the rune mirror.

“I wish to hold the grandest moon-funeral in the Northern Territories.At dawn tomorrow.

I want a hundred mourning carriages to circle the Lestrange manor a hundred times.”

Her voice dropped to a chilling whisper.

“Let the entire Silver Plains know—the Lestranges aren’t hosting a feast tomorrow.They’re holding a funeral.”

“And prepare the brightest skyfire runes you can.At midnight,I want the words A Life for a Life blazing across the heavens.”

When she ended the transmission,a cold smile curved her lips.

Her son was dead.

And Myron and Helene would never again know peace.

That afternoon,Savina returned home with the urn still in her arms.

She then summoned her informants and purchased—through false names—the entire alchemy cave where she had been imprisoned.

By twilight,she had recovered every crystal orb,every recording stone that contained the horrors she and her son had endured.

All the evidence—every ounce of it—now belonged to her.

She placed the death certificate carved on bone,the memory orbs,and all of Helene’s crimes into an iron chest.

Across its lid,she carved a single message:

Myron—from this life onward,we shall never meet again.

At midnight,a dark carriage waited outside the manor.

Savina picked up her son’s urn,took her pack of belongings,and walked out of the Lestrange estate for the final time.

The moon was high,pale,and cold.

The gates closed behind her with a heavy clang.

From that night on,Savina swore—she would never set foot in that cursed den again.

The night air shimmered with silver torchlight, casting wavering patterns along the carved stone walls of the Lestrange Stronghold. Banners bearing the crest of the crescent wolf fluttered above the great hall, while drums echoed across the valley—steady, rhythmic, like the pulse of the pack itself.

It was meant to be a night of celebration.

Helene’s Moon-Day—the day she officially ascended as Chief Healer of the Circle—had drawn every noble wolf, every merchant lord, and every envoy from the allied clans. Tables groaned beneath roasted stag and honeyed mead. The scent of spice and smoke mingled with fur and perfume. Laughter rose high, mingled with the clinking of goblets.

Yet for all the splendor, Alpha Myron Lestrange could not feel at ease.

Something was wrong.

He sat beside Helene at the high table, surrounded by elders and advisors, yet his gaze kept drifting beyond the crowd—past the dancers, past the glittering chandeliers—toward the open archway that led into the night. He searched for one face that was nowhere to be found.

Savina.

Her absence hung like frost in his chest. She should have been there, radiant in her Luna’s silver mantle, greeting guests at his side. Instead, her seat remained empty, untouched.

“Myron,” Helene’s voice purred beside him, soft and honeyed. She slipped her arm through his, tilting her head with practiced sweetness. “You’re distracted. Are you looking for Savina again? Has she started brooding?”

The name scraped against his temper. He frowned, irritation flickering behind his dark eyes. That did sound like Savina—stubborn, prideful, impossible to please.

His expression hardened, his tone edged with contempt.

“What right does she have to brood? If she wants to sulk, let her. The world doesn’t stop turning for her moods.”

Helene laughed softly—a low, melodious sound that seemed to soothe the surrounding tension. She tugged at his sleeve, her golden hair brushing against his arm.

“Don’t waste your night on her. Come, everyone’s waiting for you. It’s your presence they honor, not hers.”

Obliging, Myron rose. Together they reentered the great hall, where hundreds of eyes turned toward them with reverence. The Alpha of the Lestrange bloodline—strong, unshakable—and the radiant healer newly elevated to power. Myron greeted each clan elder, his hand steady as steel, securing alliances and favors with each handshake, each diplomatic smile.

But the unease never left him.

The moon hung full and heavy above, and somewhere beneath its glow, a whisper gnawed at him—a pull he refused to acknowledge.

Then an elder at the head table raised a goblet, his laughter booming.

“Lord Lestrange! Are you planning to replace your Luna already? A Moon-Day feast and a healer’s promotion—it all feels rather domestic, doesn’t it?”

The jest rippled through the room like wildfire. Laughter followed—sharp, gleeful, mocking.

Helene flushed, lowering her gaze in feigned shyness. Her fingers brushed against Myron’s, waiting, silently urging him to respond—to make their closeness official in front of everyone.

Myron opened his mouth—

—and a sound cut through the night.

A deep, resonant howl that did not belong to wolf or wind, but to something older. It rolled down from the valley cliffs, long and hollow, making the very walls of the fortress tremble.

The laughter died instantly.

Then came the second sound—booming, rhythmic, amplified by the horn-stones of the funeral guild.

“Lord Lestrange! We are here to hold a burial for your kin!”

Every wolf in the hall froze.

Outside, the courtyard blazed with motion. Over a hundred mourning wagons had arrived—black, grim, drawn by skeletal steeds whose eyes glowed faintly blue. Cloaked figures marched beside them, draped in gray garments of grief. Funeral horns wailed low and sorrowful, echoing across the mountain like the cry of the dead.

The wind carried the scent of incense and ash.

Myron’s heart dropped. His face went pale, rigid as stone. He pushed through the crowd and stormed down the steps, the guests following in stunned silence.

“Who ordered this?” he roared, his voice splitting the night. “Who dares bring such omens to my gates?!”

The leader of the mourners—a weary old wolf with white hair and trembling hands—stepped forward, bowing deeply. “My lord, we were summoned by Lady Savina Lestrange. She instructed us to arrive this night and hold the burial for your child. Where shall we lay the ashes?”

The words struck like thunder.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. The nobles exchanged glances, murmurs rising like static.

Indeed—there had been no sight of the young Alonzo for days. Nor of his mother.

Myron stood frozen. For a moment, he heard nothing but the pounding of his pulse.

Then Helene stepped forward, fury blazing in her eyes. “Lies!” she spat. “Lord Myron’s cub is under my care, receiving the best healing in the Circle. You insolent fools—this is blasphemy!”

She turned to Myron, her voice trembling, softening into hurt. “Myron, I told you—this is Savina’s doing. She’s jealous, jealous that you treat me kindly. She’s trying to shame us on my Moon-Day.”

Her hands reached for his arm. “You know I would never harm your son. Don’t you believe me?”

For a heartbeat, uncertainty flickered in Myron’s gaze—then vanished.

“Of course I believe you,” he said flatly.

He turned toward the mourners, his voice like ice. “There is no funeral here. Leave this ground before I burn your wagons to ash.”

But the old wolf only bowed lower, shaking his head. “Forgive us, my lord, but Lady Savina paid in blood-oath. We must fulfill her command. She ordered us to circle your hold one hundred times—no more, no less.”

And with that, the mourning procession moved again.

The horns bellowed, deeper, louder, until the sound swallowed the valley itself.

Inside the hall, the walls quaked with it. Wine spilled. Goblets shattered.

Helene’s composure broke. Tears streaked her face, anger twisting her beauty.

“Myron!” she cried. “This was supposed to be my night! Look at this disgrace! When word spreads, the whole Circle will laugh at me!”

She turned to flee, but Myron caught her arm, pulling her close. “Don’t be upset,” he murmured, voice strained. “I’ll handle it.”

From the back, one of the elders called out, “Alpha, if this is truly Lady Savina’s command—then summon her! End this madness!”

“Yes,” another added. “Call her through the bond. If this is a misunderstanding, clear it now!”

Myron hesitated, his throat tight. Slowly, he reached inside his cloak and withdrew the bondstone—the crystal that once linked his spirit to hers.

Its faint pulse still carried the echo of her aura.

He stared at it for a long, silent moment—then pressed his thumb to the rune and called her across the spirit link.

The bondstone flared faintly in his hand, the rune glowing with pale moonlight. A whisper, distant yet familiar, brushed against Myron’s mind—Savina’s scent, her heartbeat, her voice echoing from somewhere far beyond reach.

But when he reached deeper, the connection shuddered… and shattered.

She had severed it!