The banquet hall had turned heavy with unease.

Even the firelight in the great iron braziers seemed to flicker lower, as if afraid to linger too long on the gathered wolves.

When Theron Moonfall returned, escorted by his retinue of elders, his expression was already carved into something severe. The moment he heard what had transpired, his hand struck the carved stone armrest beside him.

“Wicked child,” he said, voice trembling with fury. “The moment you return, you bring nothing but disgrace upon this house.”

Lyra stood still beneath the carved rafters, the Moonstone crest above her casting a pale glow over her face.

For a brief moment, she simply looked at him.

Not pleading.

Not angry.

Just empty.

Morwen, standing beside Theron like a shadow that had learned to smile, gently placed a hand on his arm.

“Do not be so harsh,” she said softly, though her eyes carried no warmth. “Lyra, today is your father’s name-day. You forgot to bring an offering, and now you’ve caused him further distress. Please… do not anger him further.”

That only fed the fire.

Theron’s eyes darkened.

“Even Virella understands what is proper,” he said sharply. “After everything I have given you, this is what you have become? An ungrateful child who knows only how to wound her own house?”

The words fell like stones.

Lyra felt something tighten in her chest—slow, suffocating.

Seven months beneath iron wards and cold stone.

Seven months of silence, of humiliation, of being called less than wolf.

And now, the first judgment she received upon returning was not relief.

But disappointment over a forgotten offering.

She exhaled once, steadying herself.

“Am I,” she said quietly, “so unimportant that even a simple offering matters more than my return?”

Theron’s face twisted.

“Silence!”

His palm struck her.

The force sent her stumbling back against the stone floor. The hall echoed with the sound—sharp, final, unquestioned.

Pain bloomed across her cheek, but Lyra did not lower her gaze.

She lifted it instead.

Straight at him.

“Father,” she said, voice shaking only slightly, “if Mother were here… she would despise what you have become.”

For a heartbeat, the hall froze.

Theron’s expression flickered—something uncertain, something buried.

But Morwen stepped closer, voice gentle as falling snow.

“Lyra,” she murmured, “you are hurting yourself with such thoughts. If Selene were here, she would only wish for peace within the pack. She would want your father to be happy.”

Just like that, the hesitation vanished.

Theron exhaled, as though soothed by the idea.

“You are right,” he said quietly. “Selene would understand.”

Then his gaze returned to Lyra—cold again, settled again.

“Do not bring your mother into this,” he said. “She would be ashamed to see you like this.”

And with that, he turned away.

Morwen followed.

Virella’s absence was not even questioned.

As if Lyra alone had always been the problem that needed removing.

Whispers spread quickly after that.

Some amused.

Some pitiful.

Most already decided.

Lyra did not respond to any of them.

She simply stood, unmoving, while the hall continued to breathe without her.

It was only later that Ronan came.

His scent reached her before his voice did—familiar, once grounding, now unbearably distant.

“Lyra.”

She turned slowly.

He stood at the edge of the hall, framed by torchlight and carved stone, his expression tight with restraint.

“You caused Virella distress,” he said. “Come with me. Apologize.”

The words landed flat.

Not a question.

Not a request.

A command shaped by certainty.

Something inside Lyra tightened painfully, but she did not step back.

“I did nothing wrong,” she said.

Ronan’s jaw flexed.

“Lyra,” he said more firmly, “this is not about pride. Virella has been preparing for this gathering since your release. You know what she endured for it. Yet you still—”

He stopped.

Because Lyra was crying.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just silently, as though her body had finally betrayed what she had been holding back for too long.

Ronan froze.

For a moment, something old passed through his eyes.

Memory.

A girl beneath moonlight, laughing as she ran through pack grounds. A girl who used to fall asleep leaning against him after training under the full moon. A girl who once believed the world would always make sense.

His voice softened, almost unwillingly.

“Why are you crying like this?”

Lyra lifted her head.

Her eyes were red, but steady.

“Ronan,” she said, voice breaking only at the edges, “if someone insulted your mother… would you apologize for it?”

Silence.

He did not answer.

That silence was answer enough.

Lyra let out a short, bitter breath.

“I will not apologize,” she said. “Not to Virella. Not for this.”

Ronan’s expression darkened.

Even the softness vanished.

“You cannot distinguish right from wrong anymore,” he said coldly. “That was Bella’s doing, not Virella’s. Stop twisting everything to suit your feelings.”

Lyra looked at him for a long moment.

As if searching.

As if hoping—foolishly—that something inside him would still answer her.

Then she spoke, very quietly.

“Ronan… did you do this on purpose?”

A pause.

The air between them tightened.

“Did you make sure I would be here,” she continued, “knowing exactly what would happen?”

His eyes flickered.

Just for a moment.

It was small.

But she saw it.

And something inside her went hollow.

Ronan quickly recovered, his voice lowering as if to smooth over what had been revealed.

“The matter of your imprisonment cannot be ignored,” he said. “It was necessary for people to see your release. To understand the truth of what happened with Virella.”

He hesitated.

Then added, more carefully:

“Once this settles, our bond will remain intact. Nothing changes between us.”

Lyra almost laughed.

It came out as nothing more than breath.

“How many times,” she said slowly, “do I have to say it before you believe me?”

Her voice steadied.

“I did not do it.”

Her gaze sharpened.

“It was Virella.”

A pause.

“And none of you… not one… ever believed me.”

Something in her cracked open fully then.

Not loudly.

Just irreversibly.

A faint smile touched her lips, sharp and exhausted.

“Ronan,” she said, “let us end the bond.”

He stared at her.

“What?”

“I said,” Lyra repeated, clearer this time, “I am releasing you from our engagement. You may bind yourself to Virella instead.”

For the first time, anger broke through his composure.

“This is not something you decide in anger,” he said sharply. “We have been bound since youth. Do you think you can simply sever it like this?”

Lyra’s voice remained calm.

“I am not angry,” she said. “I am simply giving you what you have already chosen.”

“I only see Virella as—”

His words broke off.

A summons stone in his sleeve pulsed faintly, humming with pack sigil resonance.

He glanced at it.

Then at the name that appeared within its glow.

Virella.

His expression softened immediately.

As if the argument had already ended in his mind.

Without another word, he turned and walked away.

Toward her.

Lyra watched him go.

Watched the distance widen without effort, without hesitation.

Around her, the hall continued its celebration—voices, music, ritual laughter beneath Moonstone banners.

But none of it reached her anymore.

Slowly, Lyra lowered her gaze.

She inhaled once.

Steady.

Controlled.

Then she turned away from the banquet hall that no longer felt like home.

And she did not look back.

When Lyra returned to the Moonfall manor, the air inside already felt чуж—wrong, unfamiliar, like a home that no longer remembered its own scent.

The corridors still carried the faint trace of old pinewood smoke used during Moon Rite blessings, yet something else now lingered over it. A sweeter perfume. Too sweet. Not of her mother’s line. Not of the old pack customs.

At the end of the hall, she stopped.

Her old chamber door stood half open.

Inside, she saw it at once.

Virella’s things.

New silken drapes embroidered with silver thread hung where her mother’s simple wolf-emblem tapestries once were. Fresh furs laid across the bed in layered softness, marked with Virella’s scent. Even the stone shelf where Lyra once kept her sacred trinkets had been rearranged, polished, claimed.

A maid stood nearby, hands folded nervously.

“Miss…” Lily bowed her head slightly. “This chamber has been given to Miss Virella now.”

Her voice was careful. Almost apologetic.

As if she feared saying it aloud would break something already fragile.

Lyra did not move at first.

She only stood there, staring at the threshold of what used to be hers.

After a long silence, she asked, her voice roughened by something she could not quite swallow down—

“Then… where are my things?”

Lily hesitated.

Then quietly, she led her away.

**

The guest room they brought her to was buried in dust and old silence.

It was smaller, tucked away behind unused corridors where even servants rarely walked. The air smelled of neglect and sealed memory. A room forgotten by time—and now, apparently, remembered only when needed.

Lily shifted uncomfortably.

“Since you were taken away… your belongings were placed here,” she said softly. “I will have it cleaned immediately, Miss Lyra.”

Lyra nodded once.

But said nothing.

She stepped inside alone.

For a long time, she searched.

Wooden chests were opened one by one. Old cloth wrappings unfolded. Forgotten keepsakes turned over in her hands. Each item pulled something loose inside her chest—until finally, she froze.

It was missing.

The only image of her mother.

Selene Moonfall.

Gone.

Lyra’s breath stopped.

Her fingers tightened around empty air as if she could will the world to correct itself.

No.

No, she had hidden it carefully.

After her mother’s death, Theron had ordered all portraits burned beneath the Moonstone pyre. No name spoken. No image kept. As though erasing memory could ease guilt.

But Lyra had stolen one photograph back in secret.

A single frame.

Her mother holding her as a child beneath summer moonlight.

She had hidden it where even servants would not look.

Safe.

Or so she thought.

Her heart pounded as she turned and left the room.

Her steps quickened through the halls until she reached her old chamber again.

The door was fully open now.

And on the bedside—

It was there.

The frame.

Lyra stopped.

Her breath caught so sharply it hurt.

She walked forward slowly, almost afraid the sight would vanish if she moved too quickly.

She picked it up with trembling hands.

The glass was intact. The image untouched.

Selene smiled in the picture, soft and radiant, holding her younger self as though the world had never known cruelty. Lyra’s vision blurred instantly.

Her knees weakened.

A sound broke from her—half breath, half sob.

“Mother…”

Tears fell freely now, unchecked.

And through the blur, she saw something else.

A hairpin.

Then a necklace.

Then earrings.

Her breath stilled again.

She knew them.

Every single one.

The hairpin—crafted by Kael when he was still gentle, still hers.

The necklace—her mother’s last gift before the accident.

The earrings—Ronan’s promise from a time when he still looked at her like she mattered.

Things she had never worn.

Things she had kept safe.

Yet now they were placed together, as though gathered carelessly and worn without permission.

As though they belonged to someone else.

Lyra’s fingers tightened around them.

A tremor ran through her entire body.

Behind her, a voice rang out—bright, startled, too casual.

“Lyra? What are you doing in my room?”

She froze.

Slowly, she turned.

Virella stood at the doorway.

Perfectly composed. Soft smile. Eyes wide with practiced innocence.

And Lyra saw it then.

The shift.

The taking.

The ease of it.

Something inside Lyra snapped cleanly.

She wiped her tears with the back of her hand.

And without a word—

She struck.

The slap echoed through the chamber like a breaking vow.

Virella gasped, stumbling back, falling hard onto the floor.

A beat later, hurried footsteps thundered in.

Ronan.

He caught Virella immediately, pulling her into his arms as though she were something fragile carved from glass.

His face darkened instantly when he looked at Lyra.

“Lyra!” his voice snapped. “Have you lost your senses? She is your sister!”

But Lyra did not even look at him.

Her grip tightened around the stolen items.

Her voice was low—dangerous in its stillness.

“Sister?”

A bitter laugh slipped out.

“She is nothing but the child of my father’s betrayal.”

The words had barely left her mouth when another force struck her.

A sharp blow.

Lyra hit the ground.

Stone scraped her arm, warmth blooming instantly as blood welled beneath her skin.

Her vision swam—but she forced herself to look up.

Kael stood above her.

Cold.

Immovable.

Looking at her as though she were something unclean left too long in sacred halls.

Ronan stood on one side of Virella.

Kael on the other.

Both shielding her.

As if she were the one who needed protection from Lyra.

Ronan’s voice followed, harsh and final.

“You have gone too far. The only reason you were released from the Silverbound prison so soon was because of Virella’s mercy.”

The words sank in.

Silverbound prison.

Lyra’s breath hitched.

The memory returned without mercy—iron chains etched with runes, silence so deep it swallowed even wolf-sense, nights that never ended.

Pain flared through her chest.

Not from the fall.

From everything.

Kael sighed, stepping forward as if nothing had happened.

He reached down.

Touched her arm.

“Does it hurt?” he asked mildly.

Lyra stared at him.

At the hand that had just struck her.

Then at the face that once held her when she cried as a child.

Her expression hardened.

She pulled away sharply and stood on her own.

Her fingers trembled as she clutched the jewelry tighter.

As if letting go would mean losing everything that had once been hers.

Virella, still on the floor, sniffled softly.

“I’m sorry…” she said weakly. “I only thought they were pretty… Ronan and Kael gave them to me. I didn’t mean to take anything important…”

Lyra slowly turned her head.

And looked at them.

Ronan stiffened.

Kael’s gaze flickered for the first time.

Something uneasy passed through both of them.

But Lyra only smiled.

Small.

Broken.

Strange.

“So that’s it,” she murmured.

Her voice no longer shook.

It had gone quiet in a way that no longer begged to be understood.

“Virella,” she said softly, “you always did like taking what belongs to others.”

She loosened her grip.

The jewelry fell.

One by one.

Clinking against stone like shattered vows.

The sound echoed too long in the chamber.

Too final.

Lyra did not move as she spoke again, voice calm now—too calm.

“If you want them… take them.”

Her eyes lifted slightly.

Empty.

“I don’t want anything anymore.”

Not the gifts.

Not the apologies.

Not the people.

Nothing.

Virella’s expression stiffened for a fraction of a second.

Something sharp flickered behind her gentle mask.

Then, suddenly—

She shoved Lyra hard.

Lyra fell back onto the cold floor again.

And in the same breath, Virella bent down quickly, gathering the fallen jewelry into her hands like something reclaimed.

Like something that had always been hers.

With a heavy thud, Lyra was shoved to the ground.

Stone bit into her palms.

The Moonstone frame slipped from her grasp.

Time slowed—just enough for her to see it fall.

The glass shattered upon impact.

A sharp, sacred crack echoed through the chamber like an omen breaking.

Fragments scattered across the stone floor, glinting under the hall’s pale torchlight like broken frost. The image within—her mother holding her in a rare, gentle smile—was torn and stained in an instant.

Red spread across it.

Not ink.

Not paint.

Blood.

Lyra froze.

For a moment, she could not breathe.

Then her body moved on its own.

“Mother…” she whispered, voice breaking.

She dropped to her knees, hands trembling as she reached toward the shattered frame.

But before her fingers could touch it—

a hand seized her wrist.

Ronan.

He pulled her back sharply.

“Lyra,” he said, voice strained, “do not touch it. The glass will cut you.”

She fought him instantly.

Her strength was unsteady, frantic, like a wounded wolf cornered by grief.

“Let me go,” she choked out. “That is my mother’s image—my only one—let me go!”

Her voice cracked fully on the last word.

Ronan tightened his hold, panic flickering in his eyes as he caught sight of the blood already blooming across her palm.

“Stop moving,” he said urgently, gripping her injured hand. “You are bleeding.”

Then, softer—almost desperate—

“I will have it restored. I swear it to you. Just do not hurt yourself like this.”

He lifted her hand and pressed a trembling kiss to her knuckles, as though that alone could steady her breaking spirit.

Lyra shook in his arms.

Not from pain alone.

But from something deeper—something unraveling.

“This is mine,” she whispered fiercely. “It is the only thing I have left of her.”

Behind them, Kael stepped forward, expression tightening as he looked at the scene.

But before he could speak—

Virella moved.

She reached for the shattered frame.

“Virella, no—” Kael started.

Too late.

A shard of Moon-forged glass sliced through her palm.

Blood welled instantly, dripping onto the broken image.

Ronan released Lyra at once.

“Virella!” he exclaimed, rushing forward and catching Virella’s hand. “You are bleeding!”

The shift was immediate.

Concern replaced everything.

Virella winced, but her voice was soft—carefully broken.

“It is nothing,” she said, smiling faintly despite the blood. “Only a small wound. As long as the portrait is safe… that is all that matters.”

Lyra stared.

At the blood.

At the shattered image.

At the way everyone had already turned away from her pain.

Her breath turned shallow.

“What…” she whispered, barely audible, “has my mother ever done to you?”

No one answered.

Kael had already signaled for the healer from the inner hall.

Ronan was still tending to Virella.

Even the elders murmured softly around her, concerned for the wrong wound.

Lyra bent down slowly.

Her fingers hovered over the broken photograph.

Carefully.

Reverently.

But the paper had already soaked through—blood bleeding into Selene’s face, distorting it, swallowing her smile into something unrecognizable.

Lyra’s vision blurred.

And suddenly—

she was no longer in the hall.

She was back in memory.

A carriage overturned beneath storm-dark skies.

Her mother’s arms wrapped around her.

Warm.

Protective.

Final.

And then—

silence.

When Lyra came back to herself, she was trembling so violently her hands would not obey her.

Something inside her broke cleanly.

Not loudly.

Just completely.

Her body collapsed forward.

And everything went dark.

**

When she woke, the first thing she saw was Virella.

Sitting beside her bed like a gentle shadow.

Wearing guilt like a veil.

But her eyes—

her eyes were not sorry.

“Lyra,” Virella said softly, “I only wanted to help. I never meant for this. You are not angry with me, are you?”

Silence.

Lyra said nothing.

So Virella smiled.

And the softness in her face slipped—just slightly.

“You see?” she murmured. “It is not so difficult to take what belongs to you.”

A pause.

Then, quieter—

“This is only the beginning.”

Her gaze sharpened.

“I will make everyone who once looked at you… look at me instead.”

Lyra’s eyes remained empty.

But she was listening.

Virella leaned closer, voice turning almost playful.

“Kael… Ronan… even your father,” she whispered. “They will all choose me in the end.”

Still no response.

So Virella tilted her head.

“Do you know why Kael began to change?”

That finally made Lyra move.

Slowly, she turned her head.

Her voice came out hoarse.

“Why?”

Virella smiled faintly, as if she had been waiting for that exact word.

“I brought a priest from the northern rites,” she said lightly. “He cast bones and read your fate.”

A pause.

Then—

“He said you are cursed.”

Lyra’s breath caught.

Virella continued, unbothered.

“He said those close to you will suffer misfortune. And that your mother… died because the curse demanded it.”

Lyra’s fingers tightened against the blanket.

Cold spread through her chest.

“And Kael believed it,” Virella finished simply.

Something in Lyra went still.

So that was it.

Not truth.

Not love.

Only words spoken beneath ritual smoke and superstition.

A curse.

A convenient story.

Her vision dimmed at the edges.

Her fists clenched until her nails bit into her palms.

Pain grounded her—but only barely.

**

Ronan visited later that day.

Twice.

Maybe three times.

Lyra did not respond.

He sat beside her bed as if nothing had shifted between them.

As if she were still the same girl who once trusted his voice more than her own thoughts.

“The healer said you must not overthink,” he told her gently. “Virella only took the photograph to protect it. She meant no harm.”

A pause.

“I know you resent her,” he added, softer. “But she is not what you think she is.”

Lyra did not move.

Only when the photograph was mentioned did her fingers twitch slightly.

Ronan noticed.

He reached out, brushing her cheek with a faint, practiced tenderness.

“Kael had it restored,” he said. “I will bring it back to you when I return from duty.”

Then he left.

**

That evening, Kael came.

He carried the frame.

Fixed.

But imperfect.

The image was blurred—Selene’s face softened into something almost erased by the restoration.

Kael placed it carefully on the table.

“Even after all efforts,” he said quietly, “it cannot be fully restored. Virella tried her best.”

Lyra stared at it.

Long.

Silent.

Then she spoke.

“Throw it away.”

Kael stiffened.

“What?”

Her voice was steadier this time.

“Throw it away.”

Kael’s grip tightened around the frame.

“Virella worked hard to save this—”

Lyra finally looked at him.

Her eyes were hollow.

Not angry.

Not pleading.

Just emptied of expectation.

“If it had not been touched,” she said softly, “none of this would have happened.”

Silence fell.

Then she asked—

“Kael… do you also believe I caused Mother’s death?”

The air stopped.

Even the torches seemed to dim.

Kael did not answer.

And in that absence—

she understood.

Lyra exhaled slowly.

Her voice cracked only once.

“I see.”

Her gaze drifted back to the blurred image.

Then away.

Somewhere far beyond it.

**

Later, Theron arrived.

His presence filled the room like a storm that no longer needed to announce itself.

“Ever since you returned,” he said sharply, “this household has known nothing but chaos.”

His eyes narrowed.

“When will you learn to behave like Virella?”

Lyra did not respond.

Not even a glance.

Something in that silence displeased him further.

But he said nothing more.

When he left, the room felt emptier than before.

**

At last, Lyra spoke again.

“I will leave.”

Her voice was quiet.

Final.

“My mother left me a holding of her own. I will not remain here any longer.”

Kael turned sharply.

For the first time, uncertainty crossed his face.

“Lyra,” he said slowly, “I have already asked Virella to begin learning the affairs of your estate.”