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.