Lucian replied within seconds. [Okay. I’ll come fetch you in three days.]

Seeing his rune-light agree, Lyra felt a small ease settle in her chest at last.

Her body had always been fragile and after the cleansing and the procedure, she remained under the healers’ care for three more dawns to regain strength.

It wasn’t until the day she was discharged that Darius finally came to the White Hall.

“Hey. I’m sorry. Mireille’s been on her period for the last few days and the cramps have been so bad she can’t even walk. She gets anxious whenever I’m not around,” he explained.

With her back to him, Lyra continued folding the last of her small chest and answered flatly, “Mm.”

Sensing her coldness, Darius stepped close and wrapped his arms around her from behind.

“What happened with the potion that time—yes, you went too far. You crossed a line. But I’ve reflected too. I shouldn’t have lost myself… I won’t let it happen again,” he promised.

“I know you despise Mireille because you love me, but truly, there is nothing between us. She is only a friend. And remember—you’re my mate. What is it you fear?” he pressed.

If Darius could have seen her face then, he would have noticed the disdain flashing in her eyes.

Friends? You lay with her. What friendbed fools around like that? she thought, bitter. Would it only count as “something” if Mireille bore his pup?

But Lyra no longer cared. In a few moons she would be gone for good. There was no use quarrelling over things that would soon be ashes.

“What’s past is past. I don’t wish to speak of it.” She folded the last scarf. “Aren’t you here to escort me? Let’s go.”

Darius felt a strange hollow—she had not even offered him a smile.

Fine, he thought. When Mireille departs, I’ll surprise Lyra. We will begin anew. I will let the old nights be buried.

Everything of late only proved one thing clearer—Mireille is but a friend. What I feel for Lyra… His gaze lingered on his wife. It is love.

He lifted her trunk and guided her from the healing wing.

As they reached the corridor, the attending healer approached with measured steps.

“Lyra, is this your mate? I thought—”

Fearing the healer might speak of the procedure, Lyra cut him off. “Thank you for your care. I recover well now; I will not waste the pack’s resources.” She drew Darius away and hurried from the clinic.

But no sooner had they returned to the villa than Mireille’s voice rang like a bell.

“Oh, Lyra, three years and you remain unchanged!” she sang mockingly.

Lyra shot her a warning glare, then turned to climb the stairs to finish packing.

Mireille’s next words made her halt.

“Three years ago, I was the one who slipped a draught into your cup. I told you to find him at the bar. I knew Darius loved me, but when I left, who could say he would not fall for another? You liked him too, so I set a small trap.”

She sauntered forward, one strap of her dress deliberately hanging, the faded kissmarks at her throat and chest plain to see.

“You took care of him for three years. I appreciate that sacrifice. But now I’ve come back—this house is mine no longer. It’s time for you to leave, Lyra.”

She smiled, triumphant. “You have no kin here in Frostmere. Do not cross me. Take heed: leave while you still can.”

Lyra’s body trembled with cold fury; the revelation seared through her. So it was her plan from the start, she thought.

Without hesitation, Lyra raised her hand and struck Mireille across the face.

She fixed Mireille with a hard look. “So long as I breathe in this den, you will remain the other woman. Push me, Mireille, and none of us step away unscathed.”

Mireille reeled, stunned, lips parted with outrage. Her eyes hardened as she lifted her hand to strike back—when Darius appeared in the doorway like a blade.

In an instant Mireille’s expression shifted; her voice trembled with contrition.

“Lyra, Darius and I are only friends! That night was a mistake! Please! Don’t tell anyone!”

In the next beat, she sank to her knees, begging, forehead nearly kissing the floor.

Before Lyra could speak, Darius shoved her aside roughly.

Lyra, still tender from her recovery, hit the floor hard and hurt. But it was Mireille he lifted to her feet with practiced gentleness.

When he turned to Lyra again, his eyes cut like knives. “You are being absurd, Lyra! I’ve told you—why will you not let this lie?” he demanded.

“If you spread rumors of that night, how will Mireille live with shame?”

Tears rimmed Lyra’s eyes. She bit her lip. “You didn’t ask me what truly occurred, Darius. Will you believe anything she says?”

His hands balled into fists. Seeing her so fragile stirred something in him—but in the end he sided with Mireille.

“I only trust what stands before me,” he declared. “Apologize to Mireille now. Swear you will not lay a hand on her again.”

Lyra let out a cold, mirthless laugh, chin high with pride. “I did what any woman would. I am not the one to apologize.” Her stance did not waver. “You two are the ones at fault.”

Whatever conscience may have lingered in him evaporated.

He looked down at her with the weight of pack authority. “No. This time, Lyra, you will admit your fault.”

He summoned the guards. In moments, they seized her arms and hauled her upright.

“If you will not beg forgiveness, I will execute the family’s discipline. Ninety-nine lashes—you will not endure them,” he said, believing force would bend her will.

He thought threat would break her.

Lyra met his challenge without flinch.

“I struck her,” she said, voice steady. “Because she deserved it. But I have not threatened her.” Her eyes flashed. “Darius, if you dare lay a hand on me, even just once—you’re gonna regret it for the rest of your life.”

Seeing how stubborn and unyielding Lyra remained, Darius’s expression darkened. The faint glint of his wolf eyes—amber and cold—cut through the dim light of the council hall.

“Don’t hold back,” he commanded, his voice low but deadly. “Carry out the family punishment.”

The bodyguards, all seasoned warriors of the Halvorn Pack, lowered their heads. Their hesitation lasted only a breath before the first whip struck the marble floor and cracked across Lyra’s back.

The silver-threaded lash bit into her flesh, tearing through her gown like paper. Moonlight gleamed faintly on the strands of the whip—crafted with diluted moonstone dust to suppress a wolf’s inner strength.

“Lyra,” one guard murmured between blows, his voice trembling, “do you admit your mistake?”

Each strike echoed across the hall, heavy with ritual and cruelty. It was the punishment once reserved for traitors to the pack—ninety-nine lashes, each symbolizing a severed bond of loyalty.

By the thirtieth lash, the fabric of her gown clung to her skin, soaked with her blood. The metallic scent filled the air, mingling with the wild tang of suppressed magic. Her wolf whimpered inside her, but Lyra refused to yield. Her pride—her dignity—was all she had left.

Darius stood unmoving, his face a mask of cold discipline, but beneath it, something flickered. He wanted her to break, to scream, to beg—because only then could he convince himself she was still his.

But she didn’t.

At the thirty-third lash, her knees buckled. Her vision blurred, the world around her shrinking into black and white blurs of light and pain. The last thing she heard before darkness took her was her own heart pounding—steady, defiant.

That night, her fever soared beyond what any healer could explain. Her body convulsed under the moon’s pull, her wolf torn between agony and rage. They said a fever that high could burn away the wolf spirit itself.

For three days, she drifted between worlds—the living and the moon’s shadow realm—where whispers of ancient wolves echoed through her dreams.

On the third morning, she awoke to the faint ring of her crystal communicator. The device pulsed with a blue glow—Lucian’s mark.

“I’m three hours away,” his voice said through the link, deep and steady, like an anchor in the storm.

Exhausted but determined, Lyra pushed herself upright. Every breath felt like fire, but she refused to rest any longer. She packed lightly—only her ID sigil pendant, carved from her family’s old crest.

Just as she was about to leave, another message buzzed through the network.

It was Talia—one of her former trainees in the Mooncrest Guild, where Lyra had served as a diplomat and strategist.

“Lyra!” Talia’s voice quivered through the link. “When are you coming back? Alpha Darius let that Mireille take over your duties these past few days—she’s already ruined three trade pacts! Even the Duskmoore Clan broke their alliance with us!”

Lyra closed her eyes, a humorless smile curling her lips. “He didn’t blame her, did he?” she murmured, already knowing the answer.

“No! It’s like he’s under a spell. He won’t even listen to the council. He snapped at everyone who tried to question her!”

The irony stung. She remembered when she had made a single mistake in her early days as his adviser and Darius had gone silent for a week. That felt like another lifetime—when her heart still beat for him.

Her voice was steady as she replied, “Talia, I’m no longer part of the Halvorn Pack. You don’t need to report to me again.”

The silence that followed was heavy with shock. Then, slowly, Lyra ended the call.

Her decision was final.

But before she could take another step, her communicator flared again—this time with the crest of the MoonCorp. The elders.

The moment she answered, a chorus of angry voices filled the channel.

“Lyra, as Alpha Halvorn’s adviser, it’s your duty to correct him when he’s wrong!” one elder barked. “You’ve gone missing for days! And now that woman—Mireille—has turned the guild upside down!”

“Do you even care about the pack’s reputation anymore?” another snapped.

Their accusations struck like invisible claws, but Lyra had endured far worse. Once, she might have bowed her head and borne their scorn in silence—for the sake of love, for loyalty to her Alpha. But that Lyra was gone.

“You’re all so dissatisfied with Alpha Halvorn, right?” she said coldly. “Then why don’t you grow a spine and tell him yourselves? You’re a disgrace to your titles—snarling at me when you’re too afraid to bare your fangs at your Alpha.”

The channel went dead silent. Then, one by one, the connections cut off.

Lyra stood by the window, the moon’s pale light washing over her. The truth was simple: the reason the MoonCorp had survived all these years wasn’t Darius’s leadership—it was her.

She had been the one who smoothed over his temper, repaired the broken treaties and appeased the elders when his pride drove them away. She had done it all silently, believing that love meant sacrifice.

Now, she finally saw the cost.

She opened the hidden vault behind the study’s wall—a place Darius never touched. Inside lay years of secrets and memories: her resignation letter, the divorce decree sealed in silver ink, her healing records from the lost pup and a small jar of ashes—ninety-nine burned love letters.

At the very bottom was the moon-crystal orb containing the villa’s surveillance runes. She whispered a spell and the orb shimmered, replaying Mireille’s confession from three nights ago—how she had drugged herself and set Lyra up from the start.

Lyra copied the memory rune onto a flash crystal. “A keepsake for you, Darius,” she murmured. “May it haunt you when you remember what you destroyed.”

Outside, a runic carriage—called from the drive. At the same time, her communicator lit up again with Darius’s messages.

[Lyra, Mireille ruined several alliances. I need you back. I know you’ve always hated her, but I’ll explain everything tonight.]

When she didn’t respond, the tone shifted.

[Don’t be childish. You’re my mate and my adviser. Keep this up and I’ll cut your moon allowance in half. You’ll apologize before the council.]

A humorless laugh escaped her lips. “Still trying to command me, even now.”

She blocked every channel tied to his mark and deleted every link connecting her spirit signature to his. Then she walked through the house one last time, erasing her presence rune by rune—like she had never existed there at all.

When she stepped outside, the silver carriage awaited.

Lucian stood beside it, wearing a dark suit laced with sigils of his pack. In his hand, he held a bouquet of white moon tulips—flowers that never wilted, symbols of eternal beginnings.

The sun filtered through the mist as he looked at her, eyes steady and soft.

“Lyra,” he said quietly, “I’ve come to take you home.”