My claws hovered an inch from my own throat, and I lowered them.

Not because I changed my mind. Because I had one more question.

"Every treaty I signed as Luna," I said. "What happens to them?"

Fiona's gloves were red to the wrist. She looked at Elara, then back at me, and I watched her decide not to soften it.

"Void," she said. "All of them. A Luna seal only holds if the bond behind it is real. The second this forgery is documented, every agreement you ever signed dissolves. Trade routes. Border pacts. The Wexley alliance. The eastern hunting rights." She swallowed. "Ten years of Ironvale's standing rests on paper you signed. And none of it is worth anything."

I thought I'd feel something. Rage, maybe. Some hot, red thing.

What I felt was quiet.

Ten years. Every dinner where I smiled through my aching neck. Every negotiation where I sat at Gideon's right hand and lent him a legitimacy he didn't have. Every night I lay awake blaming myself because my mark hurt instead of glowed, because my wolf wouldn't answer, because I thought I was the broken thing.

I wasn't broken. I was used.

"Savannah," Elara said. Her voice cracked on my name. "Please. Let me do it properly. Anesthetic, clean instruments—"

"No."

I stood. The stool scraped back across the tile.

"He put it on me," I said. "I'll take it off."

My right hand shifted. Just the hand — bone stretching, nails going long and black, the first shift I'd managed in ten years and it came easy, like something had been waiting behind a locked door with its shoulder against the wood.

I found the cracked edge of the mark with my thumb.

Then I tore.

I want to be honest about this. It hurt. It hurt in a way I don't have words for, a deep, wet, tearing hurt, and I kept going anyway because underneath the pain there was something better — a scrape of relief, like pulling a splinter you've carried so long you stopped calling it a splinter and started calling it your body. The false mark came away in strips. Wolfsbane residue, gray-green and chemical, smearing under my nails. Blood ran down my collarbone, soaked my collar, dripped off my elbow onto the floor.

Fiona made a sound. Elara didn't move.

When it was done, I stood there breathing. In four. Out four.

And inside me, where the bond-channel had always hummed — that thin, sour thread I'd spent a decade mistaking for love — I pushed silence into it. Deliberate. Total. Not a slam. A closing. The way you'd close a door on a room where somebody died.

Nothing came back. Nothing ever had.

I reached up and unclasped the Luna pendant from around my neck. Silver, heavy, Ironvale's crest worn smooth from ten years of my thumb. I set it on the examination table beside Elara's locked case with Lilly's file inside.

"Keep the file," I said. "Every timestamp. Every record."

Elara's chin came up. "I already have."

"Good."

I walked out. Down the hall I'd walked ten thousand times, past photographs of a family I was never actually part of, bleeding onto a carpet I'd chosen myself.

Beta Marcus was standing at the front door.

He saw my throat. Whatever color was left in his face went out of it. His mouth opened, and the command Gideon had buried in him years ago clamped down and shut it again — I saw it happen, saw the muscle in his jaw jump as he fought something that wasn't his to fight.

We looked at each other for a long moment.

Then Marcus stepped aside.

That's all. He didn't speak. He didn't stop me. He moved out of the doorway and let the night in, and as I passed him I heard him pull in a breath — a real one, deep and shaking, like a man surfacing after a very long time underwater.

I went down the steps and across the lawn and into the trees, toward the southern line, toward rogue land, and I didn't look back once.

***

I learned the rest later. But I'll tell it now, because I want it remembered.

At the same hour, in the conference hall on the east side of the pack house, Gideon sat across from three allied Alphas finalizing a territorial trade that depended entirely on Ironvale looking stable. Alpha Corbin Reyes had a pen in his hand.

Gideon stopped mid-sentence.

They said his face changed first — that the color went out of it all at once, like something had been unplugged. Then he pitched forward across the table and coughed blood across the documents, bright and arterial, spattering the signature line.

And then he howled.

Not a shout. Not a man's sound at all. Every wolf in that room knew what it was, because there is only one thing that sound means: a mate-death wail. The noise a wolf makes when the bond is severed and the body decides the other half is gone forever.

His body believed it. The poison in him believed it. It didn't matter that there was never a bond at all.

Corbin Reyes caught his arm as he went down. Gideon ended up on his knees on the floor of his own conference hall, blood on his chin, howling in front of the exact men whose respect he'd built my fraudulent Luna status to buy.

Corbin didn't help him up. Corbin looked at the other two Alphas, and something behind his eyes went cold and arithmetical.

The damage was done in under a minute.

***

And in the west corridor, Margaret Price stood behind a cracked door.

She'd heard Marcus's account — the pieces of it he'd choked out to a warrior before the command caught him. The forged mark. Raven's real one. Lilly's antidote, and the mind-link her son let ring.

Margaret loved that little girl. She'd braided her hair. She'd sat up with her through fever nights, arguing with me about blankets.

And she'd spent ten years telling herself the wrongness she sensed in my bond was just an old woman's suspicion of a girl who'd taken her place.

She didn't think. Her wolf came up through her like a fire through a dry house — the first shift in over a decade, forced, furious, maternal. Fur bursting through skin. Bones cracking out of shape they hadn't held since before I married her son.

She made it three strides toward Gideon's study.

Then her heart stopped.

Three warriors came running at the noise and found their Elder Luna dead on the threshold, half-shifted, one clawed hand still reaching toward the door.

Gideon came out of the study and stood over her.

Nobody said a word.

But I've been in that pack long enough to know the difference between silence that's obedience and silence that's a verdict.

I learned about the rejection the way I learned about everything from Ironvale now — secondhand, after the fact, from people who owed me nothing and told me anyway.

The whispers started the night Margaret died. Pack tradition says an Elder Luna who dies in fury at her own bloodline leaves a curse behind her, a slow poison working backward through the pack's foundation. I don't know if I believe in curses. I know Gideon's cough got worse by morning, a wet, rattling thing he wouldn't let Fiona near. I know he sent four runners south looking for me, and none of them found anything but empty trees.

And I know what he did next, because Marcus told someone, and that someone told someone else, and eventually it reached me the way water finds a crack — Gideon called Raven into the great hall, the same room where I'd watched him hold his healthy son on his hip, and he recited the words in full. All of them. The name, the pack, the rejection, the old formal cruelty of it, delivered not out of love for me but out of superstition — some desperate, animal logic that said if he cut Raven loose, the thing dying inside him might stop dying.

Raven didn't scream. She didn't argue. She just walked out into the dark, and nobody followed her, and neither of them understood yet that it was already too late for ceremonies to fix anything.

I understood that part better than either of them. I was four days south of Ironvale by then, and I understood exactly what it felt like to be dying from something no ritual could undo.

My wolf was worse without the mark than she'd ever been with it. I'd thought tearing off the forgery would set her free. Instead it was like pulling a dying woman off a ventilator — some brutal, necessary honesty, and now I had to watch what the machine had actually been keeping alive. I ate what I could catch, which wasn't much. I slept in twenty-minute pieces against tree roots. I pressed two fingers to the raw, healing wound on my neck so often it had become a metronome, a way of checking I was still tethered to my own body.

On the fourth night I stopped counting days and started counting something worse.

I went down against a dead oak in a clearing, not because I chose to but because my legs simply stopped being legs. I sat with my back against the bark, breathing in fours, and did the arithmetic I'd been avoiding. If the dormancy kept accelerating at this rate, I had — what. A week. Maybe less.

That's when I heard the rustle.

Not predatory. Predators don't announce themselves. This was deliberate, unhurried, a sound that wanted to be heard before it arrived.

A man stepped out of the tree line and dropped to one knee in the leaf litter in front of me.

I didn't know him. I knew of him — every northeastern Alpha knew of him, the way you know of weather systems, from a distance, with respect and unease. Caelan Ashford. The Lycan Prince. Gideon's rival in every treaty room I'd ever sat in.

He raised one fist and something behind him — men, wolves, a guard I hadn't even registered — went still.

Then he tilted his head and bared his throat.

I'd seen scent-deference in old ceremony footage, the kind Margaret used to make me watch out of some sense of duty. I'd never seen it done in person. It struck me as absurd, a man kneeling in the dirt in front of a half-dead rogue with a wound crusted on her neck.

"The Lycan King's daughter was stolen at birth," he said. His voice was low, even, unhurried — a voice that had never once needed to shout to be obeyed. "She carries this scent. I've tracked it for years. A wolfsbane forgery masked it the entire time." His eyes came up to meet mine. "It's unmasked now."

I stared at him for a long moment before I trusted my own voice.

"Can you prove it?"

"A locked chest of tracking logs. The royal recognition protocol. A father who's been searching thirty years and never stopped." No hesitation. He answered like a man reciting something he'd rehearsed in his sleep.

"And what do you want in return?"

"A tribunal that dismantles Gideon Price." His jaw was steady, his tone almost bored, which somehow made it worse. "That requires a complainant with standing. You'd have absolute standing."

I let a full minute pass. Somewhere behind him, one of his men shifted his weight and Caelan didn't so much as glance back — total control, or total confidence, I couldn't yet tell which.

"Show me the evidence first," I said. "Then we negotiate."

He rose. And beneath the fatigue, beneath the flickering, dying thing that used to be my wolf, something small stirred — warm, grounding, nothing like the chemical ache I'd mistaken for love for ten years.

I didn't tell him that. I didn't tell myself, either. Not yet.