Aine Salazar POV:

Death did not release me.

For reasons I couldn't understand, my spirit lingered after my body was abandoned in the dungeon. I was bound to Maynard Keep, unseen and unheard, forced to watch the living carry on as if Aine Salazar had never existed.

I watched Cornelious take Isela's hand before the entire pack and formally install her as his Luna. She wore the ceremonial silver circlet and received every honor that had once been promised to me.

Willa, the only maid who had remained loyal to me, tried to expose Isela's role in my murder. Isela accused her of treason, and the pack executioners tore her limb from limb in their wolf forms.

My foster parents—the poor farming couple who had raised me with all the love my true family had denied me—came to the capital demanding the truth about my death. Isela branded them agents of an enemy pack and sent them to the gallows before they could speak my name in public.

I screamed. I begged. I tried to reach them, to warn them, to save them. But the living couldn't hear the cries of the dead.

For years, I remained trapped within Maynard Keep. I watched the kingdom descend into chaos, the old King lose his throne, and a new ruler raise his banners over the capital.

Then, on the day Gideon Owen was appointed High Commander of the Realm, he came to Maynard Keep with the new King's soldiers. Cornelious and Isela tried to resist him, but his sword flashed twice, cutting them both down before my eyes.

My entire spirit trembled with joy.

At last. My enemies were dead. My revenge had finally been served.

I stared at the man responsible. Gideon wore a black cloak over his armor, his striking features cold and severe. Blood dripped from the sword in his hand, and the lethal authority surrounding him made even the most powerful wolves lower their heads.

It took me a long moment to recognize him as the reckless young nobleman from my memories—the notorious wastrel who had once spent his days gambling, racing horses, and brawling in taverns.

I followed Gideon through the keep until he entered the neglected family chapel. In a shadowed corner, he found a small, cracked funerary plaque engraved with my name, its surface buried beneath years of dust.

He picked it up and carefully wiped it clean with his sleeve. An emotion I couldn't understand filled his eyes as his fingers traced the letters of my name.

Before I could make sense of it, Gideon pressed the plaque against his chest, turned, and carried it away.

That plaque bore my name. It was the only thing left in this world to prove I had ever existed.

Alarmed, I hurried after him. But the moment my spirit drifted beyond the gates of Maynard Keep for the first time, a violent gust tore through me. My incorporeal form shattered beneath its force, scattering into the night like mist.

The endless darkness rushed in again... but this time, something was different.

The freezing emptiness of death, the wind tearing my spirit apart—it all receded like a tide.

I gasped, my eyes flying open. My heart hammered against my ribs as I took in a huge, shuddering breath.

I was no longer a bodiless spirit trapped inside Maynard Keep. I was sitting in an ornate but unfamiliar carriage.

I looked down at my hands. They were small, the hands of a child, with smooth, unblemished skin.

I pulled back the curtain on the window. Trees blurred past. I remembered this scene. This was the road I traveled when I was twelve years old, brought from the countryside to the main Salazar estate for the first time.

I... was reborn?

The thought sent a tremor through my entire body. This was not a dream. The agony of my death and the years I had spent trapped as a wandering spirit were too vivid, the bone-deep hatred still burning in my blood.

I was reborn. The Moon Goddess had given me a chance for revenge.

My small hands clenched into tight fists, nails digging into my palms. The pain kept me grounded, kept me sane.

Cornelious Maynard. Isela Salazar. And my dear mother, Lady Annice.

I remember every single debt you owe me.

In this life, I will no longer foolishly crave your pathetic love or affection.

I only want revenge.

The carriage slowed to a stop. I heard a stern woman's voice from outside. "Miss Aine, we have arrived. Please exit the carriage."

Aine Salazar POV:

I took a deep breath, forcing down the maelstrom of hatred churning inside me. I buried every emotion beneath a calm, placid surface. From this moment on, I was Aine Salazar, a twelve-year-old girl, timid and curious, brought back from the countryside.

I remembered the woman who had spoken. Mrs. Gable, a respected Elder in the Pack, responsible for teaching etiquette to the young ladies. She was rigid and severe, but fair. In my past life, I had resented her strictness and caused her no end of trouble.

This time, she would be a crucial ally.

I didn't push the door open impatiently as I had before. I waited.

The footman opened the door and lowered the step. A pair of tidy leather boots stopped in front of the opening. Mrs. Gable's voice came again, tinged with impatience. "Miss Aine, please get out."

I gathered my skirts and carefully peeked out. I deliberately adopted a frightened, hesitant posture, my eyes darting to the magnificent manor before me before quickly looking down, my hands twisting the fabric of my dress.

I felt Mrs. Gable's gaze on me, assessing me. The "wild girl from the country."

Without looking up, I spoke in a voice as soft as a mouse, laced with timidity. "Good day, Mrs. Gable."

I sensed a momentary stillness in the air. I guessed she hadn't expected me to know her name and use the proper title.

In my past life, I had been rudely calling her "that old woman" for a month after my arrival.

"You know of me?" Mrs. Gable's voice held a note of surprise.

I fidgeted with my fingers, whispering, "The men my father sent... they told me about you. They said you were the most respected Elder on the estate." I cleverly attributed my knowledge to a non-existent source.

Her tone softened slightly. "It seems you are not entirely savage." She held out a gloved hand. "According to protocol, you should be assisted from the carriage by me or your personal maid, not jump down on your own."

This was her first test. In my past life, I had ignored her hand, jumped down, and was immediately labeled "rude and ill-mannered," sealing her poor first impression of me.

This time, I didn't hesitate. I placed my small, cold hand into her warm, dry palm.

I felt her fingers stiffen. She clearly hadn't expected such compliance.

"Thank you, Mrs. Gable." I used her support to step down from the carriage, my movements graceful and steady, each step conforming to the strictest aristocratic etiquette. These were things I had spent ten years of my previous life learning; they were now etched into my very bones.

When I stood before her, I saw the undisguised astonishment in her eyes. She had probably expected a clumsy country girl, not a... lady with impeccable posture.

"Your etiquette... who taught you?" she couldn't help but ask.

"There was a disgraced lady in the village, a former noblewoman. I watched how she walked." I offered another half-truth, a plausible explanation for my "talent."

Mrs. Gable didn't press further, but the way she looked at me had changed completely. The scrutiny and disdain were gone, replaced by a flicker of curiosity and inquiry.

I knew I had succeeded in the first step.

"Now that you're here, you must pay your respects to the Matriarch, Lady Beatrice," Mrs. Gable said, turning to lead the way.

Lady Beatrice. My grandmother. The only person who had shown me any warmth in my past life, only to be disappointed by my foolishness. This time, I would not let her down.

I followed Mrs. Gable, my eyes sweeping over the bowing servants. Their faces held a mixture of curiosity, contempt, and pity.

I saw the faces of those who had bullied me and the few young servants who had been dismissed for showing me kindness.

A needle of pain pricked my heart, but I quickly regained my composure. It wasn't time for that yet.

Just then, a scene in my peripheral vision caught my eye. A man in a senior servant's uniform was roughly shoving a small Omega boy who looked no older than ten.

The tray the boy was carrying crashed to the ground, the silverware clattering loudly.

The man raised his hand, about to slap the boy across the face.

"Please wait," I said. My voice was not loud, but it was enough to halt all movement.

Every head turned toward me, including the man with his hand frozen in mid-air.