Chapter 41 Ghost of Northwood
The silence of the graveyard was absolute, broken only by the frantic thrumming of Elara’s heart against her ribs. The hand over her mouth was firm, the skin smelling of woodsmoke and the cold, ozone scent of the moon. She didn't have to see his face to know the heavy, possessive heat of the body pinning her against the cedar.
“Shh,” Ronan’s voice vibrated against her ear, sharp and laced with an edge of suppressed fury.
Slowly, he turned her around, his golden eyes glowing like molten ore behind his iron mask. He didn't let go. His fingers dug into the bark on either side of her head, caging her in.
“What were you thinking?” he hissed, the sound more a growl than a whisper. “Leaving the hall without a word? Moving through Northwood’s restricted grounds without protection? Do you have any idea how close those guards were to catching you?”
Elara flinched, her voice coming out as a breathless stutter. “I… I just needed to see him, Ronan. You were occupied with the Alphas, and I didn’t want to bother the Queen or Matthew with my needs. I thought if I just slipped away, I could save time and be back before anyone noticed.”
Ronan exhaled a harsh, jagged breath, his forehead dropping to rest against hers. The iron of his mask was cold, but his skin was burning. “Bother me? Elara, the thought of losing you—especially to a man like Draven—scares me more than any war ever could. You are not a burden. You are the reason I am here. Don't you ever do that again.”
The raw sincerity in his voice hit her harder than his anger. Elara felt the weight of her guilt settle in her stomach. She looked up at him, her eyes wide behind her frost-patterned mask. “I’m sorry. I just wanted closure.”
“She’s safe,” Fenrir grumbled within Ronan’s mind, his predatory instinct finally beginning to settle. “But the scent of this place… it reeks of old lies.”
In that moment, a sharp pull at the back of Ronan’s mind signaled a mindlink.
“Ronan? Did you find her?” Matthew’s voice was tense.
“I have her,” Ronan replied. His hand subconsciously tightened around Elara’s waist, pulling her flush against him as if to prove she was still there. Elara shivered at the sudden, possessive contact.
“Bring her back now,” Matthew urged. “Draven’s been prowling the hall like a starved wolf asking where the ‘King and his shadow’ disappeared to. They’re about to begin the Luna ceremony in the garden. If you aren't here, he’ll use it as an excuse to send out search parties.”
“We’re on our way,” Ronan hummed.
He pulled back slightly, looking down at Elara. “We have to go back. The ceremony is starting.”
“But Hector…” Elara’s gaze drifted toward the empty, grey clearing. “Ronan, I can’t find it." I pointed in that direction, toward the mounds, but the oak tree is gone. There’s no sign of a grave. No sign of anyone being buried there at all.”
Ronan frowned, his brow furrowing beneath the mask. He closed his eyes, extending his senses. As a Lycan King, he carried the authority of the moon; he could read the silver threads of aura left behind by powerful bloodlines. An Alpha like Hector, even in death, should have left a residual stain on the earth—a lingering echo of power that would last decades.
Ronan let his power seep into the soil, searching for the heavy, oak-like resonance of Hector’s soul.
Nothing.
The earth was silent. Dead. There was no Alpha aura here, no trace of a burial, not even the decay of a body. It was as if the ground had been scrubbed cleanor as if it had never held a body to begin with.
“That’s impossible,” Fenrir growled. “An Alpha doesn't just vanish into the dirt without a trace.”
“I know,” Ronan affirmed silently.
“What is it?” Elara asked, her voice trembling. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing we can deal with now,” Ronan said, his voice clipped. “We need to get you back to the hall.”
“No!” Elara resisted, her hand clutching his forearm. Tears threatened to spill from beneath her mask. “I won’t come back here again, Ronan. I can’t leave without saying goodbye. He was the only family I had. Draven never let me see the grave after the burial… I just need to stand where he is, one last time.”
Ronan sucked in a deep breath, looking at her desperate, tear-streaked face. His heart twisted. “Fenrir, there is no grave here,” he thought. “But if I tell her that now, she’ll collapse.”
“We discuss this when we are home,” the wolf replied.
“Fine,” Ronan whispered. “Show me where you think it was.”
Elara led him a few yards further, stopping at a patch of barren earth that felt colder than the rest. She knelt, her silver skirts spreading over the dirt like a pool of moonlight.
“I’m sorry it took so long, Hector,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I’m safe now. I’m with someone who… who looks at me the way you said someone would. I won’t forget what you taught me. I’ll be strong. I promise.”
Ronan stood over her, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his gaze sweeping the perimeter. He felt like a liar for letting her speak to empty dirt, but he couldn't break her heart in the middle of enemy territory.
Once she stood, her eyes red-rimmed but her resolve set, Ronan didn't give her a chance to walk. He swept her into his arms, lifting her effortlessly. “Hold on.”
He pivoted and vanished into a blur of supernatural speed, sprinting through the shadows of the Northwood estate. They reached the perimeter of the manor just as the crowd began to spill out of the ballroom and into the moonlit gardens.
Ronan set her down behind a marble pillar, smoothing her dress and checking her mask. “Stay behind me. We walk in as if we’ve been enjoying the night air.”
As they approached the gathering, the atmosphere shifted. The Northwood garden was a masterpiece of lethal beauty—white roses that bloomed only at night, their petals tipped with silver, and a central dais made of jagged obsidian.
Draven stood near the dais, his eyes scanning the crowd with predatory precision. The moment he saw the flash of Elara’s silver gown and Ronan’s towering silhouette, his eyes narrowed into slits. His jaw worked silently, the suspicion radiating off him in waves.
But the music changed, a deep, rhythmic drumming of pack tradition, and the focus shifted.
Cierce emerged from the manor, and a collective gasp rose from the guests. Gone was the crimson silk; she was draped in a gown of pure, bone-white lace that clung to her like a second skin. Her hair was loose, cascading down her back, and she carried a chalice of silver. She moved with a practiced, haughty grace to the center of the obsidian dais, standing beneath the zenith of the full moon.
The ceremony of the Luna was a bloody, sacred affair. Draven stepped onto the dais to join her. He took a ceremonial dagger, the blade etched with the history of the Northwood line, and held it over the chalice.
“Blood for the earth,” the pack members chanted in a low, guttural unison. “Soul for the pack.”
Draven sliced his palm, letting the Alpha’s blood hiss into the wine within the chalice. He then took Cierce’s hand. She didn't flinch as he drew the blade across her skin, her blood mingling with his.
The air grew heavy with the scent of power. Under the full moon, the mixed blood began to glow with a faint, ethereal light. Draven lifted the chalice to the sky.
“Tonight, Northwood finds its heart,” Draven declared, his voice booming across the silent garden. “Tonight, Cierce of the Blood-Rose line becomes the Luna of this pack. By the moon’s grace, we are bound.”
He handed the chalice to Cierce. She drank, her eyes locked onto the crowd, searching for Elara. When she found her, Cierce’s lip curled into a triumphant, cruel smirk.
She leaned in, whispered something to Draven, and then turned back to the crowd.
“As my first act as Luna,” Cierce announced, her voice ringing with newfound authority, “I demand that all guests honor the tradition of the Northwood Unmasking. In this garden, under the goddess’s light, there are no secrets. Masks off.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Ronan’s hand flew to Elara’s, his grip like iron.