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Malrik POV
“You carry a great heart, Malrikarion,” Zebulon murmured, his tone low yet warm.
His words tugged me away from watching Dravina and Mancini the quiet mending of something fragile happening between them in hushed words and tentative smiles.
I allowed myself a faint grin. “A foolish heart, maybe.”
He shook his head. “No. You acted on the truth you were given. I’ll say this you three showed wisdom. I had nothing but suspicion, no evidence, and still you trusted me.” His gaze swept the council chamber, his expression sobering. “It’s behind us now. And know this I hold no resentment.”
The weight on my chest loosened, just slightly.
Then the atmosphere shifted.
The side doors opened, and Ansel entered escorting a man who needed no introduction. Tall, weathered, lean from years of hardship, yet still carrying himself with dignity. The resemblance to Ansel was undeniable, but the eyes gave him away more than anything else.
Tavrix Moonchild.
Dravina’s uncle. Orielle’s brother. One of the most hunted names whispered in our world and here he was, walking freely into the council hall.
His clothes were new, yet they couldn’t disguise the toll life had taken. He was thinner than he should’ve been, his steps a fraction too careful, as though his body was still relearning what it meant to exist outside of darkness. His beard had been trimmed, his hair washed, but nothing could hide the scars left by whatever he’d endured. Brutality clung to him, but so did survival.
He scanned the chamber, and when his eyes finally landed on Dravina, her breath faltered. I felt it from across the room. His expression softened into something raw, something only blood could summon.
Family.
Two others followed after him key witnesses secured during our investigation. All three were escorted to the witness stand, and the noise of politics dissolved into silence.
This wasn’t another council meeting.
This was judgment.
And it had only just begun.
We all settled into our places. The air thickened, heavy with anticipation. When the council head formally called the session to order, the first wave of witnesses approached the stand.
Doctors. Scientists. Genealogists. Chemists.
Every one of them had once served under Roarke Fenwick. And now, they stood to condemn him.
Shame shadowed their faces, but none denied their complicity. Their testimonies unraveled the truth clinical, ugly, and horrifying. They spoke of blood samples and genetic extractions. Of Moonchild DNA mapped, cataloged, and twisted into experiments. Roarke hadn’t just been hunting their kind to eradicate them he had been harvesting them.
The lead chemist explained in detail. Roarke had crafted a serum, a grotesque blend of Moonchild genes he injected into himself every fourth night. His aim was to rewrite his own genetic code, to awaken an ability that wasn’t his by right compulsion.
They testified that every Moonchild carried the gene. Most never awakened it. But Tavrix had. His bloodline burned active.
And once Roarke seized Tavrix, everything escalated. His compulsion grew stronger, his mind darker, his power untethered.
Then came Fiji.
One geneticist, pale and trembling, admitted the massacre hadn’t been madness it was a trial run. A field test. Roarke knew Tavrix’s history with the people of Fiji and used it to frame him. He slaughtered the village, drowned it in chaos, and made Tavrix disappear. The world was left to believe Tavrix had broken.
Twisted. Calculated. And it worked.
But it hadn’t stopped there. Roarke’s strength hadn’t come only from Tavrix. Dozens of Moonchilds had been captured over the years, drained in silence, their blood and gifts siphoned for his ambition.
Then came the worst revelation of all.
One of the genealogists ashen, hands trembling confessed: “We warned him. We told him that combining incompatible strands would unravel his body… and his wolf. That it would push him toward ferality.”
But Roarke didn’t care.
He was convinced he could stabilize himself with one final key an active, potent Moonchild who could strengthen the serum and anchor his mutation.
And in that moment, clarity struck me.
He hadn’t hunted Dravina simply because she was Orielle’s daughter. He needed her. She was the missing piece, the cure for the chaos tearing him apart.
Roarke was dying, his creation devouring him from within. And Dravina was his last chance to ascend. To become untouchable. To crown himself king of monsters.
If we hadn’t stopped him when we did…
he might have succeeded.