Chapter 15 Eve of the Blood Moon
The night before the blood moon feels wrong.
Not quiet—waiting.
I sense it the moment I wake, the air pressing heavy against my skin, the bond restless beneath my ribs like it’s bracing for impact. Even the forest outside the compound seems to hold itself taut, branches stilled, wind muted, as if the world itself is listening for a signal it already knows is coming.
Tomorrow, everything breaks.
I dress slowly, deliberately, my movements ritualistic. Control the body. Control the breath. Control the mind. It’s how the coven trained me to function under pressure—how they taught me to make impossible choices without flinching.
I haven’t flinched yet.
That might be the problem.
When I step into the corridor, the pack is already awake. Wolves move with purpose, eyes sharper, scents edged with anticipation and unease. Guards are doubled at key points. Torches burn brighter, ward-lines freshly reinforced. The blood moon doesn’t need an announcement.
Everyone feels it.
So does the bond.
It hums low and constant, not demanding, not painful—expectant. I feel Alaric somewhere nearby, his awareness brushing the edge of mine like a presence just beyond sight. Awake. Focused. Holding the line.
He hasn’t come to see me since last night.
That, too, feels deliberate.
The infirmary is busy from the moment I arrive. Selene barely glances at me before thrusting a bundle of supplies into my arms.
“Scouts coming in at noon,” she says. “And the council wants everything prepared for tonight.”
“For what?” I ask, though I already know.
She grimaces. “A showing of strength. Rituals. Strategy. The Alpha’s making a point.”
Of course he is.
I work through the morning on instinct alone—cleaning, binding, fetching, assisting—my thoughts a constant, dangerous loop. Tomorrow. Tonight. The vial. The bond. The choice.
By midday, the tension sharpens.
Scouts arrive bloodied but alive, reports of movement along the borders growing more specific, more aggressive. Witch magic confirmed. No longer probing. No longer subtle.
The coven is done waiting.
I feel it before they reach out.
A cold prickle crawls up my spine as I step into a quiet corner of the infirmary, my hands still damp from washing blood away. The air shifts—not magically loud, not visible—but present.
I still.
Breathe.
Then the voice slides into my mind like a blade between ribs.
You are out of time.
My fingers curl into fists.
Tomorrow is the blood moon, the High Matron continues, her tone sharp with impatience. You were sent to act before the packs could unify. You have failed to do so.
“I’m still here,” I whisper under my breath, keeping my face neutral as Selene passes nearby. “I haven’t failed.”
You have delayed, the voice snaps. Which makes you a liability.
My chest tightens. “He’s stronger than anticipated. The bond—”
Is irrelevant.
The word slams into me, cold and final.
The Alpha King is a threat to balance. The poison was designed for him. Use it tonight.
Tonight.
The word echoes.
You will not be given another chance, the Matron continues. If you do not act before the blood moon rises, we will.
My pulse stutters. “What does that mean?”
A pause.
Then: You know exactly what it means.
The presence recedes, leaving behind a chill that seeps deep into my bones.
I sag against the wall, my breath shallow.
They’ll strike the pack.
If I don’t kill Alaric, they will provoke a confrontation that forces his hand. Forces war.
Forces blood.
The bond reacts violently to the thought, a sharp surge of distress that steals my breath. I press a hand to my chest, grounding myself as panic threatens to break free.
I find Alaric an hour later.
He’s in the training yard, stripped down to a dark shirt damp with sweat, moving through a sparring match with ruthless efficiency. Wolves gather at the edges, watching him with reverence and hunger. Every strike is precise. Controlled. Deadly.
A king sharpening himself for war.
The bond flares the moment he notices me.
The match ends abruptly. Alaric dismisses his opponent and turns toward me, his gaze intense, searching.
“Walk,” he says.
We move along the perimeter of the yard, the sounds of training fading behind us. He doesn’t speak until we’re alone beneath the trees, shadows stretching long and dark.
“You felt it,” he says.
I don’t ask what he means. “Yes.”
“The coven,” he continues. “They reached out.”
My heart hammers. “You felt that?”
“I felt you.” His voice is low, controlled. “And whatever they did to you.”
The bond hums, tight and raw.
“They want action,” I say carefully.
“So do I.”
The honesty in his tone unsettles me. I stop walking and turn to face him.
“They want you dead,” I say quietly.
Silence crashes down between us.
Alaric doesn’t react immediately. No explosion. No growl. No fury.
Just stillness.
“I know,” he says at last.
The words knock the breath from my lungs. “You—what?”
“I’ve known since the bond ignited,” he replies. “Not the details. But the intent.” His gaze sharpens. “You didn’t come here for shelter, Mira. You came here with a blade hidden behind your back.”
My chest aches. “Then why—why keep me here?”
“Because,” he says slowly, “if you wanted me dead, I would be.”
The bond pulses—deep, resonant.
“And because,” he continues, “whatever choice you’re standing on, it’s tearing you apart.”
I swallow hard. “They’ve given me an ultimatum.”
“I assumed they would.”
“If I don’t act tonight, they will provoke a confrontation at the border. Force your hand.”
A flicker of anger crosses his face, sharp and dangerous. “They underestimate the cost.”
“They don’t care about the cost,” I whisper. “Only control.”
Alaric studies me for a long moment, then steps closer. Not touching. Not yet.
“Tonight,” he says, “the council meets again. There will be food. Wine. Ceremony.”
Opportunity.
The bond tightens, my stomach twisting.
“I won’t stop you,” he continues quietly.
The words hit harder than any command.
I stare at him. “What?”
“I won’t restrain you. I won’t watch your hands. I won’t test you.” His gaze locks onto mine. “Tonight, the choice will be yours alone.”
My throat closes. “You’re asking me to decide your fate.”
“I’m asking you,” he corrects, “to decide who you are.”
The forest seems to hold its breath.
“If I choose wrong—” My voice cracks.
“Then I’ll deal with the consequences,” he says evenly. “As I always have.”
The bond surges, fierce and aching, and for the first time since this began, I feel something new threaded through it.
Acceptance.
Not surrender.
Trust.
Alaric steps back, breaking the moment. “I’ll see you tonight.”
He turns and walks away, leaving me alone beneath the trees, my heart racing, my thoughts in chaos.
Tonight.
The vial feels heavier than ever as I retrieve it later, sitting on the edge of my bed, turning it slowly in my fingers.
One choice.
One night.
One blood moon.
I can poison him and prevent the coven from striking first—save the pack by destroying its king.
Or I can refuse, expose myself fully, and risk war breaking loose before dawn.
The bond hums low and steady, not guiding me, not demanding.
Waiting.
And for the first time since I accepted the coven’s orders, I understand the truth with brutal clarity:
This was never about killing Alaric Bloodhowl.
It was about whether I was willing to become the kind of person who could.
Tonight, I will decide.