The Pack In panic
Chapter 41:
“Mama, is the princess going to kill us all?”
Six year old Lucy’s question shattered the little composure Sarah had left. She dropped to her knees, clutching her daughter, tears breaking free.
“I don’t know, baby,” she whispered into her hair. “We hurt her so badly, we all did.”
The servants’ quarters churned with panic. Panic, guilt, heartbreak. Truth spread like wildfire, burning through every whispered memory.
“She was just a baby,” old Martha wailed, clutching a faded photograph. “Look at those eyes silver eyes and we made her sleep in the cellar like an animal.”
The picture shook in her hands: a little girl with raven hair and luminous eyes, standing beside Martha on her first day.
Royalty.
A queen, and they had scrubbed her down to nothing.
“Royal blood,” Elena whispered, voice breaking. “We made royalty scrub our floors.”
In the throne room, wood splintered as Lucien’s fist slammed into his desk. Papers flew, goblets shattered. His wolf clawed at him, howling in anguish.
“She declared war,” he grind, blood dripping from his knuckles. “My mate. My princess.”
The doors burst open. Marcus stormed in with the council at his back, their faces pale not just with fear, but accusation.
“Alpha,” Marcus said, breathless, voice stripped of respect. “The pack is tearing itself apart. Warriors throwing down their weapons. Begging forgiveness from the Goddess.”
“And the others?” Lucien’s voice was hollow, though he knew.
“They sharpen their claws,” Elder Thomson said, ancient eyes heavy with judgment. “Preparing for battle against their rightful queen. Tell us it’s not true. Tell us your family didn’t murder the Moon-Blessed royals.”
Silence crashed through the chamber.
Lucien turned. They saw it in his amber eyes: guilt, poisoned and festering for eighteen years.
“My father led the attack,” he said. Each word cut like blood. “I was nine when he dragged me there. Called it necessary strength.’”
Gasps. Council members staggered back.
“You knew,” Marcus hissed, trembling with rage. “When she came here. When the bond chose her. You knew.”
“No..” Lucien faltered. “Yes. Maybe. I suspected. I buried it so deep I made myself believe it was impossible.”
“She was your mate,” Elder Thomson whispered, horror thick in his tone. “The Goddess herself chose her and you rejected her.”
Lucien sank into his throne like a man already dead.
“For eighteen years, I believed she was gone. That my father had killed her with her parents.”
“But your wolf knew,” another council member said, realization dawning. “Every time you saw her, your wolf knew.”
Three floors below, reckoning fell heavy in the servants’ quarters.
“I gave her extra work when she limped,” Maria sobbed, clutching her apron. “Called her worthless when her hands shook from hunger.”
“I laughed when they mocked her,” James admitted, tears burning. “Thought it was funny when the ‘fat omega’ couldn’t fight back.”
“She never once complained,” Martha said, clutching the photo. “Eighteen years of abuse, and she only ever said, ‘Yes, ma’am.’ ‘Sorry.’”
The guilt broke them all. But none more than Thomas, the head butler, who had overseen every cruelty.
“She used to hum,” he whispered, voice raw. “Late at night, when she thought no one heard. Songs that made grown men cry.”
“What kind of songs?” someone asked.
“Lullabies,” Thomas breathed. “Royal lullabies. In the sacred tongue. And we never even noticed.”
In her chambers, Talia faced her mirror. But it did not reflect her face only swirling shadows, alive, watching.
“The pack is destroying itself,” she reported with a cruel smile. “Half fleeing. The rest too guilt-ridden to fight.”
A voice answered from the mirror, low as grinding stone.
“Excellent. But the princess will not come alone. The old bloodlines are awakening.”
Talia’s smile faltered. “What do you mean?”
“She has found others,” the voice hissed. “Survivors in hiding. They will come with power you cannot imagine.”
“Then I’ll move faster.” Her hand touched the dark stone pulsing at her chest. “I’ll bind her the moment she steps onto pack land.”
“No.” The voice cracked like thunder. “There is a better way. One that will break her before she dies.”
The mirror swirled with visions, the battle from eighteen years past. A figure stepping through fire and shadow.
“He lives,” the voice said with savage delight. “Marcus Blackthorn still breathes in the shadow realm.”
Talia froze. “Lucien’s father? That’s impossible. He died”
“Death is negotiable,” the voice purred. “He serves the right master now. And he burns for another chance to kill the Moon-Blessed heir with his own hands.”
“The blood moon,” the voice whispered. “Tomorrow. The veil will thin. The old debts can be collected.”
The mirror showed her a ritual circle, ancient words carved in blood.
“Bring him back,” Talia breathed, eyes wide. “Let the father finish what he started, while the son watches.”
“Now you understand revenge.”
Talia’s lips curled. “We’ll need bait.”
“The servants,” she said instantly. “She’ll come for them.”
“Yes. Gather them in the great hall tomorrow. She will come to save them and find her parents’ killer waiting instead.”
The shadows died away. Talia’s laughter filled the chamber, cold as iron.
But at the door, a small figure trembled in the dark.
Lucy.
Her silver eyes were wide, her little chest heaving. She had heard it all.
She ran through the halls, her tiny feet slapping stone. Desperate. Terrified. Who would believe her?
One child. One voice. Against a pack collapsing in blood and guilt.
And against a queen marching straight into the trap of her doom built from blood and lies.