Chapter 9 Northwood in flames
Northwood had not been this silent in years.
The Lycan King had left without warning, without demands, without explanation. One moment, Ronan had filled the land with his presence, a living storm of authority and power. The next, he was gone, drawn away by something unseen yet felt by every heartbeat of the pack.
Draven felt it. That absence scraped at his nerves, coiling tighter with every passing hour.
And Elara had not returned.
He prowled the great hall like a caged beast, every instinct screaming that something had gone wrong long before Cierce had opened her mouth.
“Report,” he snapped through the mindlink.
“No sign of her, Alpha,” came the guard’s immediate reply. “We’ve searched the eastern paths and the forest edge where the wild herbs are.”
Draven’s claws tore through the chair beside him. Wood splintered across the floor. He severed the link without responding, jaw tightening as memory replayed in brutal clarity.
Ronan had lost control during the meeting. Which was unheard of and Cierce just had to call Elara a servant in front of the Emissary.
Draven turned.
Cierce stood near the hearth, chin lifted, posture regal as ever. Calm like armor, like a crown she had claimed long before anyone could take it.
“You disobeyed me,” Draven said, low and vibrating with restrained violence. “I told you not to bring her out.”
Cierce arched a brow. “I told the head maids to bring the servants from the servants’ quarters. If Elara was there, that was not my doing.”
A faint, cruel curve touched her lips.
“If anything,” she continued smoothly, “you should thank me. If the King reacted so strongly, perhaps it proves she never belonged here in the first place.”
Draven’s last shred of restraint snapped. In an instant, he was in front of her.
Her body slammed into the stone wall as his hand closed around her throat. Claws half-formed pressed into her skin, drawing blood. Her breath hitched violently.
“You knew exactly what you were doing,” he thundered. “You called her a servant in front of the Lycan King.”
Cierce gasped, clawing at his wrist. “Draven, you’re overreacting! Don't forget you also called her a servant as well!”
“Overreacting?” His voice shook the chamber. “The King probably left because of you. Because you humiliated her. Because you pushed him.”
Her eyes flashed, fear curdling into fury. “And what if I did?” she spat. “What does it matter? She is nothing. A halfling who cannot even shift. A burden you drag back into this pack. That bitch isn’t a full-blooded wolf!”
Something dark stirred behind Draven’s eyes.
“Why,” Cierce pressed, emboldened by his silence, “do you keep choosing her? What does Elara have that I don’t? Why won’t you mark me?”
Her voice dropped, venomous. “Why won’t you just let her die?”
The growl from Draven’s chest was no longer human. Deep. Ancient. Unrestrained.
He flung her across the hall. Shelves collapsed beneath her weight, wood and stone exploding outward as her body hit the floor.
“Elara belongs to me,” he snarled, claws flexing, chest heaving. “She is my mate.”
The words landed like a blade.
Cierce’s laugh bubbled, brittle and venomous. “Keep lying to yourself. That thing is not fit to be Luna. She doesn’t even know what she is! And you of all people broke her! You never treated her like your mate because deep down…” She gripped her trembling hands. “…you detest her.”
“She is bound to me,” Draven said coldly.
Rylan shifted uneasily near the pillar, but Draven did not look at him. Rylan’s authority carried little weight here; Cierce had paraded herself as Luna for too long.
Cierce pushed herself upright, laughter sharp and broken. “A Luna who cannot stand beside you. Who cannot give you full blooded heirs. Who does not belong anywhere.”
She stepped closer, eyes blazing. “And even if she is your mate,” she continued, voice dropping, “she will never forgive you.”
Draven stiffened.
“Not after Hector.”
The name hit like a hammer.
“You locked him away,” Cierce said, savoring it. “Her foster father. Your own father. You tortured him just to prove you were alpha enough.”
Rylan finally stepped forward. “Cierce, stop.”
Draven did not hear. His wolf surged to the surface fully. Bone snapped.
Cierce’s body went slack in his grasp, her neck broken cleanly before she could scream. He released her without ceremony. She hit the marble floor like a discarded doll.
Silence followed, suffocating and complete.
Rylan exhaled slowly. “Take her to her chambers,” he ordered. “Make sure she doesn’t leave when she wakes.”
“Yes, Beta,” the guards replied, lifting her body.
Turning back to Draven, Rylan asked quietly, “Why though?”
Draven wiped the blood from his fingers, eyes still burning. “She deserved worse.”
“I wasn’t talking about her,” Rylan said. “You’re losing control. The King and his entourage is gone. Elara is not back and you’re pretending you don’t care.”
“She will come back,” Draven said.
“And what if she doesn’t?”
Right before either of them could say anything, the doors burst open. “Alpha!” a breathless warrior gasped. “On patrol… we found this.”
He held out a tattered, bloodstained dress which undoubtedly belonged to Elara. Beside it, fragments of rogue remains.
Draven’s howl tore through Northwood, raw and broken. “Find her! Bring her back!”
Elsewhere
Elara woke to silence.
Not the suffocating kind she had known, thick with fear and pain, but soft, alive, and somehow protective.
Grass bent easily beneath her fingers. Wild lilies scented the air. Somewhere nearby, water flowed in a slow, patient rhythm. Her body no longer ached, yet her chest felt unbearably heavy, as though something precious had been set there and left to rest.
“Elara…” her own name drifted on the wind.
A white wolf cub, small as her forearm, padded toward her and nudged her side. She lifted it into her arms, warmth grounding her.
The light shifted.
Silver bled into gold as shadows softened. Ahead, a crescent moon hovered above the ground, upon which sat a woman clothed in flowing white trimmed with gold. Stars drifted lazily above her head, forming a crown. Wherever her bare feet touched the grass, white lotus blossoms bloomed.
“Who are you?” Elara whispered.
“You may call me Selene,” the woman said gently.
“T-the Moon Goddess?” Elara breathed.
“Yes child,” Selene inclined her head.
Elara clutched the cub tighter. “Why am I here?”
“You brought yourself,” Selene said softly. “Your heart cried out when your body could not. The Moon heard you.”
Elara shook her head. Tears pricked her eyes. “I didn’t mean to. I just… I didn’t want to hurt anymore.”
Selene stepped closer, "I perfectly understand, child." The air shimmered around her. With a gesture, images bloomed like reflections on water: A woman with hair pale as snow cradled a newborn, pressing trembling lips to its brow.
A man stood beside her, tears slipping freely down his face as he looked at the child in her arms.
Elara’s heart pounded. “Who are they?”
“Your parents,” Selene said gently. “They loved you enough to hide you from a world that would have torn you apart.”
The image shifted.
Hector appeared, standing tall despite the wear in his eyes, his hand resting protectively on Elara’s shoulder.
“Dad…” Her voice broke.
Selene did not interrupt.
The final image formed slowly.
Ronan.
He knelt beside Elara’s broken body, his broad shoulders bowed, one hand clutching hers as though refusing to let go. His golden eyes were wet with tears as he pressed his forehead to her arm, his power shuddering around him like a wounded storm.
Elara’s breath left her in a sob.
“That’s the Lycan King,” she whispered. “He sent me… if he hadn’t, I—”
“He felt your pain before it had a name,” Selene said softly.
"Why would he feel my pain?"
Selene smiled, “Not all truths reveal themselves at once.”
Elara fell to her knees, cub wriggling free beside her. “I don’t want to go back,” she whispered.
Selene knelt, tracing a glowing mark on her arm. A crescent moon entwined with a vine of thorns. Faintly pulsing.
“This is your seal,” Selene said. “Moonblood awakened. It will protect you until you are ready to remember who you are.”
Tears streamed down Elara’s face.
“Courage,” Selene said gently, brushing them away, “is not the absence of fear. It is choosing to rise even when fear tells you to remain down.”
The light around them thinned.
“Will I remember this?” Elara asked.
“Not yet,” Selene replied. “But your soul will.”
As Selene ascended on her crescent moon, her voice drifted across the meadow:
“Rest now, daughter of moon and blood. The world is not finished with you.”