Chapter 60 CHAPTER 60
Aria’s POV
The training grounds of the Ashwood Pack were usually a place of booming shouts, the rhythmic thud of heavy bodies hitting the dirt, and the sharp, metallic ring of broadswords. It was a masculine space, built for the brute force of Alphas and the relentless stamina of Betas.
Today, I took my group to the Orchard of Whispers—a dense, low-hanging grove of silver-birch on the eastern edge of the territory. The ground here was covered in a thick carpet of dry leaves and brittle twigs.
"If you can walk through this grove without making a sound," I told the twenty-four women and men standing before me, "you can infiltrate any camp in the North. An Alpha relies on his scent and his roar. We will rely on their arrogance."
They looked at me with a mixture of hope and profound uncertainty. They were dressed in light tunics, their frames still thin, their eyes still carrying the hollow look of the starved. But they were here. Elara stood at the front, her jaw set, her hands curled into fists at her sides.
"Most of you have been told your whole lives that being an Omega means you are a secondary thought," I said, pacing the line. "You were told that because you don't have the 'Alpha's Spark,' you are prey. But I am here to tell you that the Spark is a beacon. It’s loud. It’s bright. It’s easy to find."
I picked up a small, silver-tipped dagger—the one Lucian had given me after the Red Ridge. "A shadow, however, is impossible to catch. We are going to learn how to be the silence in the room. We are going to learn where the tendons meet the bone. We are going to learn how to turn an Alpha’s strength into his greatest weakness."
"Luna?" a soft voice asked. It was Maya, a woman who had been a weaver before she was taken. "Will we be using swords?"
"No," I said, a small, sharp smile playing on my lips. "Swords are for those who want to be seen. We will be using needles, garrotes, and the environment itself. You were taken because you were 'unseen.' Now, you will use that to take back your power."
I signaled to Nyx, who was standing in the shadows of a large oak. She stepped forward, holding a bundle of thin, blackened iron rods.
"The first lesson," I announced, "is the art of the Pressure Point. You don't need to overpower a man if you can make his nervous system collapse with a single finger."
As the group began to pair off under Nyx’s instruction, I felt a familiar, heavy presence at the edge of the grove. I didn't need to turn to know it was Lucian. His scent—cedar and the ozone of a coming storm—preceded him.
I walked over to the edge of the trees where he stood, arms crossed over his broad chest. He was dressed for travel, his heavy leather duster buckled tight, his boots caked with the mud of the lower trails.
"They're focused," he said, his voice a low vibration.
"They're hungry, Lucian," I replied. "Not for food, but for justice. They want to be the ones who close the doors on the people who sold them."
Lucian looked at Elara, who was currently practicing a wrist-lock on a man twice her size. "I’m leaving within the hour, Aria. Darius and I are headed to the Blackwood Pack. Their Alpha, Thorne, was a close friend of my father. If anyone will listen to the evidence we found in Vane’s registry, it’s him."
I felt a pang of anxiety in my chest. Blackwood was a three-day journey, and the territory between here and there was "grey"—unclaimed land where the Ghost’s mercenaries were known to roam.
"Be careful," I said, reaching out to straighten his collar. "The Ghost knows we have the registry. He won't want those names reaching Thorne."
Lucian caught my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm. His eyes were a deep, swirling gold. "I’m not the one he has to worry about. I’m the distraction, Aria. While I’m playing politics with the High Alphas, you are building the army that will actually end this."
He pulled me closer, his forehead resting against mine. The bond flared, a warm, reassuring pulse of love-protection-strength. "If anything feels wrong, if the wind smells of silver, you take them to the tunnels. Do you hear me?"
"I hear you, Alpha," I whispered. "But don't be surprised if, by the time you get back, the 'Luna's Guard' is ready to lead the charge."
Lucian’s POV
The ride to Blackwood was grueling.
Darius and I pushed the horses hard, keeping to the ridgelines to avoid the primary trade roads. The "grey" lands were silent—too silent. The usual chatter of the forest birds was absent, and the air carried the faint, metallic tang of industrial runoff from the northern mines.
"They're watching us, Lucian," Darius muttered, his hand resting on the hilt of his claymore.
"I know," I replied, my eyes scanning the treeline. "They want us to know they're there. It’s a psychological game. The Ghost wants me to turn back. He wants me to stay in Ashwood and play king so he can keep running his business in the dark."
We reached the Blackwood border at dusk on the third day. The Blackwood Pack was ancient, their territory a fortress of old-growth pines and jagged stone. Unlike the Ashwood Pack, which was centered around a valley, Blackwood was built into the side of a mountain, a tiered city of stone and wood that looked like it had grown out of the earth itself.
Alpha Thorne met us in the Great Hall. He was a massive man, even larger than me, with a beard the color of iron and eyes that looked like they had seen the birth and death of stars.
"Lucian of Ashwood," Thorne boomed, his voice echoing off the stone rafters. "You look more like your father every day. Though I hear you’ve brought a bit of trouble home with you."
"I brought the truth, Thorne," I said, stepping forward. I didn't bow. Between Alphas of our standing, respect was shown through strength, not subservience.
I pulled the leather-bound registry from my pack and set it on the table between us.
"This was found in the Red Ridge. It contains the names of every high-ranking member of the Northern Alliance who has been purchasing Omegas from Malrik and the Iron-Crag. Including your own Beta, Silas."
The silence in the hall was instantaneous. Thorne’s expression didn't change, but the air in the room grew heavy—the pressure of an Alpha’s rage beginning to manifest.
Thorne reached out, his thick fingers tracing the cover of the book. "Silas has been with me for twenty years. If what you say is true, Lucian, I will have his head on a pike before the sun rises."
"I don't want his head, Thorne. I want his testimony. We need to go before the High Council. We need to expose the Ghost and the High Alpha’s involvement. If we don't, the trade will just move to a different mine, under a different name."
Thorne looked at me, his eyes narrowing. "You're asking for a civil war, boy. The North is a delicate machine. You pull one gear, and the whole thing might come apart."
"The machine is fueled by the blood of our people, Thorne!" I snapped, the gold in my eyes flaring. "My brother died because he wouldn't play his part in it. My mate was nearly sold because of it. How much 'delicate' machinery are you willing to tolerate before you admit it’s a meat-grinder?"
Thorne stared at me for a long time. The tension was a living thing, a coiled spring between us. Then, slowly, the old Alpha began to laugh—a deep, rumbling sound that filled the hall.
"Your father would have been proud of that temper, Lucian. He always said you were the fire to Adrian’s light."
He opened the book, his eyes scanning the first few pages. His expression darkened as he saw the dates and the weights of silver.
"Very well. I will call a meeting of the Southern Sovereigns. We will see how many Alphas are willing to stand with Ashwood once they see their own names in this ledger. But be warned... the Ghost will not let this reach the High Council. You have a target on your back, Lucian. And your Luna is the bullseye."
Aria’s POV
The week of training had transformed the grove.
The ground was no longer covered in leaves; it was packed hard by the constant movement of forty-three pairs of feet. My "Guard" was no longer a group of survivors; they were a unit. They moved with a synchronized, predatory grace that made even the seasoned Ashwood warriors pause when they walked by.
"Again," I commanded, standing in the center of a circle.
Elara lunged at me, a wooden training dagger in her hand. She was fast—faster than she had been even two days ago. I twisted, my hand catching her wrist, using her momentum to flip her over my hip. But instead of hitting the ground, she tucked her shoulder and rolled, coming up behind me with her dagger at my throat.
I froze, the wooden edge pressing against my skin.
"Excellent," I whispered.
The group broke into applause. Elara stepped back, her face flushed with exertion, a bright, genuine smile lighting up her slate-grey eyes.
"I didn't hear you," I told her. "I felt the air move, but I didn't hear a single leaf crunch."
"I imagined the Warden was standing behind me," she said, her voice steady. "It makes the silence easier."
As the group began to break for the midday meal, Nina ran into the grove, her face pale.
"Aria! The sentries at the south gate... they’ve found something."
I felt a cold prickle of dread at the base of my neck. "What is it?"
"It’s a messenger," Nina panted. "From the North. But he wasn't carrying a letter. He was carrying a box. He left it at the Standing Stones and vanished into the mist."
I didn't wait. I ran toward the south gate, my "Guard" following close behind.
The box sat on the flat surface of the central Standing Stone. It was made of dark, polished oak, devoid of any markings. The Ashwood warriors had formed a wide circle around it, their spears leveled, but they were hesitant to touch it.
"Move aside," I commanded.
I stepped up to the stone. The air around the box smelled of ozone and something sweet... like crushed lilies.
I opened the lid.
Inside, resting on a bed of white silk, was a single, silver-plated collar. Engraved on the inside was a name I hadn't seen in years.
Aria. Property of the Northern Crown.
And beneath the collar was a lock of dark hair—Lucian’s hair—tied with a piece of red ribbon.
The world seemed to tilt. The bond screamed in my head—a sudden, sharp spike of pain-danger-cold.
"Lucian," I whispered, my knees buckling.
The Ghost hadn't gone after the registry. He hadn't gone after the Alphas. He had gone after the heart.
"Luna?" Elara asked, stepping up beside me, her hand resting on my shoulder. She looked at the box, then at me. Her eyes didn't show fear. They showed a cold, calculating rage. "What do we do?"
I looked at the collar, then at the forest where the messenger had vanished. I felt the absence of Lucian’s presence in my mind like a physical wound, but through the gap, I felt something else. A flicker. A tiny, stubborn spark of will.
He wasn't dead. He was being used.
I picked up the silver collar and snapped it in half with a strength I didn't know I possessed.
"We don't wait for him to come home," I said, my voice echoing through the clearing. "We're going to the North. And we're going to show the Ghost what happens when you try to collar a wolf who has already tasted the moon."
I turned to the warriors and my Guard. "Gather your gear. We move at sunset. We aren't just rescuing an Alpha. We're ending a monarchy.”