The day passed in a haze of pack meetings and war-council discussions. Father paced his command den, the scent of burning wolfsbane cigar drifting around him as he spoke about the latest movement from the Ashenfell Pack.
“Their influence grows by the moon,” he said, tapping ash into a carved moonstone tray. “Marcellus isn’t like his father. He’s sharper and more strategic. A union with him strengthens both our bloodlines.”
That night, I sank into my nesting furs, my mind heavy. The enchanted silk wraps curled around me as I reached for my moon-communicator. A notification glowed across the screen. From an unknown number.
My breath halted. [I heard what happened today. You handled yourself well. A true Rustpire. — Marcellus]
My fingers hovered, but before I replied, another message appeared:
[I keep eyes across the territories, Isolde. Your ex-mate made a grave mistake. One he’ll regret beneath the moon.]
A shiver ran down my spine—not fear, but recognition. Power. The world I’d tried to escape.
Another message, [Rest well. We’ll speak of our future soon. And Isolde… that strength you showed today? Perfect.]