Lyra returned to the Guest Den, where Thorne's words hung heavily on her. "Go back to your den, Lyra." Now. The demand reverberated in her ears, a terrifying reminder of his power, which was now being used against her. The warriors who had been there, the she-wolves performing chores, and others who had seen her public degradation and quiet humiliation all wore faces of pity and dread. She was aware that the murmuring would no longer be about her amazing recovery but rather about her fall from favour.
The sound of the door slamming shut mirrored the tumult within her emotions. Anger, frigid and piercing, rose in her. How could he? How could the mate who once valued her, the Alpha who once revered her, so casually and cruelly abandon her? And not just her profession but her instincts, her whole being.
She went about the little hut, her bandaged side throbbing and her head a jumble of unrelated thoughts. Beta. The phrase felt like a brand, burning her skin. Lyra, the Luna, the valiant warrior, was demoted to a lower rank and suspended from even that until her "full recovery." It was a polite way of saying "stay hidden." Don't cause problems."
And Elara. That purportedly kind, charming she-wolf who had so skillfully twisted the knife. "It needed to be done, Alpha. "For the pack's future," Lyra remembered the dreadful tranquillity in her eyes, the complete lack of genuine shame. Lyra was now confident in her prepared performance.
She lingered at the window, looking out at the bustling crowd. Life went on. Puppies chased each other. Warriors drilled. Hunters prepared for their rounds. It was the same pack, but it seemed fundamentally different, tainted by the deception at its heart.
The lowering sun cast long shadows across the neighbourhood. The packhouse, which was usually a source of comfort and warmth, now appeared as a fortress of deceit. Lyra saw Thorne emerge again, his powerful body silhouetted against the fading light. He wasn't going out on patrol or to inspect the limits. He was heading to Elara.
Lyra's breath tightened. Elara stood on the packhouse porch, peering out at the Whispering Woods, her silver-grey fur gleaming in the fading light. She seemed expectant. She resembled Luna.
Thorne approached her and, without saying anything, placed a hand on her lower back, indicating ownership and closeness. Elara leaned toward his touch, her head cocked slightly. Thorne bent his head and spoke something in her ear. Lyra couldn't hear the words, but the image was plenty. It was a vision of domesticity, a flourishing family, perfectly natural and complete. And completely incorrect.
The mate link, which had seemed to be a hollow echo, now felt like a lifeless nothingness. Not suffering, but rather a profound, frigid absence. It was as if her soul had been scooped out, leaving just an empty vessel. The extent of Thorne's seeming detachment, his seamless transition to another, was the worst blow. He did not just say the link was broken. He lived it. He believed it.
Lyra's eyes welled up with hot, angry tears, but she forced them back with all her might. She would not cry for him. Not anymore. She would redirect her grief into something else. Something valuable. Something that will reveal the truth.
She turned from the window, her gaze fixed on Whispers of the Ancient Moon. It sat open on the desk, its pages filled with the antiquated knowledge she so needed.
She grabbed it up, tracing the tiny, faded letters. The book discussed illusions, mental enchantments, and rituals that may mislead a powerful wolf's judgment, leading them to accept a deception, even a fact as sacred as the mating link. It detailed the symptoms of such magic, a subtle coldness in the afflicted individual, a strange change in demeanour, and a sudden devotion to the source of the spell.
It all fits. Thorne's terrifying isolation. His unwavering belief in the "severed bond." Elara's sneaky smile, her outwardly innocent countenance concealing a hidden malice. Her "coldness" is concealed by the fur. The "pup sickness" that kept her incarcerated and Thorne close.
Lyra's mind rushed, connecting the fragmented fragments. The rogue attack and her injuries were not the cause of the dissolved relationship. They were the opportunities. The ideal time to strike was to use this dreadful spell while she was vulnerable when Thorne was distracted and maybe regretting her seeming death.
She needed to find out who was behind this. Elara seemed to be the key, but Lyra doubted she was the only mastermind. Despite her intellect, Elara seemed too young and inexperienced to handle such ancient and powerful magic on her own. Someone else must be pulling at the cords, someone more powerful and secretive.
A thought occurred to her. Wren's willingness to discuss and convey her ideas. Others in the pack, like Wren, may have felt the unease and subtle wrongness of the scenario but were too afraid to speak out against the Alpha's choice. Lyra needed allies. Covert allies.
She needed to learn to recognize the magic. How to smash it. And how to expose the true adversary without causing a civil war inside the pack.
She retrieved a discarded piece of charcoal and a blank parchment off the desk. She began drawing symbols rather than scenes or creatures. Symbols from ancient literature, energy patterns, and thoughts on how to produce such magic. Her brain, previously clouded by melancholy, was now keen and focused, spurred by a new, terrifying aim.
She would not be the demoted Beta, hiding in the Guest Den. She would be Lyra, the mistreated Luna, the warrior searching for the truth. And she would fight not only for her position but also for the spirit of the Moonstone Pack, which was poisoned by deception so profound that it threatened to destroy their very roots.
A faint rap on her door shocked her. Lyra paused, her charcoal poised above the paper. Had Thorne sent someone to check on her? To ensure she was indeed "resting"?
She held her breath. The knock came again, a little louder, followed by a quiet voice.
"Luna, Lyra?" It's Kael. "May I talk to you?"
Lyra's eyes widened. Kael. The young warrior who had been one of the first to approach her after the attack. The one who seemed so concerned when Thorne gave his order. It was unexpected. A possible ally. Or a spy.
She cautiously placed down the charcoal, her gaze fixed on the door. Her pulse quickened. This may be her first true step or her undoing. The path to truth, she understood, was fraught with danger. But she had to accept it.
She took a deep, strong breath, a new kind of determination settling in her heart.