Chapter 4: The Pack's Judgment

A fissure of pure, unadulterated shock cracked the composed mask of Alpha Wesley's handsome face. He stared at me, Luna Starling, as if I'd spoken in a forgotten tongue. "What did you say?" He released his hold on Tanya, his brow furrowing as he strode toward me, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the confined space. "Starling," he began, his voice low and heavy, laced with a tension I couldn't—or wouldn't—name. "There are lines you don't cross, even in anger. I will not hear those words from you again." Tanya, a smirk playing on her lips that only I could see, glided to his side. She adopted a tone of cloying magnanimity. "The young are so impulsive, aren't they? Prone to… ungrateful outbursts. Tell you what, little Starling," she said, her voice a poisonous honey, "once my spirit is mended, I will walk barefoot to the Stone of Atonement and personally carve you a new warding rune. How does that sound?" At the mention of the talisman, the strange, fleeting panic in Wesley's eyes vanished, replaced by dawning comprehension. Of course, he must have thought. She's upset about the charm I gave her. This is just a tantrum. The thought seemed to soothe him, even bringing a shadow of his old, indulgent smile to his lips. "Come now, my love," he said, reaching for my hand again, his voice softening into that persuasive cadence that used to melt my resolve. "Be reasonable. Next moon-cycle, I'll take you to the High Shamans myself. We'll get you an even more powerful one, alright?" I sidestepped his touch. My skin crawled where his fingers nearly brushed me. His hand hung suspended in the air between us, the gesture aborted. A flicker of genuine confusion and irritation crossed his features, but before he could speak, his Beta, Kael, rushed into the chamber, his face grim. "Alpha Wesley. There's a gathering… a swarm of scribes from the Howler's Gazette and the Moon-Chronicle. They're at the territory's edge, demanding an audience about… Tanya." Kael thrust a communication crystal forward, its surface glowing with the latest pack-network feeds. A video, sourced from the Healer's Den security wards, played on a loop. It clearly showed Tanya, with deliberate, malicious intent, sealing the den's door from the outside, locking me in. Tanya, the 'poor, grieving lone wolf,' had built her public sympathy on a foundation of loss and mental fragility. This footage of her actively tormenting the Luna was shattering that image. Wesley's face darkened as he scanned the reports. His jaw tightened. But when he looked up, ready to address the crisis, he found the space where I had been standing empty. I was already gone. I went straight to the Den's Keeper of Records. Severing a mate-bond, especially one involving an Alpha, required a formal dissolution of our shared assets and responsibilities. My first step was to officially withdraw from my position on the Pack Council and reclaim the rights to the protective enchantments I had developed—my intellectual property, born of my unique heritage. By the time I finished the tedious bureaucratic process, my personal phone was blinking with a series of messages from Tanya. «Think a few hired scribes can ruin me?» «Your beloved mate just gave a statement to the elders. He confirmed my spirit is so fractured I wasn't in my right mind. I intended to open the door for you, you know. It's not my fault you're too weak to break down a simple piece of wood.» «Pathetic.» I felt nothing but a cold contempt. I didn't reply. I simply severed the runic connection, blocking her entirely. Then, a message from the Silvermane Elder himself, Wesley's grandfather, flickered to life. It was a command: Return to the Ethnic Territory Villas. Now. I hesitated. In all my years here, the Elder had never been unkind to me. When I first arrived, struggling with the foreign magics of this land, it was he who had summoned healers to brew potions to ease my transition. And regardless of everything, if I was truly ending this, I needed to return the Moon-Touched Pendant—the ancient Silvermane artifact given to me as a betrothal gift. I detoured to the mating chamber I had shared with Wesley, retrieved the cool, silvery stone from its hiding place, and then made my way to the sprawling, ancient den built into the side of the sacred mountain. As I approached, I paused. Dozens of ornate transports, sigils of various allied and rival packs gleaming on their sides, were parked outside. The Elder had called a gathering? For what? I stepped into the great hall, and the air left my lungs in a rush. They were all here. Every one of the brutish, leering wolves who had ambushed me, thrown me down the stairs, and crushed my fingers. The so-called 'loyalists' of the fallen Ashwood Pack. The Elder sat in his high-backed chair, his expression unreadable. "Now that all concerned parties are present," his voice echoed in the tense silence, "let us speak plainly. Air your grievances here, and do not bring them whispering to my chambers again." Then, to my shock, he rose and calmly walked out, leaving the hall. My eyes scanned the room. Aside from me, there were thirty-eight others. This wasn't a discussion. This was a tribunal. And I was the accused. Wesley sat to the right of the now-empty elder's seat. Tanya was curled against his chest, her body wracked with theatrical, soundless sobs that made her shoulders tremble. His hand stroked her back, a gesture of comfort and solidarity. But when his eyes lifted to meet mine, they held a frigid, unforgiving winter. She had gone too far this time. Airting pack business to outsiders? He'd had to intervene personally, spin a tale of a broken mind to save her from the pack's wrath, and she had nearly thrown herself into the Churning River in 'despair' because of the backlash. "Starling," his voice cut through the heavy silence, cold as glacial ice. "Kneel." Kneel. Before him. Before her. Before my tormentors. My spine straightened, a rod of steel forged in the fires of betrayal. The Moon-Touched Pendant felt like a brand in my clenched fist. "Give me one reason why I should," I replied, my voice eerily calm, a stark contrast to the storm in his. His eyes narrowed, the cold within them deepening into something truly dangerous. She still dared to defy him? She still believed she had done no wrong?