Chapter 3

A voice drew nearer through the distance—Elliott’s low tone, close now: “Plan confirmed. Tonight when the moon rises—Wolf-Burial Abyss. Priscilla, take care.”

Take care. Such a light word. I severed the link and mechanically checked my pack. The lines from the diary, the medicinal scent on the cord—like a curse, looping through my mind.

My heart was empty—then packed with ice shards—cold and hard. I couldn’t even feel pain anymore, only a heavy, sinking weight.

My gaze landed on the gilt invitation on the desk: the victory banquet. Hosted by the Council of Elders. The “Silver Moon Warrior” must attend. And Alyssa, the “Honorary Adviser,” would naturally be the focus.

Ironic. On the eve of my disappearance, I still had to dress up and perform one last play of glory.

Night fell. The altar square blazed with firelight. Cloaked in silver wolfskin, I stood beside Fitch and accepted the eyes from every direction. He leaned in, his breath brushing my ear.

“My warrior,” he murmured, “you’re especially radiant tonight.” His voice was so tender it made me nauseous.

My stomach clenched. I forced myself straight, my eyes empty on the space ahead, not daring to look at him.

In the corner of my vision, Alyssa stood below the altar, laughing with an elder. She wore a moon-white robe symbolizing a half-blood’s advancement; in the firelight she looked like a delicate flower. She felt my gaze, turned, and gave me a flawless smile—faintly superior—then dipped her head.

The horn sounded. The High Priest announced solemnly: “Tonight, we witness history! A warrior who has rendered great service to the tribe will formally inherit the title of ‘Silver Moon Warrior’! Please welcome—Alyssa Hart!”

Thunderous applause. I froze.

Silver Moon Warrior? Alyssa? Service?

On the altar, Alyssa lifted the bone staff of power, poised and elegant—yet affected. She began to recite a paean of battle merits—those lines, that cadence, every detail—burned into my soul.

They were my merits. My glory.

I whipped my head around, staring hard at Fitch. He was watching the altar intently, a smile on his lips. In his eyes was something I’d never seen directed at me—open, undisguised admiration and pride, even… infatuation.

Alyssa posed theatrically, displaying “her” achievements—and my mate stared at the thief with the very gaze I’d begged for and never once received in five years.

A cold blaze of fury mixed with the pain of a carved-out heart, shattering my numbness in an instant. The ice shards in my gut melted into magma, scorching my insides.

The drums marking the end of the ritual sounded. The crowd surged toward the banquet tables.

I yanked my arm away from Fitch so hard he staggered. He stared at me, startled. I didn’t care. In a few strides I was in front of Alyssa, who’d just come down from the altar and was being surrounded.

“Those merits…” My voice was tight with shock and rage. “The border defense, the Shadow Gorge raid… why are they yours? Why are you receiving the honor?” I stared at her. “I paid for that with blood. My glory. You stole it.”

The air congealed. People about to flatter her stopped, turning in confusion.

Fitch’s face darkened as he hurried over. He stepped in front of me, tall body pressing intimidation between me and Alyssa.

He seized my wrist, crushingly hard, and hissed a command: “Priscilla! Calm down! Stop making a scene!” His eyes were cold and sharp. “Read the room. Look at what you’re acting like!”

Alyssa acted terrified, shrinking back. Her eyes reddened instantly; her voice trembled with grievance. “Priscilla… how can you say that? These merits really are something I traded my life for.” She looked at Fitch for help, then at the crowd. “I know you’ve always wanted glory, but… but you can’t keep doing this. This isn’t the first time…” She stopped at exactly the right point, leaving the worst possibilities hanging in the air.

Not the first time.

Like a needle dipped in poison, the phrase pierced every onlooker’s ear. What was she implying? That I’d “always” tried to take her merits?

The whispers swelled at once.

“My God… did you hear? Not the first time?”

“Miss Hart is so pitiful!”

“Stealing a warrior’s glory?”

Fitch’s expression hardened further. Hearing the murmurs and seeing Alyssa’s trembling act, his gaze flickered—then turned to cold resolve to protect the status quo.

He drew a breath, tightened his grip, and tried to drag me away. His voice dropped lower, edged with threat and impatience. “Priscilla! Stop this absurd behavior! Look how you’ve scared Alyssa—she’s so pure and kind, how can you slander her?!”

“Apologize. Now. Say you acted on impulse, that you wanted glory so badly you imagined things.” His tone allowed no dissent.

I looked at his false face, at the eyes that knew everything yet protected another woman. A wave of absurdity and humiliation drowned me.

“Imagined?” My voice rasped, breaking. “Fitch, tell me—was it imagined?”

My voice shot up, sharp enough to split the clamor as five years of venom finally burst. “Fitch Blackwood! You stole my merits to please your mistress?!”

I’d had enough. I nearly jabbed my finger into Alyssa’s face. “When you were tangled up with her in the Moonlit Glade, were you thinking how to steal my glory too? Using my marriage as a fig leaf wasn’t enough—you wanted to take my last shred of dignity as well?! You disgust me!”

Slap.

A crisp, ringing sound exploded like thunder.

My head snapped to the side. White-hot pain flared across my left cheek; my ears rang; stars burst in my vision. Something warm slid from the corner of my mouth. The taste of iron filled my tongue.

Blood.

Fitch stood in front of me, chest heaving, the hand he’d struck me with hanging in the air, trembling. A flash of panic crossed his face—then fury devoured it.

“You!” He pointed at my nose, his voice twisting into a hoarse roar. “You irrational lunatic! Filthy mouth! Do you even know what you’re saying?!” He bellowed, “This is blasphemy against a warrior’s honor! Apologize to Alyssa—now! Right now!”

All around, gazes stabbed like toxin-laced needles—contempt, shock, gloating. The pack who’d once respected me now looked at me like I was mad.

Alyssa let out a sob and darted behind Fitch, covering her mouth, eyes wide—perfect victim. But through the crook of his arm, I saw it: the smug, vicious little smile she couldn’t quite hide. She mouthed, soundlessly: You lost.

Tears slid down my face without permission. My clothes were disheveled, my expression twisted—like a lunatic. And then I laughed.

Fitch inhaled, forcing down his ferocity. His voice softened but stayed icy, shot through with command and panic. “Priscilla, you’ve disappointed me. Look at what you’ve done to yourself. Listen.”

He reached for me, feigning comfort. “Stop it. Apologize to Alyssa. Say you were upset, that you misread things. Apologize and we’ll go home right now. I promise—we end it here. Don’t make it worse. It’s bad for both of us. Understand?!”

The calculation in his eyes—the intent to bury the truth—punctured the last of my delusions.

I tore my arm free. “Apologize?” My voice was terrifyingly calm. “For her stealing my glory? Or for you slapping me?”

“No.” I shook my head slowly. “I won’t apologize. Not ever.”

Then I turned and straightened my spine. Ignoring the pain in my cheek and the blood, I walked—one step at a time—steadily through the parting crowd. My wolfskin cloak dragged along the ground like a smear of blood.

Behind me, everything collapsed into ash.

Outside, the night wind struck my face like another slap, only sharpening my clarity. In my mind, a single thought burned clean and bright.

When the moon rises. Wolf-Burial Abyss.