“Enjoy your borrowed throne while you can,” I said. “Because the Moon remembers theft.”
Her eyes flashed. “You think Kael will ever let you go? You’re still useful to him.”
She was wrong.
That was the last time I would ever let them decide my worth.
That night, I packed only what I could carry.
The mate-mark still burned faintly on my shoulder—not glowing, not alive, but aching like a scar that refused to fade. I pressed my fingers to it one last time.
“I choose myself,” I whispered.
And when I crossed the border at dawn, the Silvermoon wards did not howl after me.
They were already forgetting my name.
The Frostline Pass did not welcome runaways.
It rose like the spine of a dead god between Silvermoon and Blackfang territory, jagged stone cliffs crowned with glacial fog that never melted, no matter the season. Every exiled wolf who crossed it carried a story, and most of those stories ended in bones.
I reached the border just as the Moon began to wane, her silver halo thinning like a frayed promise.
The Silvermoon wards flared weakly behind me, sluggish and indifferent. Once, they would have recognized my presence, bending gently aside for their Luna.
Now, I was nothing but a trespasser to my own land.
I hesitated only once.
Not because of Kael. Not because of Lyra.
Because of Papa.
The spirit flame pulsed faintly inside the soul-vessel bound to my chest, barely brighter than a dying ember. Every step I took away from Silvermoon tugged at it like gravity pulling a falling star into oblivion.
“Hold on,” I whispered. “Just a little longer.”
I stepped through the Frostline threshold.
The air shifted instantly. Blackfang magic did not caress like Silvermoon’s—it weighed, pressing down on my shoulders with territorial authority, testing the strength of my bones, the sincerity of my intent.
I was halfway across the first ridge when the howls began.
Not threat-howl.
Challenge.
Three figures broke from the mist ahead—wolves in their half-shifted forms, eyes glowing in the murk of dawn, fangs bared in silent appraisal. Blackfang border sentinels.
I raised my hands slowly. “I come under contract summons.”
One of them, taller than the others with ash-gray fur rippling beneath her skin, tilted her head. “Name.”
“Elira of Silvermoon.”
A flicker of recognition passed between them, but it was not respect.
“Former Luna,” another corrected flatly.
The truth struck harder than claws.