Third Person's POV Ken Thorne's sharp gaze softened into something warmer, almost grandfatherly. "Good… good… good!" he thundered, his voice carrying like the growl of an elder Alpha. "The blood of the Fifth Line deserves its place in the Stormveil Primal Hall. The ashes of Arthur and Myra shall rest where they belong! I would like to see who dares stand in the way!" As his words fell, his ironwood staff struck the stone floor with a thunderous crack. The sound reverberated through the ancient hall like a war drum. Silence fell instantly. No wolf in the courtyard dared to breathe too loudly. "Freya," Ken's voice softened as he turned toward her, "come. Carry your parents' ashes and walk with me, your great-grandsire, into the Primal Hall." "Yes, Alpha-Elder," Freya answered firmly. Her arms tightened protectively around the urn cloaked in the national colors. But before she could move, a voice rang out. "I want to walk in with her." The crowd turned. Silas Whitmor, Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition, stepped forward, his presence alone drawing a murmur of shock. Ken Thorne's eyes narrowed. "This is the Stormveil Pack's ancestral rite. Outsiders have no place within the Primal Hall." A flicker of irritation crossed Silas's face. Freya moved closer to him and lowered her voice. "This is Stormveil's hall, Silas. Today is about my bloodline. But… thank you." "Thank me?" For a heartbeat Silas was caught off guard. Was that truly what he had been doing-caring? If not, why had he spoken so impulsively? Why had he stepped forward as if her battle was his own? After a pause, he said quietly, "Then I will wait here until you return." The words rippled through the gathered wolves like a storm wind. The Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition, the infamous Whitmor, waiting outside Stormveil's hall-for her? Eyes darted between them, stunned, whispering disbelief. Freya studied his face a moment longer before giving a small nod. "Alright." Then, straightening, she turned back to Ken Thorne and followed him into the Stormveil Primal Hall. The rest of the pack, elders and kin alike, exchanged uneasy glances before trailing inside behind her. The injured guards who had tried to bar her way earlier were carried off to heal, while the enforcers kept the swelling crowd at bay. Slowly, the throng dispersed until the stone courtyard emptied, leaving Silas Whitmor standing sentinel before the Primal Hall's looming doors. His gaze lingered on the carved totems of wolves and moons etched into the archway. Yet his thoughts replayed only one image-Freya's face as she had spoken outside, sorrow and unyielding pride burning together. A lineage of martyrs. A bloodline that had given everything. He had once thought of her as merely an amusing challenge, a distraction in his restless Alpha life. But now… something was shifting. Something primal. --- Within the Primal Hall, the air was heavy with the scent of cedar, ash, and wolf-magic. Freya had been here as a child, trailing behind her father Arthur during rites. But today-bearing his ashes-it was as if the spirits of her ancestors watched her every step. Ken Thorne led her to the altar, where rows of obsidian-etched name tablets rose like a silent army of generations past. He pointed to the section of the Fifth Line. "Place them here. Arthur and Myra Thorne have earned this ground." "I had asked Seventh Uncle James if the memorial tablets were prepared," Freya murmured, her voice tight. "I… don't know if they were ever finished." Ken's expression darkened. "James… Where is that whelp?" The surrounding kin shifted uneasily. Finally, a younger pack member whispered, "He is… playing cards, Elder." Ken slammed his staff against the floor with a snarl. "Cards! While his kin wait to be honored? Worthless pup! Fetch the tablets, now!" Moments later, the carved memorial stones of Arthur Thorne and Myra were brought forth, the names etched in silver runes that glowed faintly in the dim firelight. Freya's eyes blurred. She placed the tablets beneath the stone markers of her grandparents, hands trembling. Then she lowered herself onto her knees, the urn still clasped tightly, and bowed until her forehead touched the cold floor. "Unworthy daughter of the Fifth Line, Freya Thorne, bows before the ancestors. May Arthur and Myra Brown, heroes of the Iron Fang Recon Unit, rest among their kin. May the Stormveil remember."Her voice rang through the hall like a vow. Ken Thorne's eyes glistened with unspoken grief, though his posture remained rigid, Alpha-Elder strong. When Freya rose, he turned, his gaze snapping toward Lennon Thorne and Jocelyn. "You two-kneel!" His roar cracked like thunder. Lennon and Jocelyn flinched, paling. "Grandfather, why? Why would you-" Lennon stammered. "Do you dare ask?" Ken's voice was cold steel. "What you attempted today at the gates of the Primal Hall-do you think the ancestors do not see?" Jocelyn scrambled to explain, her voice honeyed with excuses. "Great-grandfather, how was I to know she was truly of the Fifth Line? Her name carried no generational mark, and many wolves attempt to claim ties to Stormveil for their own gain. I could not have known-" Ken's staff struck again. Sparks of wolf-magic shivered across the floor. "And so you would cast out the blood of martyrs, while defending your own pride? Kneel, or be stripped of your Stormveil name!"