Third Person's POV The second wave of reporters struck immediately, their questions snapping like fangs through the tense air. "Miss Ward, can you confirm that your final dance was truly your own creation? Where and when did you compose it? Do you have proof it is your work?" "Miss Ward, we have not heard of any previous choreography from you-was this a sudden burst of inspiration, or is the credit owed to someone else?" "Miss Ward, some masters have noted clear stylistic differences tonight, yet you are credited with choreography across the board. How much of this is truly your hand? Seventy percent, eighty percent, or just a name on the roster?" Microphones and cameras swarmed like a hunting pack. Celestine felt the air grow thick in her lungs. Her heartbeat thundered. Fenrir rose from his seat, claws ready, moving to intercept the inquisitors. A heavy paw rested on his shoulder, a low voice resonating with calm authority. "I'll handle this. You go secure the perimeter." Damon had arrived during intermission. Originally, he had not planned to attend, but news of the skirmish at the entrance-Aysel and Magnus confronting the intruders-had reached him. Curiosity and the faint hope of seeing Aysel had drawn him to the theater. Celestine's movements were flawless, but his mind lingered on the memory of that radiant young wolf on a distant stage, years ago. It had been long since he had witnessed her dance. Realizing Aysel would not appear tonight, he had intended to slip away quietly-but fate delivered an unexpected spectacle. Alpha Remus and Luna were ill-suited for confrontation on camera, and Lykos was too young to manage the chaos. Damon stepped forward, joining Fenrir to tame the wild surge of reporters. After all, Celestine still bore the Blackwood name, betrothal marking her as a ward of the Eastern Alpha. Meanwhile, Magnus's hand rested lightly on Aysel's shoulder. His grin was inscrutable as he watched Damon appear in the camera frame. "Your former companion has quite the devotion to your adoptive sister," he murmured. Aysel's expression remained neutral. "Naturally," she replied, voice steady. "They are a publicly recognized pair."Magnus tilted his head, lips curling in a shadowed smile. "And if he insists on defending Celestine?" Aysel's reply was calm, unwavering. "Then he becomes my enemy." The sudden arrival of Damon lent Celestine a surge of composure. She inhaled sharply, eyes sweeping the pack of journalists, her presence commanding. "I cannot speak to any misunderstanding," she said, voice like steel wrapped in silk, "but I can confirm without doubt-the final dance was one hundred percent my original creation." Damon's presence beside her reinforced her words. "Miss Ward's assistant has already released rehearsal footage. The public may verify her work. Those who spread falsehoods shall face the full weight of Blackwood and Moonvale law." Yet the pack's predators were not so easily deterred. The first reporter fired back, snapping teeth in the form of accusation: "But videos online show another wolf performing 'Chasing the Wind' earlier than you!" Celestine felt the tension spike in her chest. She remembered the girl, lying in a hospital bed, awaiting surgery before the performance. She relaxed her stance, confidence returning. "To clarify," she said, gaze sharp, "'Chasing the Wind' was the product of long, meticulous effort-not a fleeting inspiration. The secrecy was imperfect, so perhaps someone glimpsed fragments and misappropriated them. But no one has seen the final form until tonight. My premiere remains unrivaled." Though irritation flickered within her-her carefully orchestrated triumph interrupted-her posture remained regal, predator and prey both aware that the hunt was far from over. The murmurs of the pack buzzed around her, but Celestine stood unmoved, the sovereign of her own stage, the hunt still in her grasp.