Third Person's POV Celestine's first instinct was vengeance-sharp, instinctive, wolven. Whoever dared accuse her of theft, she would drag them before the Council and have them sued until they howled for mercy. But the reporter who had spoken first only curled his lips, scent rich with provocation. "But Miss Ward," he said, voice smooth as poison, "the girl outside didn't dance a rough version. She danced the exact same ‘Chasing the Wind' as tonight's performance." "Impossible!" Celestine snapped, wolf rising beneath her skin. For a moment she forgot to question the obvious-how had outsiders seen the performance so quickly? How could they compare it moment-for-moment before the curtain had even fallen? But Damon had already pieced it together. His head snapped toward the lower seats, eyes narrowing on Fenrir-standing beside the official theatre videographer. Fenrir's expression had darkened to a thunderstorm, his voice laced with fire. "You said this was only for official archiving. Why is it a live broadcast?" In most pack-run theatres, filming was forbidden. Wolves valued the sanctity of performance; phones remained tucked away during sacred art. Even if someone wished to question Celestine's originality, they shouldn't have been able to do it this fast. There was only one explanation: the outside world had seen the dance before the applause even faded. Fenrir, who had intended to quietly suppress the earlier commotion and keep the incident from leaking, now discovered the performance had been streamed live from beginning to end. The crowd outside was massive. No wonder the accusations flew with the speed of wildfire on a windy steppe. He didn't truly believe Celestine had plagiarized-but art was treacherous territory. Perception shaped truth. If the pack echoed a lie long enough, it devoured the truth whole. Someone might have created a mimic performance on purpose, trying to sabotage her. The thought curdled like venom in his blood. "Turn off the livestream," he growled. Across the theatre, the cameras swung back toward Celestine and Damon, who were being cornered by increasingly aggressive reporters. Fenrir's irritation spiked. The videographer blinked in confusion. "My instructions were to stream the entire performance," he answered. He eyed Fenrir's tailored coat and restless aura. Wealthy, clearly-but possibly unstable. Not someone whose words determined his salary. Fenrir's jaw tightened. The videographer hesitated. The performance was over; technically he could end it. But with a scandal erupting and no command from higher-ups, he wasn't sure whether to obey this random, intense noblewolf. And above all-headquarters had been clear: follow central command tonight, no exceptions. Fenrir's authority meant nothing compared to his actual employers. The stream continued. Fenrir's wolf bristled. He stepped forward, voice dropping into an Alpha threat that could freeze marrow. "Shut it down now, or the Moonvale Pack pulls every coin of their funding tomorrow." Moonvale Pack? The Moonvale Pack behind Miss Ward? The videographer's blood ran cold. But before he could react, another voice drifted into the space-smooth, amused, utterly unhurried. "You can't shut it down." Julia strolled in wearing her rehearsal attire, calm as a lounging predator. "Celestine is our troupe's lead dancer. If there's a scandal, we need transparency. Clearing her name publicly protects us, too." She glanced at Fenrir, eyes sparkling with challenge. "If young Master Moonvale has so much faith in his sister, why worry? With so many cameras already rolling, one more hardly matters." Fenrir froze, something sharp flickering in his memory at the sight of her face. But the crisis left him no time to unravel it. The videographer knew Julia well-after Celestine, she was the troupe's most prized performer. Her words held weight. He immediately stepped deeper into the crowd, deliberately avoiding Fenrir, keeping the stream running. Fenrir clenched his teeth. "You're not afraid the Moonvale Pack will cut funding?" Julia's smile turned wicked, triumphant. "Let them. We're not fed by Moonvale's scraps. Not anymore." She had backing now-from the mighty Shadowbane Pack. Her spine was straighter than any noblewolf's. Fenrir's chest heaved. The threat was useless. And Julia, damn her, was not entirely wrong-solving this live, under full scrutiny, was more credible. Covering things afterward would only lead to conspiracy theories and darker rumors. Still, unease knotted in his gut. A primal warning. The same cold dread he'd felt at that disastrous birthday banquet days earlier. He cast one last look at Julia, then turned sharply and strode toward the reporters swarming Celestine-toward the storm gathering around her. The hunt had begun, and the wolves were circling.