Third Person's POV Under the harsh neon gleam of Shadowbane Hospital's seventh floor, Bastien, rattled by the night's chaos and lying on a gurney, had barely registered their existence-he was a relic, tangled in debts that stretched deeper than memory, and no longer commanded the regard of those around him. The heirs, glinting with opportunistic hunger, lingered by the operating doors, lips sharp with words of inheritance. When the patriarch finally drew breath, they exchanged glances-some of relief, some of irritation-but none had the weight of consequence. On this floor, Johanna had endured the night without a flicker of fatigue. At the same moment, Ulva, widow of Phelan Sanchez, intersected with her at the washroom doorway. For a few seconds, the air between them was charged, wolves sniffing at each other from across the distance, before they passed silently, expressions masked in control. When Johanna returned to Bastien's bedside, the patriarch's gaze had already fixed upon her. In his earlier encounters with her, he had been blind to her identity. Young, clever, discerning, untainted by greed-she had almost drawn his eye for marriage, yet once her entanglements with his sons surfaced, the thought of disposing of her had burned hot in his mind. Fate, however, proved swift and uncontainable. One son dead, another lost in chaos, and yet Johanna, cunning as the wind, had slithered free, leaving Bastien to gnaw on his regrets. Closing his eyes, Bastien murmured, "Bring Alfie back. Let me see." Johanna's face remained still, unreadable, while Lyall's eyes flickered with renewed hope. Rollo Sanchez, the sixth-born, observed quietly. "It's been years since the child has walked the estate," he said lightly. "But his... nature..." Bastien's gaze swept over the room, heavy with ulterior motives, before dismissing them with a wave. "Enough. Go. I will decide." The child's origin must remain secret-an unholy scandal waiting to ignite. Still, he must be seen, acknowledged. And Magnus, absent this night, clawed at Bastien's mind, both pride and resentment twisting in equal measure. His masterpiece, the apex of the Shadowbane Pack's legacy, now a wolf that he both adored and feared. One night in the infirmary, and Bastien felt decades of strength drain from his bones. Seeking calm, Bastien banished the others, retreating to the silence of the estate's upper halls. The night passed in deceptive peace. Bedrooms hummed with the restless stirrings of human and wolf alike; the fifth household was quartered in guest rooms. Then the morning's news tore through the house. Anna Sanchez, victim of the storm and shattered glass, had perished-a violent, silent end recorded in grainy footage. Gasps rose around the breakfast table, cutlery clattering as the truth seeped through the pack's ranks. She had been the invisible shadow of the fourth pack, silent and servile, now erased. Conspiracy and control seemed to have deserted her, leaving a void that no one had anticipated. Rollo, alert and precise, had the servants probe for signs of Conor Sanchez and Caleb. Conor was unharmed, merely shifted to another room under watch. Caleb, however, was gone-presumed abroad. The Sanchez fourth branch, Anna's bloodline, was gone, their once influential sway vanished into the dirt and chaos of the world's most dangerous underbelly. Shock rippled through the heirs. Lyall's Alfie had been thought the greatest upheaval-yet this morning proved a far grimmer spectacle. One by one, the family felt the bite of uncertainty, the sharp teeth of Magnus's quiet strategy gnawing at their complacency. Johanna, unmoved, watched the pack's turmoil unfold. The timing of Magnus and Aysel's return had been no accident, orchestrated by unseen claws. Johanna, knowing the underlying snarl of calculation, sipped her hot porridge, her mind a cold pack of strategy. She foresaw the unraveling, knew the predator lurking within the young Shadowbane Alpha-who, with Aysel at his side, had carved their victory through fire and blood. Bastien would live, just long enough to witness the world his grandson had forged-a dominion ruled by claw and fang. The Sanchez heirs, previously dangling by threads over Magnus's blade, now saw the tangible drop of it, the subtle weight of control in the Alpha's every move. Accalia Sanchez recalled past errors, the auction's stings, and the shallow victories her beauty once afforded. Her offspring, barely standing in the wake of Magnus's wrath, were reminded that old wounds, though ignored, festered where wolves were concerned. Ivy, in her silence, shivered as she collected cutlery, her hands betraying the tremor of her fear. Among the living, she and Ulric's ghost of ambition carried the most enmity against Magnus-a blade that had struck once, and would strike again if provoked. The Sanchez household, wolf-governed and blood-bound, was now aware: the Shadowbane Alpha and his Moonvale mate left nothing to chance.