Third Person's POV Celestine lay in the healer's chamber, eyes rimmed with fire-red fury. The Moonvale Pack had been buzzing with concern over her, but none of it mattered now-her dreams had been shattered. The troupe's messenger had just delivered the news: because of her injury, she wouldn't take the Black Swan's center stage. The role she had spent six months preparing for would go to a replacement. The part she had worked tirelessly to perfect-the lead in the international master's new choreography-slipped from her claws like prey escaping the hunt. And all because Aysel had struck first, leaving her legs broken. Celestine's wolf, restless even under sedation, surged with rage. How dare Aysel, once the quiet, obedient cub of the Moonvale Pack, now rise with such cunning and vengeance? The idea was unbearable. She clenched the edge of her bed, stifling the wail she refused to let her pack see. Her pride and stubbornness masked the pain, but every fiber of her being throbbed with betrayal. Damon noticed the tremor immediately. The Blackwood Alpha's eyes softened with concern as he approached. "What is it? Why are you crying?" His hands hovered over her shoulders, attuned to both human and wolfic unease. "Is it the injury? I can summon the healers." "No!" Celestine snapped, gripping his wrist. "It's not that... The troupe just told me that the Black Swan lead has been given to someone else. I... I feel hollow." She swallowed hard, forcing a fragile smile that barely hid the ache inside-a mask any Moonvale observer would read as pitiful, but true wolves saw the storm beneath. Damon's amber eyes darkened. He knew how much this role meant to her, how every sinew of her soul had been trained for it. "Aysel acted impulsively," he said, carefully. "I will make it right. She owes you." Celestine's gaze sharpened, a small edge of wolfish cunning passing over her face. "It's... alright. I understand. Aysel has always been the grandmother's favored cub. Claiming her territory was natural. If she truly wanted the little estate, I could let her have it. I don't want conflict between you and her over me." Damon adjusted her pillows, helping her upright, the weight of his presence both protective and reassuring. "Don't blame yourself. That estate should have a share for you, and you need it now more than she does."He hesitated briefly, then added, in a tone meant to settle the pack-born pride: "She owes you this." To him, the house was nothing compared to the pain Celestine had endured. Aysel was caught in her own pack-driven obstinacy-everything she desired, she had to dominate. She had never allowed herself to touch what Celestine once played with and discarded, not even once. Now, the estate was no exception. Even if ownership legally transferred to Celestine, Aysel would likely return, scenting her claim-and Damon could almost see the storm brewing in her wolfish mind. Since the failed pairing, Aysel had avoided him entirely, not even sparing a call. Her silence gnawed at his patience. He glanced at her silent phone, irritation prickling along his spine. "She hasn't answered?" he asked. "Shall I try again? I can explain on your behalf-about that day at the crowning ceremony. You didn't leave deliberately." Lykos, entering the chamber with midday sustenance, scoffed at Damon's words. "She's dramatic. For a minor slight, she's got you running circles. And after she put Celestine in the healer's bed, you're still making excuses for her?" "Lykos," Celestine chided, eyes narrowing, but there was warmth behind it. The younger Vale cubs often played such games. Damon remembered Aysel as a little cub, trailing after Lykos, boastful: "Brother, I have a little sibling now. Want five minutes? No, one will do. You can't live without me!" He pushed the memory aside and redialed Aysel's number. Several days had passed without contact, and his wolf's instincts buzzed with worry. He needed her calm, her reason... and an apology for her violent act. Unexpectedly, this call connected. The three in the chamber-Celestine, Damon, and Lykos-turned their attention to the ringing phone. "Aysel..." Damon began. "Hello." Two voices answered at once. Damon's brow furrowed-the male voice, deep and drowsy, unmistakably wolfed in tone, held a magnetic rasp. His pulse jumped. "Who are you? How do you have Aysel's phone?" Damon demanded, tension coiling in his wolf-heart. "She's still sleeping," the stranger replied, unmoved. Before Damon could press further, Magnus Sanchez-Shadowbane's Alpha, the continent's apex wolf, known in wolfing circles as Rafe-hung up and silenced the device.He leaned back against the sofa, single hand shielding his face from the harsh light, his wolf instincts relishing the rare calm after the storm. The morning had been chaotic: from parents to packmates-each call a hunt, a test of dominance, each one tied to the same target: Aysel. Magnus, for all his fury and pride, found amusement in the calculated chaos of the Vale cub. Her aggression, her timing, the way the pack fumed-perfectly synchronized like wolves circling prey. Meanwhile, Damon remained tense, unable to shake the unease. A stranger-male, strong, cunning-holding Aysel's phone, sleeping in her den. The implications of this intrusion were immediate and dangerous. He rose swiftly, intention sharp, ready to confront Aysel-but Lykos' dry remark halted him. "Hah, what's Aysel plotting now? Even using a stranger in her games. Clever little wolf." Damon's amber eyes narrowed as he watched Celestine bite her lip, her small frame tense. "Who doesn't know Aysel has wanted you since she was a cub?" Lykos growled under his breath, muscles coiling. "This time... she clearly sought out someone just to rile you up. Damon, how could you fall for it so easily?" Celestine shook her head slightly, fangs pressing lightly against her lower lip, a subtle sign of suppressed irritation and unease. "Maybe Aysel is angry... but she shouldn't play games like this. She is still a young she-wolf," she murmured, her voice soft yet tinged with steel. Damon's fists clenched at his sides. Concern clouded his judgment; he could feel the heat of his blood, the surge of his Alpha instincts. For nearly twenty cycles, he had known Aysel. She would never truly seek another mate-her moves were deliberate, meant to provoke him, to test his dominance. And he had risen to the bait. The stranger's voice on the call had ignited a storm in his chest, a pack-born rage he could barely contain. "She doesn't apologize, and she won't," Lykos interjected sharply, fangs glinting. "Damon, you cannot forgive her this time." No other pack sibling feud had ever escalated to this-Celestine had ended up in the healer's den because of Aysel. The Vale she-wolf constantly rewrote the rules of audacity. Damon pressed his lips together, holding the weight of his Alpha restraint. To bend Aysel, to force her to lower her head even for a moment over a dispute about territory-about an estate-was near impossible. Her wolf was stubborn, territorial, and cunning. "She doesn't even want to face me," he admitted, his gaze darkening with the shadows of worry. Lykos shrugged, unfazed, his ears twitching at the scent of rising tension. "Hiding won't help. The anniversary of our aunt's passing is approaching." Damon's shoulders stiffened. He knew that day-the scent-heavy memory of grief, the shadowed wolf-heart of Aysel-it was the day she carried the deepest sorrow. Every year, it clawed at her like a hunter cornered, and she would surface, no matter the machinations of the pack.