Third Person's POV Aysel did not particularly like the old Alpha of the Sanchez Pack, Bastien. She was no mindless storm of claws and fangs, eager to strike at any moment. Today, in this den of celebration, she would not waste herself overturning tables or creating chaos. Of course, if others tried, she might lend a swipe at a tablecloth, playful mischief in her eyes, but no more than that. Magnus, his massive form towering behind her, stroked the fur along her nape, nodding in quiet approval. "Such sweetness, my dear, it's their own prejudice that blinds them," he murmured, a low rumble in his throat. Around them, the world saw a scene of perfect devotion: the Alpha of Shadowbane entirely enraptured by the rising star of the Moonvale Pack. To most eyes, it was a testament to his loyalty and affection. But to the envious, every glance between them was a sting, each shared laugh a pointed reminder of their exclusion. The Darkmoon Pack's presence led by their patriarch, Lucas, with wife and daughter in tow. Olivia, still smarting from being shut out of the Shadowbane den, had not seen Magnus since her expulsion. Her later attempts to visit had been rebuffed, leaving her convinced it was Aysel's petty jealousy that barred her way. Her thoughts simmered with contempt. So vigilant, so cautious-it was weakness disguised as dignity. Did she truly believe that a fleeting affection could bind an Alpha's heart? "Control yourself. Life stretches ahead," a pair of carefully manicured hands rested over Olivia's clenched fists. Her mother, Lady Darkmoon, observed the intimate scene of Aysel and Magnus, her face a mask of calm. "You are the eldest of the Darkmoon line. How can you stoop to contest a girl without standing, a pack without roots? Go now, with your father, and offer respects to the elder of the Sanchez den." A pause, then she added, "And your aunt... why is she absent today?" Olivia's fists slackened. A shadow crossed her face, a mix of wistfulness and regret. "I don't know... perhaps she still bears a grudge against me." Aunt Ivy had always treated her with kindness, more a mother than the often strict Lady Darkmoon, who had punished her daughter harshly for the indulgence given to others. Yet she had fallen for her enemy's kin. Disapproval tightened Lady Darkmoon's features. As the second matriarch of the Sanchez Pack, Ivy had the perfect position to aid Olivia's hopes of joining the Shadowbane line. But for her own petty whims, she sulked even on a day like this, absent from all events. Their own kin, and yet not a single courtesy extended.The matriarch's disdain only deepened. While her husband, Lucas, had once opposed Olivia's interest in Magnus, Lady Darkmoon had always supported it. In all of the Empire, none were more fitting, more powerful, than the Alpha of Shadowbane. She had chosen the brightest path once, and history had proven her correct. Now, she sought the best for her own daughter. Ivy, incapable of producing heirs and unable to nurture her only son, Magnus's father Ulric, only weakened her claim. Without the bond of familial support, Olivia could not rival the likes of Raya, born from modest roots yet fiercely capable. Meanwhile, in her private chambers, Ivy arranged flowers with a meticulous paw, a rare pause from the fray. Magnus's father, Ulric Sanchez, glanced at her, brow furrowed. "You're not attending the gathering? Your brother and his mate, and your niece... they are all there." Since his injury, Ulric seldom ventured into social events. Ivy, by contrast, thrived in public spectacle, rarely missing an opportunity. Today, her cherished niece Olivia would be present. Ivy's claws accidentally snipped through a rose stem, a small, sharp accident born of distraction. Silence lingered before she turned her gaze on Ulric, eyes cool and unflinching. "Ulric... do you regret taking me?" Ulric's paw froze mid-knee. The air thickened with unspoken tension. Regret? Perhaps. Dreams in the night often conjured visions of the lit stage, the focused figure of Raya playing the cello under the glow of lanterns. Yet if fate allowed a second chance, he thought, he might still make the same choices. To love her, to stray for advantage, to play the endless game of pack politics-all unavoidable. No Sanchez would escape the grand spectacle of power, the subtle claws of influence and betrayal. But this time, if chance returned, he would release her sooner, spare her the brambles of his ambitions.