Third Person's POV A sharp, forked branch-still green and sinewy-snapped through the air and lashed across Ulric Sanchez's face, each strike stinging with the force of desperate rage. The impact hit the most vulnerable parts of his already weakened body, leaving him stunned, his expression twisting with pain and disbelief. Before he could recover, Aysel's anxious voice burst through the darkness: "Ah-Stepmother, don't hit him there! Slapping his face won't kill him! Even if Uncle Ulric doesn't love you, you two are still mates!" A loud crack followed-an ashtray slamming directly into Ivy of the Darkmoon Pack's forehead. "Heavens-Uncle Ulric! That was too hard! What if Stepmother's head splits open? The Darkmoon Pack is here today!" "Ulric Sanchez!" Ivy roared purely by instinct, her wolf's fury bleeding through her voice. Then came a sharp, ringing smack, the sound of nails raking across skin. A glass cup shattered. Papers fluttered wildly. A chair crashed against the ground. Fabric ripped under claws. A choked gasp-fingers gripping a throat. A kick landing with raw, bruising force. Flesh meeting flesh, Wolves snarling beneath the surface. "Ivy! You deranged she-wolf!" "Ulric! I'll kill you! Lay a claw on me again and I'll rip your throat out!" "Enough! Stop, both of you-wretched woman!" "Aaaargh! I'll die with you! Ulric Sanchez, you're no Alpha-you're barely a wolf!" "Stop fighting! Stop-Stepmother, Uncle Ulric is over here!" ...Inside the brilliantly lit banquet hall, an orchestra played bright, celebratory melodies for the gathered noble packs. Inside the sealed, pitch-black room, another kind of symphony raged-voices rising and falling in chaos, full of raw emotion and feral temper. The servants waiting anxiously outside stiffened at every thud and scream from within. A timid maid leaned toward Circa. "Did Miss Aysel really go in? Why... why does it sound worse now?" Circa looked equally frightened. "She should have. Maybe even she can't calm them?" A male servant hesitated. "Should... should we check on her?" "No!" Circa's voice tightened with authority. "Miss Aysel said no one goes in. If you disobey her, are you ready to face Young Master Magnus's wrath?" Another servant whispered, trembling, "But what if Miss Aysel gets hurt...? If something happens to her, the Third Young Master will skin us alive." Ulric and Ivy could break bones, draw blood, and the packs would call it family business. But Miss Aysel-if she got even a scratch, Shadowbane's strongest Alpha would tear through every servant in the corridor. Fear crept into their faces. Several regretted calling her in the first place. Circa pressed her lips tight, then made her final decision. "No one goes in. We trust Miss Aysel." The group exchanged tortured glances, waiting for the ten minutes to pass. Inside the room Aysel who had spent the "intervention" running, blocking, dodging, shoving, and generally fanning the flames-paused to catch her breath. Her limbs throbbed with soreness from her... enthusiastic involvement. Estimating the remaining time, she located the exact positions of the two nearly-spent combatants by the weakening rhythm of their snarls and curses. Then she delivered one clean finishing blow.A hard kick sent Ulric Sanchez's wheelchair toppling. He rolled across the wrecked floor, hitting shattered glass with a harsh cry. Next, she raised a chair and slammed it squarely against Ivy's spine. The Darkmoon Pack matriarch stumbled forward, chest crashing into the table edge, the impact knocking the breath and rage out of her at once. Perfect. Ten minutes passed. The lights flicked on. The room looked like a tempest had torn through. Torn fabrics. Splintered wood. Shattered glass. Papers like snow. And standing in the center-untouched, luminous in a soft green dress-Aysel looked almost ethereal, save for a delicate sheen of sweat on her brow. Her eyes widened in staged horror. She covered her mouth. "Oh spirits-Uncle Ulric, Stepmother... h-how did you end up like this?" She backed away in distress. "This is bad. This is really, really bad..." Sensing her intent, the two wolves-bleeding, bruised, and barely conscious-instinctively united for the first time that day. "Don't go!" But Aysel was faster-both in words and footsteps. "I'm going to call people!" Ulric Sanchez and Ivy both shut their eyes. Utter despair washed over them. A private brawl was one thing. But for their state-this ugly, vicious, humiliating mess-to be seen by the packs? Death would be mercy.