Third Person's POV After Johanna left, the unconscious lodge attendant—knocked out and stuffed into the bathroom by Derek—was dragged away by the Shadowbane guards as well. The door shut. The room returned to stillness, thick with the metallic scent of blood and the bitter residue of forced heat. Derek leaned against the wall, fingers digging into his arm as the drug gnawed at his nerves like fire ants beneath his skin. His wolf thrashed restlessly inside him, demanding release, demanding dominance. He did not ask Magnus for help. After a long silence, he let out a hoarse breath. "Your luck," Derek said, voice rough, carrying a strange, resigned bitterness, "has always been better than mine." Magnus' eyes—cold as winter frost over iron—fixed on him without mercy. "You should never have set your sights on Aysel." Derek shook his head slowly. "She was my only opening. The only way I could break you," he said quietly. "If you were me, would you really have chosen differently?" If he had succeeded on the yacht—if Aysel had been taken—none of this would have been necessary. Magnus gave a short, contemptuous laugh. His tone, however, was absolute. "No." He had never claimed to be virtuous. Blood, power, and annihilation had never frightened him. But even wolves had lines. "I don't stoop so low as to use a woman's body as a weapon." Derek froze for a fraction of a second. Then he lowered his head and laughed under his breath."I lost," he said simply. From the moment Derek had woken in an unfamiliar room, heat poisoning raging through his veins, he had known. The trap had already closed. He had been seen through. Struggling further would only humiliate him. Skill decided dominance. He had none left to argue with. When Magnus finally took Aysel by the hand and led her out, Aysel stopped at the doorway. She turned back. "Derek," she said coolly. "You don't actually think you're some tragic romantic hero, do you?" She remembered the way he had looked earlier—restrained, wounded, almost noble—like a male suffering in silence for love, as if Magnus were the villain tearing apart a pair of devoted mates. The thought irritated her. She let out a short, mocking laugh. "You drugged yourself and stabbed your own flesh rather than touch a woman who threw herself at you. You took the blame to protect Bella of the Bluemoon Pack's reputation. You cut ties to avoid dragging her pack into scandal," Aysel said sharply. "You must feel very great about yourself." Derek looked at her, lips pressed thin, saying nothing. Aysel didn't stop. "If you truly cared for her, you had two choices. Either never approach her in the first place—or abandon ambitions that were never yours to claim." Her eyes hardened. "You sabotaged your own engagement feast because you couldn't find a better chance to strike. If you succeeded, her entire future would have been shattered by disgrace. If you failed—did you ever consider what would happen to you?" She stepped closer."Your so-called love was never stronger than your hunger for power." Even now, she wondered—was his restraint born of care for Bella, or fear of being dragged out and torn apart as a disgraced male caught in heat? "You are inferior to Magnus as a ruler," Aysel said flatly. "And as a mate—you are even worse." She smiled coldly. "Derek Sanchez. You're nothing but filth." The engagement feast ended in collapse. The great hall stood hollow and abandoned. Bastien Sanchez, the old Alpha, gazed at the empty space and closed his clouded eyes. "Can you spare him?" he asked at last. "Can you let Derek live?" Magnus stood beside him, tall and unyielding. "If his plan had succeeded," Magnus asked quietly, "what would the outcome have been?" Bastien could not answer. "He is your eldest brother's only bloodline." Magnus' voice remained calm. "Do you believe he would ever truly give up?" Bastien still had no answer. Because he knew the truth. Sanchez wolves—especially the brilliant ones—never surrendered. As long as they lived, they waited. As long as they breathed, they hunted. The muscles in Bastien's face trembled. The life seemed to drain from him. "I taught you all wrong," the old Alpha whispered. The lodge corridors.After Derek was taken away, Ulva remained alone in the room for a long time before finally stepping out. She encountered Johanna in the hallway—who had left slightly later. The two females stood several feet apart beneath the dim lights, shadows cutting across their faces. Time had shifted everything. Once allies. Now adversaries. Ulva broke the silence. "Why did you help them?" Aysel had her own escape. But Johanna had still chosen to bring the key. It was a decision. Johanna replied calmly, "I told you. It wasn't for them." Ulva thought for a moment, then spoke a name. "Alfie?" Johanna didn't answer. Ulva frowned. "You never cared for that son. Using him to stir chaos in the Sanchez Pack should have pleased you." Johanna's voice remained level. "I never loved him," she said. "But I promised him this—he did not want to be dragged into the Sanchez war." Before returning to the pack, she had asked Alfie whether he wished to compete. He had said no. Johanna had never been a good mother. But she kept her word. "And whether Magnus wins or Derek wins makes no difference to me," she added. "Either way, Bastien's final years would never know peace."She looked at Ulva with mild regret. "It's unfortunate," she said. "You didn't win a second time." Ulva smiled faintly. "A wager lost is a wager honored." Johanna nodded. "Indeed." She paused. "Then… goodbye?" "Goodbye." Ulva watched Johanna walk away. At the corridor's end stood Lyall, a cloak draped over his arm, waiting for her. A quiet ache surfaced in Ulva's eyes. The story had never truly ended. Now they each stood where fate had carried them. Johanna witnessed the retribution of the Sanchez Pack. Ulva followed her own will and gambled everything. Losing was not surprising. After all— She had once won. Long ago. Before the storms began. Before the Sanchez Pack fractured. She had survived the hardest first step, yet always fell short—by the smallest margin. And it was precisely that margin that made surrender impossible. When Ulva married Phelan Sanchez, he had thought it a simple alliance. For her, it had been love.He never knew how much blood and patience it had taken for her to stand beside him. Unlike Ivy of the Darkmoon Pack, Ulva came from a fractured lineage. Many daughters. Little affection. She was the overlooked child of a forgotten mate. From a nobody, she rose to become the future Luna of the Sanchez Pack—outmaneuvering sisters, rivals, and noble she-wolves across the capital. But unlike Ivy, who chased love blindly, Ulva understood its fragility. She cared for Phelan. But she was content with distance. She gained the man she admired—and the title of First Luna. She would have been the only true Luna the pack ever recognized. She refined herself relentlessly—not for love, but survival. Later, she perfected restraint and diplomacy, preparing to rule beside him. Everything should have unfolded exactly as planned. Until Johanna appeared. When Phelan spoke of severing the bond, Ulva thought him mad. A disciplined, calculating Alpha—reduced to recklessness for a woman. She could tolerate infidelity. She could tolerate affection elsewhere. As long as her position remained untouched. But he refused compromise. He said he loved Johanna. And the Alpha who once lived only for dominance and gain suddenly became foolishly alive— like a young wolf willing to disgrace himself for desire. That was when everything shattered.