Lyra's POV
The wind returned as if it had been holding its breath. It swirled between the pillars of the cliffside temple, tugging at the edges of my ceremonial robe, whispering secrets into my ears that no one else could hear. My heart was a snare drum, beaten raw. And somewhere inside my chest faint, flickering, but undeniably alive my wolf moved again.
She didn't rise.
She watched.
Rowan hadn't moved.
Not a step closer. Not a hand extended. Not a demand uttered. And yet… his presence loomed larger than any threat I had ever known. Not because he frightened me though there was danger coiled beneath every inch of him but because his stillness saw me. Not the ceremonial version of me. Not the she-wolf with no scent, no claim, no future.
Me.
And that was more terrifying than any rejection.
Draven stood only a breath away, jaw tight, eyes locked on me with a fury that couldn't decide if it was possessive or humiliated. The crowd behind him had gone utterly silent, like the Moon herself had frozen time just to see what I would do.
The High Priestess's voice trembled as she spoke again.
"The ceremony remains incomplete. The rejection has been declared . Yes,but it is the female's will that determines whether the bond is broken… or passed."
All eyes turned to me.
I was the center of the cliff. The wound between two alphas. The girl the Goddess had mistakenly placed between ruin and fire.
"Say the words, Lyra," Draven said, his voice sharp enough to bleed. "Accept it."
I opened my mouth.
But the words… refused.
They sat on my tongue like ash. Like they had grown roots in my throat and refused to be torn free.
Not because I still wanted him.
Not because the bond still bound me.
But because… for the first time in my life, I didn't know who I was without it.
If I accepted the rejection, I would be nothing.
But if I didn't…
What was I?
Rowan still hadn't spoken again. He hadn't repeated his claim. He didn't need to. His gaze said everything. It wasn't a promise. It wasn't even comfort. It was challenge. Invitation.
Choice.
You don't have to accept him.
You just have to decide who you belong to.
I swallowed hard.
Wasn't that what I had always wanted? To belong somewhere? To matter to someone? To be seen not as a broken thing, but as something worth keeping?
But the bond had cracked. The shame was real. And the ache of the ceremony still pulsed through every inch of me like an old wound being ripped open again and again.
My vision blurred at the edges, not from tears ,those had dried long ago . But from the pressure of too many eyes. Too many expectations. Too much weight for a girl who had once prayed simply to be left alone.
"Lyra," the High Priestess prompted, more gently this time. "Your choice."
I looked at Draven.
And then I looked at Rowan.
And somewhere in between them, in the silence, in the stillness, in the thunder of my heartbeat and the stir of my wolf I found something I hadn't expected.
Not clarity.
Not strength.
Just… a spark.
I lifted my chin, slowly.
"I don't accept you," I whispered to Draven. The words felt foreign, like power pressed between my teeth. "Not your rejection. Not your cruelty. Not your shame."
He stiffened.
His lips parted like he was about to speak, but I turned away before he could, and met the eyes of the man who hadn't demanded anything from me. The man who had stood still and waited.
Rowan.
My heart pounded.
I saw the flicker in his gaze. Not surprise. Approval. Not ownership. Recognition.
But I wasn't done.
"And I don't belong to anyone," I said louder this time, my voice carrying across the cliff, across the pack that had whispered and watched and waited for me to crumble. "Not yet."
Gasps rippled through the wolves behind me. I felt their shock. Their disbelief.
Good.
Let them choke on it.
Because I wasn't choosing Draven.
And I wasn't ready to choose Rowan.
I was choosing me.
My voice. My fire. My wolf ,wherever she was, whatever she was becoming, she was mine.
And she was awake now.
The air shifted again. The moon seemed to lean closer. The sacred flames flickered like they knew.
Rowan didn't step forward. He didn't push.
But something like a smile ,a rare, dark, knowing thing, curved at the edge of his mouth.
He saw me.
Not as something to save. Not as something to fix.
But as something rising.