Finric paced between the tents, and felt utterly wretched. He had seen Nova's tears, those quiet, trembling sobs she had tried so desperately to hide, and still he had pressed on with his anger, his pride, his need to be right. The memory cut him raw.
Every word he had hurled now returned like a curse, echoing against the hollow of his chest until guilt twisted there like a sharpened blade. He tried to bury himself in duty: dispatches, strategies, meetings. Yet every scroll he signed, every command he issued, seemed to weigh him further beneath the truth of what he had done.
Fin resumed his place in the high council, but the chairs of Alphas already bore the weight of expectation. He entered to find the consensus muttering,
"Where is the beautiful Queen Shadowclaw?"
"She must take her rightful seat."
Finric answered in a commanding tone of authority. "I am resuming my role here."
Ragnar Redmoon leaned forward, "She should hold her own chair beside yours. Our council needs her mind."
"She's too sharp to not have a seat at this table." Fenrir Moonfang agreed.
All the Alpha's muttered in consensus.
The suggestion was met with silence from Fin, save the cold glances from Jax and Cael—both also silent, both wounded.
Alaric Darkhowler his eyes dimmed by fatigue, spoke first. "Her courage yesterday—none among us imagined such resolve," he said, his tone bearing both reverence and disbelief.
Balen Bloodmoon leaned forward, his voice, low and certain. "She held the hall long before the ambush broke. She won us, Finric."
"You must feel so proud of how she did in your stead. It was an honor." added Fenrir Moonfang, his massive frame casting long shadows across the flickering lantern light. His Beta, Baldemar, nodded in fierce agreement.
Fin nodded, but each word stung him more. Each word of praise for her struck like a blow, flaying what little pride he had left. He could not argue—Nova had indeed won them.
The session commenced. They reviewed pack after pack whose Alphas had fallen: Geri Bardoff's pack overthrown, Lycan Eclipseborne's domain shaken. Alpha Braxen Blackthorne's bastard sons were fighting for the throne. Heirs were confirmed, contingency commands given.
Then Nova's three‐part strategic plan was laid out: the dividing of fronts, the baited flank, the final strike in unity. It was dazzling. The longer he listened, the heavier his guilt bore down.
And then Ashbane and Starfang came up. The moment the names dropped, the chamber fell into a suffocating stillness. It wasn't just treason being acknowledged—it was shame, betrayal, and something darker that no one wanted to name aloud. The silence was brittle.
Alpha Alaric Darkhowler was the first to say what most were thinking.
"I still cannot believe the gall of that bastard after the third meeting." he said, voice low.
Fenrir Moonfang, eyes narrowed. "I knew something was off with him after that."
That was when Maddox Wolfric cracked his knuckles, the sound loud in the hush. "When he said some of it," he shook his head, eyes flashing. "I had my hand on my dagger."
Jax's fists were clenched at his sides listening to this. He wasn't there for the third meeting or he'd have killed Starfang right there on the spot. She might have held her own in the council tent, but he walked in on her having a full blown panic attack in private after.
Fin also felt rage bubble inside of his chest the more he learned about this. He knew she was cornered, but he didn't know the details until now.
There was tension. No one spoke for a minute.
Bloodmoon leaned forward with a grin, "Funny, I was thinking the same about you."
Renwisk Lunaris gave a short, sharp huff through his nose. "When she said that, I almost lost it."
"You and the entire room. Even his allies." Maddox Wolfric said, shaking his head with a grin.
Alaric Darkhowler let out a low grunt that might've been a chuckle.
The room went quiet.
Finric's jaw flexed as he sat rigid, knuckles white against the table. He hadn't been there. Nova had faced that war summit alone. She had no backup, no mindlink to call for aid—just her name, her will, and a room full of wolves who didn't know they were looking at the very legend they'd spent months hunting.
Yet he found it in himself that morning to yell at her and tell her she hadn't acted like a queen. He felt disgusted with himself. He said nothing for a long moment, then spoke in a voice that trembled with quiet wrath.
"Starfang's name will be erased from history." He said. That was all he could say.
No one argued.
After that agonizing meeting, Finric left the council tent and walked the ridge. The war camp was still steeped in blood and ash from the day before. Victory hung heavy in the air—not triumphant, but exhausted. Some warriors sparred slow and steady, shaking the stiffness from battered muscles. Others sat slumped near fire pits, whispering like old men, bandages wrapped over torn skin. The healers worked in silence, moving from cot to cot. The scent of blood mixed with boiled herbs and burnt leather.
Colonel Sterling spotted him and crossed the field. He offered a sharp nod, posture straight despite the fatigue dragging at his features. "Alpha," he greeted. The report was brief—losses accounted for, wounded stabilized. Supplies thinning. Morale holding.
But beneath all that, something else simmered in the camp.
A shift. A unity that hadn't existed before.
Finric didn't notice it fully until he passed the sparring circle and heard the quiet hum of conversation—not from Shadowclaw alone, but from warriors wearing the crests of packs that had, until yesterday, barely tolerated one another. Now they shared canteens, field dressing tips, even laughter. The night before had made them brothers in blood.
"How is our Luna doing?" a soldier asked, wiping sweat from his brow. "Is she awake?"
"I still can't believe what she did," murmured another smiling.
"Did you hear how she turned the tide when the wolves flanked our line?" They asked in low voices. He could not escape the chorus.
Finric said nothing. He listened. Every word pierced deeper than the last.
He turned and made the journey across camp to his tent, hoping she might have returned. Perhaps she was resting. Perhaps he could speak. Apologize.
As he walked towards his tent, he didn't slow or greet anyone. The whispers carried on their own.
At first, he thought he imagined it—just the usual noise of soldiers and scouts coming off patrol. But then a low voice drifted from the left, barely contained behind canvas.
"…there goes the luckiest King in all the continents, if the gods have any sense."
Fin's stride faltered for half a heartbeat.
Another voice, softer, replied, "He's bound to the most beautiful woman in the realms. And she's loyal. That's rarer than gold."
He kept walking.
Two warriors leaned over a map table near the fire pits, voices too hushed to be meant for him—yet clear enough in the cold air.
"If any other Alpha had seen her before he did?" one muttered. "Please. She'd have been taken on sight. Crowned by force or married to an heir."
Fin's jaw clenched.
Farther ahead, a pair of healers walked past him, unaware he was within earshot.
"She's not just beautiful," one murmured. "She's unforgettable."
"Any prince with eyes would've taken her," the other whispered back.
Finric's hands curled into fists at his sides.
Then a guard by the supply post spoke low to his companion. "Think she's resting today? After what she did for all of us?"
"She better be. She saved the whole damned camp."
Fin's shoulder tightened as he walked by them, pretending he didn't hear.
But the next words landed like an arrow.
"She's the most beautiful queen on the continent," someone said reverently behind him. "He must feel it every time he looks at her. He must really love her."
Fin's steps slowed. The noise of camp blurred around him. His chest tightened with something he didn't want to name.
He had let his own insecurities cloud everything.
He hadn't spoken to her like a king, and certainly not like the man who loved her.
And worse—he had taken his fear out on the person who least deserved it.
The whispers kept moving through camp.