Third Person’s POV


    ?76%╚


    Finished


    Ss Whitmor had never admitted it aloud, but as a boy he had always wanted someone to stand before his father for him, to shield him, to help him escape. Back then, he was weak–too small, too fragile to fight back. He had dreamed of rescue.


    Now he was Alpha of the Irond Coalition, stronger than most wolves alive, feared by rivals across the territories. He no longer bowed to any man–not even his father. And yet… sitting there beside Freya Thorne, he had almost bared the softest part of himself to her. Almost told her of the broken boy that still lived inside him.


    “If one day,” Ss said, voice low and quiet in the hush of the sitting room, “I could be as you described- loyal to only you, never betraying, standing shoulder to shoulder with you, bound by blood and battle, through life and death without abandon… would you give me your heart then?”


    His words hung between them, drifting like smoke.”


    Freya’s brows knit, her lips tightening. “Are you joking?”


    Because Ss Whitmor–iron–willed Alpha, cold–eyed wolflord–did not seem like a man who could ever love like that. She couldn’t even imagine what it would look like if he tried.


    “Maybe…” He closed his eyes slowly, inhaling the faint, natural scent clinging to her. Not perfume, nothing artificial—just her. Sun–warmed skin, wild grass after rain, and the subtle trace of wolf musk. It wrapped around him like a balm, easing the sickness left behind by his father’s voice on the phone.


    “Maybe I am joking,” he murmured, letting his head rest against her shoulder. He didn’t want to move. He only wanted to stay there a while longer, drinking in her presence, letting her scent burn away the poison.


    For once, the ever–watchful Alpha allowed himself to lean.


    4


    * 噱


    The following two days, Freya made her way daily to the Stormveil Primal Hall, the ancestral stronghold where generations of her pack’s bloodline were honored. She carried with her the ashes of her parents, Arthur and Myra, and set them to rest in the shadow of the tablets of her grandparents.


    Her throat tightened every time she stood there. The Fifth Branch of the Stormveil Pack–once numerous, once proud–now reduced to ashes and carved names.


    Freya knelt, touching her forehead to the cold stone floor. “Father. Mother. I swear I will find Eric. One day I’ll return with him, and we will both stand here to honor you, and every Thorne who came before us.”


    Her voice did not break, but her wolf keened low within her chest.


    Five years had passed since her brother Eric Thorne disappeared on the bordends. The Iron Fang Recon Unit had scoured the mountains. She had scoured them herself, crossing dangerous passes and w- marked battlefields, but he was never found. Still, she refused to give up. Once her duty protecting Ss Whitmor wasplete, she would return to the frontier again. She would not stop until she uncovered something–anything–that could lead her to him.


    <i>1/2 </i>


    <b>M </b>


    Finished


    But leaving the Primal Hall that day, Freya’s path crossed with Jocelyn. Jocelyn’s eyes burned with bitterness as she blocked Freya’s way.


    “Freya Thorne,” she hissed. “Don’t think that just because Grand Elder Ken shows <i>you </i>a shred of kindness, you can strut as if you matter. Your Fifth Branch is nothing–extinct, save for you. A line of ghosts.”


    She spat the words like venom. To her, the Fifth Branch was a stain, a reminder of sacrifice she could neither understand nor respect.


    Before she could blink, Freya’s palm cracked against Jocelyn’s cheek. The sound echoed in the ancestral chamber like the snap of a whip.


    “You dare strike me?” Jocelyn shrieked, clutching her face.


    “You insult my Branch,” Freya said coldly, wolf–fire burning in her gaze. “I will strike you again, and even before Grand Elder Ken himself I will not regret it. The Fifth Branch died in loyalty, not disgrace.”


    “You-!” Jocelyn’s face flushed crimson, humiliated. But she dared not run to the elder for judgment. Still, rage shook her. “You think you can live forever under Ken Thorne’s protection? He pities you, that’s all. You’re nothing, Freya. Nothing!”


    Freya’s lips curved into a razor’s edge of a smile. “I didn’t strike you because of Ken’s protection. I struck you because you deserved it.”


    Jocelyn lunged, her hand raised to return the blow. But Freya was faster. She pivoted, sliding behind her, and drove her boot into the back of Jocelyn’s knee.


    The other woman gasped, stumbling, copsing forward onto her knees–right before the line of the Fifth Branch’s ancestral tablets.


    Freya loomed over her, pressing a hand hard to her shoulder, forcing her to bow her head toward the honored dead. “Apologize.“.


    “Why should I-!” Jocelyn spat, writhing under her grip.


    “Because these wolves did not die by misfortune. They died for the Pack. For the Stormveil. For our bloodline. You disgrace them with your words, and you disgrace yourself.” Freya’s voice rang like steel against stone.


    “You don’t tell me what I am!” Jocelyn snarled, struggling to rise. But Freya’s weight held her down, unyielding as the blood–oath carved into her bones.


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