Third Person’s POV


    Freya stared at Ss, startled that he would voice such words.


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    Finished


    To her, Ss was danger incarnate. Every instinct in her wolf warned her to keep distance—to never let a man like him slip too close. His presence was a storm, his soul an iron de honed for


    conquest.


    Her hesitation did not escape him. For anne Alpha of the Irond Coalition faltered, shadows


    crossing his gaze. He understood–she had never once considered entrusting him as she did Kade ckridge.


    “What a pity,” he murmured, voice low and edged with something almost human. “I was never yourrade–in–arms. If I had been… would you have guarded me as fiercely as you guard him?”


    His eyes glimmered with something rare–an unspoken plea buried beneath Alpha dominance, as if awaiting a promise that might nevere.


    Freya pressed her lips together. “Hypotheticals mean nothing. Right now, I am your shield. Your sworn protector. That is enough.”


    “And if you were not bound to me as a protector?” he pressed.


    “Then you would still be surrounded by guards. You would notck protection.”


    Ss flinched, though hisposure barely cracked. Hisshes lowered. “True. There is no sense in questions that have no answer.”


    Yet, when he turned away, a hollowness gnawed at his chest. The truth remained immutable–time could not be reversed, and he would never be her battle–brother. Still, the emptiness curdled in him like rot, a loss unnamed.


    Later that night, steam still clinging to his skin after the shower, Ss stood before a mirror. His reflection stared back at him–a fusion of his parents‘ features. His jaw carried his father’s harsh edges; his eyes, his mother’s.


    That resemnce had always damned him. Every nce from his mother had beenced with revulsion. You are his son. You’ll grow into him, into a demon. Don’te near me!


    His father’s answer to that rejection had been thesh of a whip and the venom of words: Useless boy. You can’t even win her heart. Yet afterward, the man would crumble, clutching the son whose eyes mirrored the woman he craved. I’m sorry, Ss. I just love her too much. You must help me keep her. She will love me through you. She must.


    From birth, he had never been a child–only a pawn carved from obsession. Their love was grotesque, a poison that seeped into his bones.


    Now, gazing at his own face, Ss whispered into the empty room, “Freya…” His voice shook with something he could not name. “I think… I might be jealous of Kade ckridge.”


    The admission twisted inside him like a de. Watching her with Kade earlier, that unbearable gnawing had grown into pain. Fear. The primal dread of a wolf whose im might be stolen. Every time her gaze turned


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    Finished


    toward Kade, the ache sharpened. When she had stood against Ss for Kade’s sake, the pain had be nearly unbearable.


    So this this was jealousy. Bitter, raw, undeniable.


    At dawn, Freya rose early. Today her parents, Arthur and Myra, would beid to rest at the Ashbourne Legion’s Hall of Martyrs.


    She clothed herself in ck, the traditional mourning garb of Stormveil, and entered the Stormveil Primal Hall.


    Inside, the Thorne bloodline stood ranked ording to branch and age, their ck attire a tide of grief. The air itself seemed heavy with incense, with the weight of legacy.


    At the front, Ken Thorne, patriarch of the line, leaned on his carved ironwood staff. His gaze lingered on the memorial ques of the Fifth Branch–the Bloodmoon line Freya hailed from. His eyes were distant, heavy with memory, perhaps with regret.


    “Ken Elder, miss Freya has arrived,” a nsman whispered.


    The old Alpha stirred, turning to see her approach. His voice, though weathered, carried the resonance of the Stormveil bloodline. “Freya, you are here. Today, we give your parents the honor they earned. Arthur and Myra’s sacrifice was the pride of Stormveil. Come. Kneel before the ques of your forebears–your father, your mother, your grandsire, and your great–grandsire. Offer them the respect owed.”


    Freya sank to her knees on the cold stone, bowing her head, pressing her forehead to the ground. Her wolf stirred beneath her skin, recognizing the weight of the moment themunion of blood and bone, of vow and memory.


    Ken Thorne’s voice cut across the chamber. “And the rest of you–should not the whole house honor the Fifth Branch this day?”


    He led by example. Despite his age, despite the way his body trembled with the effort, the elder bowed low, offering three deep obeisances.


    Each movement was steeped in reverence, in mourning, in guilt.


    For once, the hall was silent, save for the shuffle of garments and the thud of knees meeting stone.


    Long ago, the Fifth Branch had been renowned–seven brothers marching to war. Only one returned. Ken had sworn then to protect what remained of their bloodline. Yet here they stood, diminished still further. Now only Freya survived of her line, thest ember of a once–brilliant me.


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