Third Person’s POV


    ? 2 75%<b>? </b>


    Finished


    From that day forward, Ken Thorne swore in silence: as long as breath lingered in his chest, Freya Thorne would never stand alone.


    When the elder Alpha bent low before the memorial wall of the Fifth Branch, the rest of the Stormveil pack followed. Dozens of wolves lowered their heads and offered three deep bows toward the bloodline’s ques.


    Even Jocelyn Thorne, despite the bitterness twisting her heart, had no choice but to kneel alongside the others. Her wolf snarled inwardly at the indignity, but tradition bound her tighter than her own will. Still, as her head dipped, her resentment toward Freya only deepened.


    Freya only stands tall because of her branch, Jocelyn thought, rage curdling under her calm mask. Ken Elder still reveres the Bloodmoon martyrs, and her parents died as heroes. But Ken is old, his strength failing. Once this funeral is done, when the embers of the Fifth Branch fade… she will be nothing again. Nothing.


    Thest bow was offered, and Freya rose, Cradling the urns of Arthur and Myra against her chest, she led the line of mourners from the Stormveil Primal Hall toward the gates.”


    The family fell in behind her, their dark garments flowing like a ck tide.


    Jocelyn’s lips curved into a cold smile as she whispered to one of her cousins, “Were it not for the pack lending her its weight, she would walk this funeral alone.”


    One of her peers snickered, echoing her disdain. “Without us, the send–off would be pitiful. A single girl and two urns–how tragic.”


    “Yes,” Jocelyn murmured, satisfied. “Pathetic indeed.”


    But her satisfaction withered the moment they reached the gates.


    Her breath caught. Her smirk froze.


    Outside the Primal Hall, two immacte lines of wolves in the dark armor of the Iron Fang Recon Unit stood at rigid attention, their scarred faces solemn beneath the banners of Stormveil.


    And they were not alone. Beyond them waited dignitaries–Alphas and officials from the Ashbourne Council, their attire ck and marked with silver crests of mourning.


    Jocelyn staggered inwardly, her wolf faltering in shock.


    The spectacle was a p across her face. She had mocked Freya for needing the pack to carry her through this day. Yet even had the family abandoned her, the Bloodmoon dead would still have been honored–not just by Stormveil, but by the Iron Fang warriors and the wider Coalition itself.


    Because martyrs were never forgotten.


    Even the passersby in Ashbourne’s busy streets halted in silence,pelled by the sight of the funeral guard.


    75%


    Finished


    Then Jocelyn’s gaze snagged on a figure among the crowd, and her heart lurched.


    Ss.


    The Irond Alpha, d in a sharp ck suit, his expression unreadable but his eyes fixed solely on Freya.


    Jocelyn’s wolf recoiled. Impossible. Ss had no reverence for death. He had never stood in honor at another wolf’s passing–save for two: his mother, and his grandsire. That was all.


    And yet here he stood, for Arthur and Myra.


    Did that mean, in Ss’s cold heart, the Bloodmoon pair ranked alongside the only two souls he had ever mourned?


    The realization seared Jocelyn, her ws biting into her palms as jealousy and hatred coiled like vipers inside her.


    Freya, meanwhile, bore her parents‘ urns forward. As she approached the Iron Fang lines, every wolf in the formation lifted a hand to their chest, fists clenched over hearts in the old warrior’s salute.


    It was the highest tribute–the pack’s eternal vow to remember their fallen.


    A ceremonial banner of crimson was unfurled, draped carefully across the urns. Not just cloth—it was marked with the sigil of the Bloodmoon Branch, an emblem of their sacrifice.


    A low, mournful howl began among the Recon wolves, swelling and carrying through Ashbourne’s streets.


    Freya’s eyes stung as the sound rose. It was the sound of remembrance, the wolf–song of honor.


    Her parents had lived and died by their creed–that the pack’s peace was worth their blood. And in this moment, that creed resounded in every voice, every chest, every howl that shook the sky above the city.


    When the howls faded, one of the Ashbourne Council representatives stepped forward, bowing his head before Freya. “Arthur and Myra Thorne gave everything to shield thisnd. Ashbourne, the Stormveil Pack, and the Coalition itself will never forget their names. Nor their daughter.”


    Freya lowered her gaze to the urns in her arms, her voice a whisper only her wolf could hear.


    I will carry you forward. Always.


    Send Gifts


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