Third Person’s POV


    Jocelyn had once believed herself the woman closest to Ss.


    +8 Pearls


    For years, she had convinced herself that his aloofness toward females was simply his nature–that the Irond Alpha’s blood ran too cold for passion, too controlled for affection. He was a man of power, forged of iron and shadow, who could look at queens and warriors alike and see nothing but background noise.


    But what Jocelyn had witnessed at the shoreline shattered that illusion. She had seen him move–truly move–not for the defense of territory or pack, but for Freya.


    The way he had stepped forward, his aura rising like a steel storm, his dominance breaking through the air–Ss had chosen to act for her.


    It was not nothing.


    717


    And Jocelyn, sharp–eyed and politically bred, knew exactly what that meant. When an Alpha like Ss bent his will to shield a woman, when the wolf stirred from within to im rather than dismiss–that was not strategy. That was instinct. That was heart.


    Her stomach coiled in resentment.


    She turned to her uncle, Abel Thorne, who stood with the calm detachment of one who had seen stormse and go. “So, Uncle,” she said, voiceced with a bitterugh, “you’ve decided that Freya is the better bet for Stormveil’s fortune? That because Ss favors her, I am suddenly… dispensable?”


    Abel’s sigh came heavy, weighted with the tired patience of an elder. “Jocelyn, I say this for your good.”


    “For my good?” Jocelyn’s eyes gleamed with venomous light. “You mean to tell me that all these years I wed my way into Stormveil’s recognition, that I sacrificed more than any of your pure–blooded heirs, only for you to toss me aside the moment Freya appears? Don’t forget–Stormveil stands where it does today because I paid the price. Because I lost an eye to ensure our Pack a foothold in the Ashboone.”


    Her words hissed like a wounded wolf’s snarl.


    But Abel’s gaze hardened, and for once, he did not soften his tone. “Do not forget, child, that sacrifice gave you entry. You were born outside Stormveil’s core bloodline. Without that act, you would have been kept at arm’s length. You call yourself savior, yet it was the opening that allowed you through the gates. Do not mistake circumstance for merit.”


    His meaning pierced her like a w.


    It was true. The scars she carried, the missing eye she unted as proof of loyalty–they had allowed her to climb into the halls of Stormveil Primal Hall and sit among heirs who bore Ken Thorne’s blood. But she had not risen by strength or cunning. She had risen on debt, on pity, and on Ss Whitmor’s asional indulgence of her presence.


    And now, with Freya Thorne at Ss’s side, even that thin thread unraveled.


    Abel had spoken enough. He let the matter die, folding his arms as though her bitterness were beneath furtherment. Jocelyn could only seethe in silence, her wolf bristling beneath her skin.


    The ceremony stretched into itstter hours, the cornerstones of steel and stone already blessed with the oaths of leaders and signed by mortal dignitaries. At the tail end of the event, a sudden roar split the sky.


    The crowd turned as one. Reporters surged forward, cameras shing in a frenzy, voices rising into a tide of awe


    Freya lifted her head, her instincts sharpening. Above the cleared strip of runway, five figures strode in formation–wolves cloaked in human guise, wearing the crisp uniforms of aviators. Their boots struck the tarmac like war drums as they approached five sleek aircraft, Zivko Edge 540s, their wings gleaming like knives beneath the sun.


    At their center walked Aurora.


    Chin high, shoulders squared, the Bluemoon Beta’s daughter radiated triumph. She was the only female in the formation, yet


    +8 Pearls


    she walked as though the sky itself bent for her. The crowd devoured her presence, the journalists feeding her the attention she craved.


    Her lips curved into a satisfied smile.


    Aurora had been suspended from active duty; whispers of disgrace had gnawed at her reputation. But this–the flying disy tied to the ind’s cornerstone charity g–was her stage for rebirth. With orphans from the Ashbourne shelters watching, and donors prepared for the post–performance auction, she would shine brighter than ever. A dazzling flight, a calcted donation, and her name would climb again, back into respect.


    She would not settle for second–inmand. Not after all she had bled for. Not when she had tasted the sky and wanted it all.


    Her eyes flickered, catching Freya in the crowd. A smirk twisted her lips.


    Freya had humiliated her before, but the sky was Aurora’s domain. Here, she would prove their difference–one belonged to the earth, scarred soldier with nothing but fists; the other belonged to the air, celebrated, praised, untouchable.


    Engines roared. One by one, the nes thundered down the strip and wed into the heavens. Aurora’s aircraft led the formation, the tip of the spear. The five Zivkos carved through the sky in spirals, dives, and barrel rolls, painting trails of white smoke like banners of conquest. The crowd below erupted with gasps and cheers.


    Among them, Jocelyn spotted Ss standing beside Freya. Her pulse tightened.


    She drifted closer, her tone sweetened with false innocence. “Ss,” she said lightly, “how do you find the disy? The lead pilot is my cousin Aurora–first female captain in the Bluemoon Airborne Wing.”


    Ss’s gaze slid toward her, a de of steel cutting through pretense. The curve of his mouth held something between mockery and indifference. Jocelyn felt skinned under that stare, as if he peeled away her words until nothing remained but the hunger beneath.


    But she pushed forward, voice carrying venom wrapped in silk. “No wonder Caelum Grafton cast Freya aside for her. Freya cannotpare. She has no ce in high skies, no gift for strategy or invention. She is strong, yes, brutishly so, but that is all. Fists are cheap. Wealth buys strength. Guards can be hired. But brilliance? That belongs to women like Aurora.<b>” </b>


    The words were meant to bite, meant to show Freya’s unworthiness.


    Ss’s reply was a growl, quiet but sharp enough to chill the marrow. “Your tongue must be terribly idle, Jocelyn, if it spends itself on such useless things.”


    Her pride red, but before she could retreat, Freya herself turned, her voice cutting like a hawk’s cry. “And you? Do you fly, Jocelyn?”


    Caught, Jocelyn sneered. “I don’t need to. I hold a seat in Stormveil’s council. Without me, the Thorne fortunes would not stand where they do today. That is power Freya will never hold. Compared to me, she is still nothing.”


    She lifted her chin high, the arrogance of survival worn as armor. But deep inside, Jocelyn felt the press of shadows, the <b>sense </b>that she had already lost something more valuable than a council seat: Ss’s gaze.


    And wolves lived and died by the eyes of their Alphas.