Finished
Third Person’s POV
“Miss Aurora,” he said, holding up a WolfComm device, its screen still glowing, “I received this message this morning. I believe the audience has the right to see it.”–
Murmurs rippled through the hall. The man swiped the screen open, projecting the message so that the nearby journalists and charity patrons could glimpse the jagged words. The reporter then walked forward, extending the device toward Aurora
Aurora’s face drained of color. Her fingers tightened at her sides, though she forced herself to take the WolfComm with calctedposure. Her eyes flicked down, skimming the text, and the icy calm she wore cracked for the briefest of heartbeats. Beneath the mask of poise, terror red.
Who? The question screamed in her head. Who could possibly know what happened that night?
Her wolf stirred uneasily beneath her skin, hackles lifting, throat taut with a snarl she dared not release.
“This number is untraceable,” the reporter added, tone neutral but edged with sharp intent. “A virtual reroute. But the content is… rming. Miss Aurora, would you care to rify the truth of the matter?”
Every eye in the hall was upon her. Around the stage sat not only journalists, but benefactors of the Stormveil Orphanage, and even nobles of the wider werewolf coalitions. If she faltered, even for an instant, suspicion would sink its ws into her reputation.
Aurora inhaled deeply, drawing wolf–strength into her lungs. When she lifted her chin again, her expression was smooth, proud, untrembling.
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?
“Yes,” she said evenly. “There was a fire. And yes, one of my fellow pilots fell to it. But it was an ident–tragic, unforeseen. I was not at his side in the moment of disaster. By the time I reached him, the ze had already taken him. All I could do was raise the rm and fight the mes with what little I had.”
Her voice carried, strong and unwavering, echoing across the vaulted hall. The crowd hushed, listening.
“The official investigation confirmed it,” she continued. “The cause was negligence. A discarded ember, a cigarette left to smolder. That was the verdict. Not murder. Not betrayal. If anything, it was a warning to us all. Fire is not merciful, and every wolf—every human, for that matter–must respect it.”
The weight of her words settled like iron. And then, as if on cue, polite apuse stirred from the audience, building into something more forceful, more convincing. Aurora’s pale cheeks regained their color as she pressed on, her wolf auracing each syble withmanding conviction.
“I don’t know who has stooped to such vile games as sending anonymous messages,” she dered, her eyes sweeping the sea of faces before her. “But if they think lies will undo my work, they are mistaken. Justice has already spoken. If I were guilty of such horrors, would the government of the Capital have honored me? Would I have received medals, recognition, and the trust of my Pack?”
Her words grew hotter, her wolf spirit bristling just beneath her skin. “To the coward behind this–if you are even in this room–I say this: shadows and whispers will never undo the truth, Those who strike from the dark will never prevail!”
The crowd erupted into thunderous apuse this time, louder and longer, Aurora tipped her chin higher, her pride restored, and descended gracefully from the stage.
She slid back into her seat beside Caelum. He leaned toward her, his steel–blue eyes softened with concern<b>. </b>
“Are you all right?” he murmured.
“I’m fine,” she answered quickly, her sinileposed. But only she knew the slick cold sweat that clung to her palms, the Tremor she concealed beneath the tablecloth.
Who sent it? Her mind churned, frantic beneath the still surface. Who knows what happened that night?
No one should have known. No one could have known. She had been there with And he had perished in the ze, his body consumed. The dead did not speak.
co<b>–</b>pilot–the only witness to his death.
1228 AM p p
And she… she had never breathed a word of that night to another soul.
Then how?
Finished
Her stomach knotted, her wolf pacing like a caged beast. Could it be the same shadowy hand that had sent the message to her own private WolfComm weeks ago?
“Perhaps we should leave early,” Caelum said softly, protective instinct ring in the Alpha’s aura.
Aurora shook her head, sharp and decisive. “No. To leave now would look like fear. I will stay. The Bluemoon Pack does not bow to shadows.”
Her words rang brave, but inside her wolf trembled.
The event gradually returned to its usual rhythm–speeches, pledges of aid, theughter of children echoing in the wings of the orphanage hall. To most, the incident had passed like a brief storm cloud drifting over the moon.
But not to Freya.
She sat a few rows behind, her Stormveil Pack blood keen to scents others ignored. The faint bitterness of Aurora’s fear still clung to the air, sharp as burnt ash. Freya’s amber eyes narrowed as she studied the Beta’s daughter, her wolf prickling.
Ssleaned toward her. “What troubles you?”
Freya lowered her gaze, pretending thoughtfulness. “Aurora’s face. Her words said one thing, but her wolf told another.”
“You think the message is true?” Ss asked, his voice low.
“Maybe not entirely. But she’s hiding something.” Freya’s tone was t, thoughtful. “An innocent wolf <b>used </b>falsely would rage, protest, howl their denial. But Aurora? She was too smooth. Too… rehearsed.”
Ss grunted in agreement, his wolf aura flickering with distrust.
Before Freya could add more<b>, </b>a small weight collided with her legs. She looked down in surprise as a young girl, barely ten, threw her arms around her waist.
“Freya!” the child beamed up at her<b>, </b>eyes bright as moonlight. “Did you see me perform?”
A smile cracked through Freya’s stern fa?ade. She crouched, ruffling the girl’s hair. “I did. And you were brilliant.”
The pup’s grin widened. “Thene y with us! We’re ying Hawk and Hens, You can be the Mother Hen!”
Freya’s lips parted to agree<b>, </b>but Ss’s hand caught her arm. His gaze flicked to the bandaged gash across her forearm.
“Your wound isn’t healed,” he warned. His voice carried the edge of an Alpha’smand, protective and unyielding.
“It’s nothing,” Freya replied, brushing him off with a half–smile. “Mother Hens don’t need their arms to shield their chicks.”
But Ss’s wolf bristled. He shook his head. “No. I won’t risk you for a game.”
Freya’s wolf ached at the disappointment flickering in the children’s faces, their eager eyes fixed on her. The pull between instinct and duty warred within her–between the fierce protector who longed to bring joy to the pups and the cold truth of her injuries.
She let out a soft sigh, gaze lingering on the little girl’s hopeful face.