CHAPTER 2

Eudora Whitlock POV

"Take these pack seals and property deeds, Eudora Whitlock," Moon-Bond Attorney Percival Sloane says, pushing a heavy leather folder across the granite table in the dim dawn light of the Silvermoon Grand Lodge. "High Alpha Leighton Ashford has designated a massive treasury share for your severance. The Northmoon Estates territory, three hunting lodges in Wolfpine Village, and prime retail dens across Eastfang Avenue, Westfang Avenue, Southmoon Road, and Northfang Road. The total asset value exceeds eighty-four million silver tokens. Please review and sign."

Eudora gazes down at the parchment pages bound in thick wolf-hide, then slowly slides the entire folder back toward him.

"I do not want his wealth," Eudora says, her voice flat, devoid of any weakness.

Percival Sloane frowns, his sharp eyes narrowing behind his spectacle lenses as he adjusts his robe. "This is the explicit command of the High Alpha, Madam Whitlock. He expects every single title deed transferred before the week ends."

"Where is Leighton now?" Eudora asks, her throat tight, her inner wolf whimpering in the dark corners of her mind.

"High Alpha Ashford boarded a private moon-craft hours ago for the northern borders of Ravenshore, France, to oversee territory negotiations," Percival replies smoothly. "He will not return to the Frostmere Dominion until next week, at which point you will both meet at the Great Oak Shrine to officially break your marital pack bond before the Pack Elders."

Eudora staring at the blank stone floor beneath her feet, feeling the cold seep directly into her bones. She reaches out, tapping the edge of a single paper attached to the bottom of the stack.

"Mr. Sloane," Eudora says gently. "Tell him I reject the territory holdings, the commercial dens, and the silver funds. I only ask to keep the small sanctuary lodge we shared in the lower hills. Is that acceptable?"

Percival pauses, then pulls a glowing communication stone from his pocket. He channels a thread of mind-link aura, connecting directly to the High Alpha's long-range frequency.

Thousands of miles away, inside the pressurized cabin of a swift moon-craft flying high above the clouds, Leighton Ashford sits in a carved leather seat. Sitting right beside him, her delicate hand resting possessively over his knee, is Sybil Hargrove, his Former Fated Mate who had vanished into the northern wastes five years ago.

"High Alpha," Percival's voice echoes through the glowing stone. "Madam Whitlock refuses the northern territories and commercial properties. She asks only for the small hill lodge."

Leighton lifts his head, his golden amber eyes dark and unreadable as he stares out the oval window at the morning sky. His jaw tightens, his voice dropping into a harsh, emotionless growl that vibrates through the transmission.

"Grant her request," Leighton commands coldly. "Give her the hill lodge and close the ledger."

"Understood, High Alpha," Percival says, severing the connection.

Inside the moon-craft, Sybil smiles softly, her long crimson fingernails tracing the hard line of Leighton's forearm. She leans close, her floral scent mixing with the faint trace of white sage that still lingers on his skin.

"Am I causing you trouble, Leighton?" Sybil purrs, her voice dripping with sweet, possessive arrogance. "Forcing you to cast aside your lowborn human-blooded consort so suddenly?"

Leighton slides his communication stone into his jacket pocket and picks up a leather ledger, his face a hardened mask. "It is no trouble at all. The pack hierarchy requires a true mated Luna."

Sybil notices the rigid stillness in his shoulders. She reaches out, snatching the ledger from his fingers, forcing his golden eyes to meet hers.

"Look at me, Leighton," Sybil demands, her eyes flashing with a competitive spark. "I have returned from the wastes. I am back to claim my right beside the High Alpha. If you do not value me now, I will disappear into the deep wilderness forever, and no howl of yours will ever bring me back. Do you understand?"

Leighton grips her chin with sudden, bruising force, his thumb pressing firm against her lower lip. His dark gaze burns into hers, heavy with authority and unspoken warnings.

"You had your time away, Sybil," Leighton growls low in his chest. "This is your final chance to stay in my pack."

Back in the Silvermoon Grand Lodge, Percival Sloane gathers his quill and official seals, sliding the revised lodge deed across to Eudora. She signs her name in quick, neat strokes, her hand trembling slightly as the ink dries.

"The hill lodge is officially yours, Madam Whitlock," Percival says, standing up and bowing slightly. "I shall take my leave."

"Mr. Sloane," Eudora calls out before he reaches the heavy oak doors.

The attorney turns back. "Yes, Madam?"

Eudora clutches the parchment deed against her chest, her knuckles turning bone-white as she looks at him with raw, fragile hope. "He will truly be there at the Great Oak Shrine next week? He will come back to sever the bond in person?"

"He gave his word as High Alpha," Percival says plainly. "He will be there."

By afternoon, Eudora gathers her few personal belongings in a single leather satchel and leaves the grand gates of the Silvermoon Grand Lodge behind forever. She travels down to a modest rental chamber in the heart of the Silverfang Market Hall district.

Sitting at a small wooden desk, she opens her parchment binder. For two years, she had given up her own dreams, stepping away from her craft to tend to Leighton's demands and manage his private den. But an Omega without a pack or a mate must survive on her own strength.

She flips through the local bulletin hides, searching for work. Because she lacks high-pack lineage and never completed the elite Master Design Council trials, top chambers like the Mooncraft Design Chamber would never hire her as a lead artisan.

She finds a small posting listed by a local trading shop—a entry-level position for a Pack Design Assistant at a retail market stall. She fills out her name and credentials on a fresh sheet of hide, rolls it tight, and sends it via carrier raven to the hiring manager.

A faint, tired smile touches her lips as she watches the black bird fly into the evening sky. She does not need a High Alpha to survive in the Frostmere Dominion. She will carve out her own life, line by line.

Her communication stone on the desk suddenly flashes a bright, blood-red light, buzzing with an emergency pack signal. She picks it up, pressing her thumb against the glowing rune.

A distorted voice gasps through the link, heavy with panic. "Eudora Whitlock! Is this Eudora Whitlock? Your sister Lorna Whitlock was just dragged into the lower dungeons of the Silverfang Market Hall by the High Alpha's enforcers! They found an illegal wolf-binding curse hidden inside her design chest, and Merritt Caldwell has just ordered her execution before midnight!"