Chapter 2 (I)

The hallway leading to the council chambers was usually a place of reverence, lined with the portraits of Alphas who had bled for the Silver Moon. Tonight, it felt like the entrance to a torture chamber. The air was cold, smelling of wet stone and the sharp, metallic tang of an impending storm.

Lachlan Livingston marched down the corridor, his boots leaving muddy prints on the antique rugs. Dan Reyes was a half-step behind him, his presence a steady, grounding weight. Dan’s eyes were narrowed, his nostrils flaring as he caught the scents coming from behind the heavy oak doors.

"Something is wrong, Lachlan," Dan muttered, his hand hovering near the hilt of the tactical knife at his belt. "Too many guards. I smell Thorne blood in there, mixed with the Elders."

Lachlan did not slow down. "Let them be there. I want them to look me in the eye while I tell them to rot."

They reached the doors, but they were not met by the usual ceremonial guard. Standing in their way was Cillian, the son of Elder Vance. He was flanked by four warriors who usually reported to the council instead of the Alpha’s line. Cillian stood with his arms crossed, a smug, practiced smile playing on his lips.

"Hold it right there," Cillian said, his voice dripping with unearned authority. "The Elders have called a closed session. Only the Alpha is permitted inside."

Dan stepped forward, his chest nearly brushing against Cillian’s. The height difference was negligible, but the difference in raw power was vast. Dan was a combat veteran; Cillian was a politician’s son playing soldier.

"I am the Beta of this pack," Dan growled, the sound vibrating in his throat. "Where the Alpha goes, I go. Move, Cillian, before I move you."

Cillian’s smile did not waver. He gestured to the guards, who stepped forward, their hands resting on their weapons.

"Council orders, Reyes. The pack is in a state of emergency. Protocols have changed. You stay out here with the rest of the staff."

Lachlan placed a hand on Dan’s shoulder. The touch was meant to be calming, but Dan could feel the tremors of rage shaking Lachlan’s frame.

"Stay here, Dan," Lachlan commanded. "I won't be long. Keep an eye on the hall. If anyone else tries to enter, break them."

Dan hesitated, his eyes darting between the closed doors and the arrogant smirk on Cillian’s face. "Lachlan, this is a trap."

"I know," Lachlan replied, his voice flat. "But I have already lost everything. What else can they take?"

Lachlan pushed past Cillian, slamming the double doors open with a violence that made the dust of a century dance in the candlelight.

Standing in the threshold, a ghost of a man drenched in the freezing rain of his mate’s funeral. Mud from Seraphina’s grave clung to the hem of his dark coat, staining the pristine white marble of the council floor. His eyes were not the eyes of a leader tonight. They were the eyes of a predator that had been backed into a corner and forced to watch its own heart stop beating.

He did not wait for an invitation. He walked toward the long mahogany table, each step echoing like a gunshot in the silent room. The three elders of the Silver Moon pack sat in high-backed chairs, their faces carved from judgment and cold tradition. To their right stood Kaia Thorne. She was a vision of sharp, dangerous beauty, her mahogany hair pulled back so tight it looked painful. She did not flinch as Lachlan approached. She simply watched him with those icy blue eyes, measuring the man who was supposed to be her salvation.

“You have a lot of nerve summoning me tonight,” Lachlan said. His voice was a low, dangerous rasp that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards.

“We did not summon a nephew to a wake, Lachlan,” Elder Vance said, leaning forward into the light of the chandelier. His gray hair was slicked back with military precision. His expensive suit looked out of place in a room that smelled of ancient wolf musk and old blood. “We summoned the Alpha of this pack. Or at least, what is left of him.”

“My pack is mourning,” Lachlan snapped. He slammed his palms onto the table, leaning over the elders until he was inches from Vance’s face. “My Luna is in the dirt because of a coward we have yet to find. If you have news of Viktor Dragomir, speak it now. If not, get out of my sight before I forget you are family.”

Elder Silas, a thin man with eyes that never seemed to settle on one spot for too long, cleared his throat. He looked like a vulture waiting for a carcass to stop moving. “That is exactly the point, Lachlan. You are obsessed with a ghost. While you were weeping in the mud, our southern borders were probed twice. The pack feels the void. They feel your instability. We cannot wait for you to find your footing while the wolves at our door grow hungry.”

Silas gestured toward Kaia Thorne with a skeletal hand. “The alliance with the Thorne pack is our only path forward. You will mark Kaia Thorne tonight. You will accept her as your Luna, and the Thorne warriors will bolster our lines by dawn. It is a simple trade. Her blood for our safety.”

Lachlan turned his gaze toward Kaia. The hatred in his eyes was so thick it was almost a physical weight in the room.

“You,” he spat, the word dripping with venom. “You think you can just walk in here and take her place? You think I would ever put the mark of my pack on a Thorne? Your father has spent twenty years trying to kill my people.”

Kaia did not move. Her voice was calm, which only seemed to enrage him more. “I am here because my pack requires it. I have no more desire to be your Luna than you have to be my mate. But unlike you, Livingston, I understand what happens to a pack that has no shield. You are bleeding out, and you are too proud to accept a bandage.”

Lachlan let out a harsh, jagged laugh. “You want a shield? Buy a wall. I am not mating a spy.”

He turned back to the elders, his face contorted in a mask of grief and blind, unadulterated rage. “I reject this alliance. I reject the Thorne pack. and I reject her. I will not mate again. Not tonight. Not ever. If the Thorne pack wants to help, they can do it as allies, or they can stay on their side of the river.”

The room went deathly silent. Uncle Harlan, who had been standing in the shadows behind the elders, finally stepped forward. His face was pale, his hands trembling. “Lachlan, be careful. Think about what you are saying. The law is very specific about the rejection of a council-sanctioned alliance in a time of war. Do not let your heart bury your head.”

“I do not care about your laws, Harlan!” Lachlan roared, the sound echoing into the rafters. He turned his back on the table, headed for the door. “I am the Alpha. My word is the law.”

“Not anymore,” Vance said. The words were quiet, but they carried the weight of a death sentence.

Lachlan froze. He turned slowly, his claws beginning to unsheathe, the silver tips glinting in the firelight. “What did you say to me?”