Elma The masquerade was the perfect excuse.A celebration. A harmless post-summit affair. One I had no reason to decline.Not if I wanted to keep suspicions off my back.I’d been at the summit. A guest of honor, they called me. Skipping a formal pack event now? That would’ve raised more questions than my presence already had.So I came.Dressed like the version of myself they expected. Elegant. Quiet. Soft. A diplomat’s niece, with good posture and a forgettable smile. My mask was silver lace and satin…light enough to breathe, pretty enough to distract.No one looked twice.That was the trick, wasn’t it?Be noticed, but not seen.The ballroom shimmered in candlelight and intrigue. Tall windows were draped in midnight velvet. Glass chandeliers glowed like fallen stars. Every surface gleamed. Wolves twirled in practiced circles, all smiles and grace, their masks glinting with mischief.Music floated through the air…sharp violins softened by piano and harp.It was beautiful.And wrong.
Ridwan I didn’t sleep last night.Not really.I closed my eyes. Counted the breaths. Even slowed my heart.But the silence didn’t hold.There was a moment…maybe an hour past midnight…when something sharp gripped my chest. Not pain. Not panic.Just… fear.Foreign. Deep. Like it wasn’t mine.Like it belonged to someone else.And I knew exactly who.By dawn, I was already out of bed, tugging on a loose black shirt, boots half-laced, moving before my mind caught up.I didn’t knock on her door.Didn’t need to.Her scent was faint in the hallway. Faded. Sweaty. Like movement and fire and… control.The kind of scent someone left when they were trying to bleed something out of themselves.I followed it to the training ring behind the east wing. The one no one used before dawn. Not even the guards.And there she was.Elma.Alone.Moving like a storm in slow motion.Her body twisted, dipped, lunged…precise. Brutal. Beautiful. Sweat rolled down her back in slow trails. Her fists were raw. Wrapp
Elma it didn’t start with blood.It started with the trees.Tall. Blackened. Burning at the edges.Smoke curled through the air like fingers dragging secrets across my skin.Ash rained from the sky, soft and soundless like snow.Each flake carried a memory. Each memory, a scream.I was running.My legs were too small. My hands too cold.I was barefoot, slicing through broken branches that snagged at my skin, carving lines of pain into my ankles.The wind howled, thick with ash and grief.And I wasn’t alone.“Hold on,” I whispered. “Hold on to me, Kian.”My brother’s tiny hand clung to mine. His fingers trembled but didn’t let go.He couldn’t have been older than seven.Too young to see war. Too kind to understand it.We ran past bodies.Some strangers. Some… I knew.A boy I trained with. A teacher who brought warm bread and jokes with his lessons.A guard who used to sneak sweets into my pockets during drills.Their faces were pale, turned upward like they were still waiting for merc
Chapter Twenty-OneRoshan – First Person POVI should’ve let it go.The summit was over. The guests had dispersed. The politics were cooling off. On paper, we’d come out ahead—no war declarations, no blood spilled, just enough tension to keep the packs wary of each other.But something kept gnawing at the back of my head.Her.Elma.And the way she walked into that damn room like she owned air and silence both.I’d already watched the summit footage a dozen times. Maybe more. I’d sat through hours of guest arrivals, body language ticks, handshake patterns, heat mapping.But every damn time, I came back to her.She didn’t belong. Not just because she was new, or because we didn’t have a detailed file on her—which was already suspicious enough. No, it was something deeper.A stillness.Not fear. Not nerves. A kind of focus. Poised. Controlled. Almost… predatory.Like she was waiting for something none of us could see.My brother couldn’t take his eyes off her. He thought I didn’t notice
Roshan I should’ve let it go.The summit was over. The guests had dispersed. The politics were cooling off. On paper, we’d come out ahead—no war declarations, no blood spilled, just enough tension to keep the packs wary of each other.But something kept gnawing at the back of my head.Her.Elma.And the way she walked into that damn room like she owned air and silence both.I’d already watched the summit footage a dozen times. Maybe more. I’d sat through hours of guest arrivals, body language ticks, handshake patterns, heat mapping.But every damn time, I came back to her.She didn’t belong. Not just because she was new, or because we didn’t have a detailed file on her—which was already suspicious enough. No, it was something deeper.A stillness.Not fear. Not nerves. A kind of focus. Poised. Controlled. Almost… predatory.Like she was waiting for something none of us could see.My brother couldn’t take his eyes off her. He thought I didn’t notice, but I did. The way Ridwan kept glan
Roshan I should’ve let it go. The summit was over. The guests had dispersed. The politics were cooling off. On paper, we’d come out ahead—no war declarations, no blood spilled, just enough tension to keep the packs wary of each other. But something kept gnawing at the back of my head. Her. Elma. And the way she walked into that damn room like she owned air and silence both. I’d already watched the summit footage a dozen times. Maybe more. I’d sat through hours of guest arrivals, body language ticks, handshake patterns, heat mapping. But every damn time, I came back to her. She didn’t belong. Not just because she was new, or because we didn’t have a detailed file on her—which was already suspicious enough. No, it was something deeper. A stillness. Not fear. Not nerves. A kind of focus. Poised. Controlled. Almost… predatory. Like she was waiting for something none of us could see. My brother couldn’t take his eyes off her. He thought I didn’t notice, but I did. The way Ridw