All Chapters of The Lycan King's Werewolf Daughter: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

Leo's Point of View Dawn barely exists yet, it is just a pale wash of grey stretching thin across the horizon, when I step outside with my bag slung over my shoulder. The air has that early morning bite to it, it is cool enough to clear my head but not cold enough to be unpleasant. Crescent Bloodmoon is quiet. For the first time since we arrived, no hammers ring, no shouting, no crackling from burning debris. Just silence. A temporary calm before the rebuilding begins again. I take a slow breath and rub a hand over my face. I am tired. Bone tired. But it feels like a good kind of exhaustion, the kind that comes from actually helping someone, not running from danger or reacting to disaster. Bootsteps crunch behind me. Aria. She moves up beside me, her hair tied into a loose braid, her bag hanging from her shoulder. She looks better today, still tired, but lighter. Cole trails behind her a second later, stuffing something into his backpack while half asleep. “Morning,” Aria

Aria's Point of View The academy feels strangely loud this morning. Maybe it is just that Crescent Bloodmoon was so quiet, filled with the sounds of rebuilding and grief instead of chatter and clattering dishes. But as I step into the cafeteria, the familiar buzz of voices presses around me like a tide I am not quite ready for. Leo and Cole already have a table. They wave me over, their trays loaded with eggs and fruit and the academy’s attempt at pancakes. I force a small smile and sit between them. “Our first day back,” Cole groans dramatically, stabbing a piece of bacon. “And it already feels wrong.” “I agree,” Leo says, rubbing a hand through his hair. “I would rather be back helping Alaric’s pack.” “Me too,” I say softly. It is strange, how quickly routine tries to reclaim me. Classes. Homework. Training. Like nothing happened. Like people did not lose their homes just days ago. I push my food around, trying to convince myself to eat. Leo fills the silence. “We

Maddox's Point of View The map is spread across the rough wooden table, its edges curling in the damp air of the tent. I press my palm flat against it, right over the jagged lines marking the mountain range, and feel the familiar surge of certainty settle into my bones. Silvercrest Range. Rhys stands across from me, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes sharp as he studies the same markings. The camp is quiet outside, too quiet. The kind of silence that only exists before something breaks it apart. “They patrol heavy along the western ridge,” Rhys says. “Rotations change at dusk.” I nod my head slowly. I already know. I have memorized their habits, their weaknesses, the way they rely too much on terrain and not enough on instinct. “That is why we hit at sunset,” I say. My voice is calm, controlled. “When the light is low and their focus shifts. They will think the mountains are protecting them.” I drag my finger along the edge of the map, tracing a narrow pass that c

Aria's Point of View The moment the truck slows down, I know. The air changes first, it is thick with smoke, iron, and something sour that clings to the back of my throat. The trees thin as we cross the border, and what comes into view makes my chest tighten until it hurts. Silvercrest Range is scarred. Buildings stand blackened and broken, some nothing more than skeletal frames jutting up against the pale morning sky. The ground is torn apart, deep claw marks raking through dirt and stone, scorched patches where fire kissed too long. Ash drifts lazily in the air, settling on everything like a gray shroud. Dad cuts the engine, and the sudden silence is worse than the noise of the road. I step out of the truck, my boots crunching softly against debris, and the smell hits me at full force. Burned wood. Blood. Fear. It is everywhere, soaked into the earth like it will never leave. Werewolves move through the ruins in small groups, quiet and efficient. Some carry supplies. O

Aria's Point of View I move carefully through what is left of the storage building, a clipboard tucked under my arm, the smell of smoke still clinging to the air no matter how much time passes. I did not choose this task, but it is where I am needed, and right now that is enough. Crates are stacked unevenly along the walls, some salvaged, some newly delivered, and I take inventory one item at a time. Bandages. Antibiotics. Water. Dried food. Blankets. My pen scratches steadily against the paper, the small, ordinary sound grounding me. I force myself to focus on numbers instead of scorch marks, on lists instead of the memories that threaten to surface every time I glance outside. People move in and out around me, quiet, efficient, exhausted. Everyone here wears the same tight, and hollow look. I do not know how much time passes. Minutes blur into hours. The sun shifts in the sky, light slanting differently through the broken windows, and my legs start to ache from standing. I am