Semua Bab Moonlit Secrets: Bab 141 - Bab 150

Dawn broke in hesitant gold, spilling across the valley like a blessing that felt too fragile to believe. But Moonrise had changed. The air was heavy with exhaustion, joyless and bone-deep, after a night when the foundations of the world had been torn apart and remade. The unity circle still shimmered faintly at the rift’s edge, its runes no longer a shield but a gravestone—etched with light, bearing silent witness to the price paid and the Luna lost.Inside the infirmary, the wounded lay in ordered rows. Healers moved between cots, their hands weaving herbs and magic into fragile hope, but every face carried the same hollow question: What comes after, when the heart of the pack is gone?Mira was the first to rise. Her wounds wrapped hastily, she moved from bed to bed, checking the Marked, the warriors, even the children who had survived the storm. Her voice stayed steady, her touch gentle, but when her eyes drifted toward the empty cot in the corner—the one left untouched, its blanke

The morning after the memorial, the world felt sharper, edged with grief yet strangely buoyant with the fragile possibility that follows endings. The sky was pale, the valley scarred but alive, its wounds softened by the hum of preparation. The war was over, but the future—uncertain, unshaped—waited for its first step.In the great council chamber, tension lay thick as storm air. The long, polished table was ringed with elders, healers, and warriors. At its head sat Xander, broad-shouldered and grave, the weight of both Alpha and grieving mate pressing hard on his frame. At his right, the Moonborn sat tall despite her youth, her chin lifted, her dark eyes unwavering. The faint glow of the unity rune shimmered on her brow, marking her not just as a child, but as a legacy. To Xander’s left, the seat once Aria’s remained empty—her cloak draped across it, her pendant gleaming softly in the firelight, a presence made absent.Rowan stood quietly at the chamber’s edge, his staff tapping out

The new world came quietly. Days slipped by with the hush of rebuilding—healers tending wounds that ran deeper than flesh, children daring to laugh again in sunlit clearings, warriors and elders weaving new customs to replace those the war had broken. Yet grief lingered in the hollow spaces of the heart, an echo that refused to fade.For the Moonborn, that ache was no longer a chain but both anchor and compass. It weighed her down, yes, but it also pointed her forward—toward the life her mother had trusted her to claim.On a dawn painted in watercolour gold, she slipped away from the den. Her steps carried her up a familiar trail, the earth soft with dew, the mist curling low across the grass. She knew this path as intimately as her breath: the scatter of foxglove, the trill of early birdsong, the gentle climb that led to Moonrise Hill.Here, her mother had once come to breathe through fear. Here, Aria had sat cross-legged among the stones, hands open, face turned skyward, listening f

Night came softly to Moonrise, the festival’s laughter fading into silence as the torches guttered out one by one. The square, so alive hours ago, now lay empty, hushed in the silver breath of moonlight. The valley exhaled like something weary but unbroken, holding within it the echoes of songs and vows, the bright ache of remembrance.Xander waited until the last voices had quieted—until Mira’s lullabies faded from the den, until the Moonborn, spent from grief and ceremony, curled beneath Aria’s cloak. Only then did he leave, his steps slow and certain, guided less by duty than by longing. The unity rune at his throat pulsed faintly, Aria’s pendant heavy against his chest.He carried no torch. The full moon needed no rival. Its light poured across the land, rendering every leaf and stone in sharp silver, every shadow alive with memory. It lit his way to the small wild garden on the edge of the forest, a place where flowers grew through frost and grass never withered. At its heart, ci

Years passed, as steady and unstoppable as the turning of the moon. The scars of war softened into stories told by firesides, and the ache of old wounds became lessons for the young. Children who once clung to their mothers in fear grew tall and strong, while elders who had fought through the darkest nights watched new generations run through fields no longer stained with blood. The unity circle, rebuilt stone by stone, became less a shield against war than a gathering place for vows, weddings, and the simple comfort of remembrance. Through it all, one truth endured: the flame Aria had left behind never died. It lived in her daughter, in her people, in the valley itself.It was festival night again—the Night of Remembrance and Promise, a tradition born from sacrifice but now glowing with joy. Lanterns swung between branches, casting gold ripples over the river. The square was alive with laughter, music, and scents of roasted bread and herbs. Wolves from distant clans had traveled to s