All Chapters of The Moon’s Pure wolf : Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

QUEENETH’S POVWhat Silence DecidesThe council chamber does not erupt after I speak.No shouting. No immediate outrage. No brave declarations wrapped in authority.Silence spreads instead.It moves slowly, like something alive testing the ground. It presses into the walls, crawls along the floor, settles on shoulders. This is not the silence of shock. This is the silence of calculation. Of people measuring how dangerous you are before deciding whether to fear you or destroy you.Amy stays close to the surface. Not wild. Not raging. Watchful. I feel her attention slide across the room, cataloging faces, memorizing posture and breath and pulse. She is not threatening them. She is learning them. That somehow feels worse.Collins does not touch me. He stands beside me, steady, contained. The bond hums low between us, controlled, disciplined. Not the heat of comfort. Not the ache of longing. Something tighter. Like we are both holding ourselves together with restraint instead of hope.I f

QUEENETH’S POVAn Invitation Written in SilenceThe first body is found at dawn.I know something is wrong before anyone says my name. The air feels wrong. Too still. Birds quiet in a way that presses against the skin. When a runner reaches the house, breath uneven, eyes wide, I am already on my feet.It is a scout. One of the quiet ones. The kind who always volunteered for the early watch and never complained about cold mornings. He lies on his back at the edge of the trees, eyes open, staring at nothing.He is not torn apart. Not mutilated. That almost makes it worse.Whatever took him did not rush.I kneel before Collins can stop me. The ground beneath my knees is cold and damp, soaked with something that feels heavier than blood. The smell twists my stomach, not rot, not death as I know it, but absence. Like something essential was pulled out and taken away carefully.Drained, someone whispers behind me.Not bloodless. Empty.Amy recoils the moment I get too close. Not in fear. In

QUEENETH’S POVWhat They Built and Called DestinyThey do not summon me gently.No careful knock. No polite request masked as concern. The message reaches me through the pack like a tightening wire. The elders want me present. Now. Not Collins. Not the council as a whole. Just me.I already know this will hurt.The chamber smells different when I enter. Old parchment. Dust. Something metallic that sits at the back of my tongue. The elders are arranged in a half circle, faces stiff, eyes guarded. Not afraid. Not yet. This is something rehearsed. Something they have practiced saying to themselves for years.A table waits in the center. On it are books I have never seen in the archives. Their covers are cracked and swollen with age. Symbols are burned into the leather, not inked. Luna markings. The kind scrubbed from walls and rewritten in safer shapes.One of the elders gestures for me to step closer. I do not bow. I do not ask permission. Amy stays quiet, pressed tight inside me, liste

QUEENETH’S POVWhat Answers When I ArriveI smell blood before I hear anything.Not fresh panic. Not the sharp confusion of an ambush. This is organized. Clean. The kind of violence that knows exactly where it is going.The pack is already fighting when I cross the boundary. I feel it the moment my foot touches familiar ground. The wards shudder, not breaking, but bending out of the way like they recognize me and do not dare argue.Screams cut through the trees. Orders follow, sharp and practiced. Steel rings. Flesh answers.This is not chaos.This is a lesson being taught.Hollowed wolves move through the clearing in lines, flanking, retreating, striking again. Their eyes are wrong. Not empty. Focused in a way that makes my skin crawl. They do not snarl. They do not roar. They move like they have done this before. Like they have been trained by something that understands packs better than packs understand themselves.I spot familiar faces among my own. Fighters I trained with. Scouts

QUEENETH’S POVWhat Kneels Does Not BegThe Hollow King steps into the open like he belongs there.No smoke. No tearing of the earth. No display meant to frighten children or impress legends. He simply walks out from between the trees, hands empty, posture relaxed, as if the battlefield was always a room he expected to enter eventually.The fighting slows without command.Not because he orders it. Because attention bends toward him.He looks… ordinary. That is the first lie. Ordinary men do not carry silence the way he does. It gathers around him, heavy and respectful, like the world is waiting for him to finish a thought. His face is familiar in the wrong way. Angles I have seen in mirrors when I am not fully myself. Something of Reuben sits there, diluted and sharpened at the same time.Amy stiffens. Not fear. Recognition.The Hollow King stops several steps away from me. Close enough that I can see the patience in his eyes. Not hunger. Not rage. Time.Then he bows.Not low. Not sub