Chapter 168

ELENA

The torches lining the path flickered like stars pulled down to earth. Each one stood tall and still, the flames flickering gently in the mountain air. The pack moved slowly, reverently, their bodies hushed in instinctive deference to the night and what it represented.

Beside me, Aiden held my hand. His small fingers were curled around mine, warm and still a little sticky from the honey bread he’d insisted on having before the ceremony. His eyes, wide and curious, scanned everything.

None of the wolves spoke. Not even the elders, whose joints groaned as they ascended the slope. Not the warriors, dressed in ceremonial black with Moonstone sashes across their chests. The path was sacred, and silence was part of the rite.

Aiden tugged at my hand, his voice a whisper. “Why wasn’t Daddy invited?”

The question pierced me more than I expected.

I looked down at him and gave a soft shake of my head. “This is just for Moonstone. Now hush.”

I couldn’t tell him the truth. That his father’s choices had left a wound too deep to ignore. That trust didn’t come with shared blood, not anymore.

The High Ridge was windswept and raw, perched on the spine of the Moonstone lands like a crown. Here, the trees thinned out entirely, giving way to bare rock and hardy grasses that clung to cracks in the stone.

The wind came in steady currents, lifting the edges of cloaks and carrying the mingled scents of pine, smoke, and something older—something wild.

Below us, the land unfolded in every direction. The hills rolled gently down to the dark treeline, touched by silver moonlight. The forest gleamed as if dusted with frost, its canopy shimmering with dew and shadow. Far off, the river glinted like a coiled ribbon. From this vantage point, all of Moonstone was laid bare.

At the very center of the ridge sat the Moon Stone.

It was larger than I remembered. As wide as a banquet table and twice as long, carved directly from the mountain itself. Its surface was worn but unyielding, covered in names and clawed lineages etched into its skin.

Some names had faded into the rock, ancient and unreadable. Others stood crisp and clear. My father’s. My grandfather’s. Generations of leadership, passed from hand to bloodied hand.

The torches here were different. Taller, with thicker glass and darker iron bases, they cast broader circles of light. Arranged in a perfect ring, they enclosed the entire gathered pack, the flames snapping like watchful eyes in the sharp wind.

We stepped into the circle, the heat of the fire brushing our cheeks. It was like stepping into a world suspended outside of time.

A memory rose, unbidden. I was small, no older than Aiden, standing next to my mother as we watched my grandfather step down. I hadn’t remembered that night in years, not until recently.

But the vision was suddenly vivid.

The hush of the pack. The smell of smoke and iron. My mother’s hand tight around mine. And my father—taller then, proud and radiant—approaching the altar with reverence.

I remembered the way the moonlight had caught in his hair. The way my breath had caught as he sliced his palm and let his blood fall. I had been scared then, but awestruck. As if I’d witnessed something holy.

The ritual hadn’t changed.

If the Alpha succession was peaceful, both wolves—the one stepping down and the one stepping up—offered a drop of blood to the stone. Their claws rested on it, one after the other. A symbol of continuity. Legacy. The blood that marked the line between eras.

If the Alpha was challenged, if the succession was earned through violence, the defeated Alpha’s body was carried here in humiliation. The victor would coat the stone in the blood of the fallen—and then add his own.

I was relieved that this, at least, would be the former.

My father stepped forward first. He looked older now than I’d ever seen him, his hair nearly all silver, his frame still strong but thinner than it had been when I was a child. His steps were measured. Purposeful.

He knelt beside the altar, drew a ceremonial claw from his sash—an old blade honed from moon-granite, passed down through our line—and pressed his hand to the stone.

He sliced his palm with a smooth, practiced motion. Blood welled immediately, dark and thick.

He didn’t flinch. Just bowed his head and let the droplets fall onto the stone.

Then, slowly, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to the altar.

The stone accepted him. As it had all who came before.

Then it was Mason’s turn.

My brother walked steadily, a ribbon of tension in his shoulders. He was quiet, his jaw tight, but he moved like he understood the weight of the moment. When he knelt, I saw the way his hands trembled before he stilled them.

He repeated the same movements. Cut. Offer. Bow.

His blood landed beside our father’s in a single, sharp splatter.

And then, together, father and son stood and clasped hands above the stone.

For a beat, the air held still.

Then from around the circle, a long, low howl began. One voice. Then another. Then dozens.

Moonstone howled to mark the passing of leadership.

The sound rose like a wave crashing across the mountaintop. I tilted my head back and let the sound rise from my chest, my throat, my soul.

It echoed across the High Ridge, off the cliffs and down into the valley below. I could hear it bouncing through the forest, through the distant hills.

And then—fainter but clear—the answering howls of those who could not be present. Warriors posted at the borders. Scouts in the western ridges. Healers in the birthing dens.

Even from far away, they sang with us.

Aiden howled beside me, his voice high and bright. His little face was turned toward the sky, cheeks flushed, eyes glowing. He looked so proud. So full of purpose.

I looked down and saw him grinning.

And I smiled.

When the last howl faded into the night, the circle began to break.

Conversation bloomed in murmurs. The sacred silence was over, and the pack became itself again—messy, laughing, teasing. The kind of noise that filled the soul.

Aiden pulled on my arm. “Do I get to be the heir someday?”

I smiled faintly. “Maybe.”

“Will I have to cut my hand like that?”

“Yes.”

He frowned. “What if I don’t want to?”

I shrugged. “Then you won’t have to.”

“I’m Silverclaw too,” he pointed out. “Do they do the same thing over there?”

My breath caught. I swallowed.

“You’ll have to ask your father,” I said quietly.

That seemed to satisfy him, though his brow furrowed. “Okay.”

We walked down the mountain together, hand in hand. The chill night wind tugged at the hem of my dress, and the scent of pine and torch smoke filled my lungs. There was something sacred about the silence between us now, even as conversation rippled around us.

When we returned to the packhouse, the shift in atmosphere was almost jarring. Laughter spilled from the kitchen. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread floated on the air, making Aiden perk up.

“Can I get a snack?” he asked.

“Just a small one,” I said, brushing his hair back. “Then bed.”

I let him have half a sweet roll and some milk before walking him upstairs. He was half-asleep before I’d even tucked the blankets around him, his stuffed wolf curled against his chest. I stood there for a moment, watching him breathe. So innocent. So unaware of the shadows the rest of us carried.

Back in my room, I changed out of my ceremonial clothes and into my favorite oversized sleep shirt. I brushed my hair in the mirror, trying to untangle the knots the wind had made. My mind was quiet, but my heart wasn’t. Mason was Alpha now. My father had stepped down. An era had ended.

I was just settling into bed with a book when there was a knock at the door.

I frowned. It was late.

“Yes?”

One of the maids stood there, holding a brown-wrapped parcel.

“This was just delivered for you, Luna,” she said. “No return address.”

I took it with a murmured thank-you and shut the door.

The package was heavier than it looked.

I sat on the edge of the bed and unwrapped it carefully. Brown paper. Twine. Inside, resting in a velvet-lined box, was a silver dagger.

I recognized it instantly.

Maggie’s.

The one she’d been arrested with. The one they’d taken from her after the attack at the Summit.

Beneath it, folded neatly, was a note.