Chapter Two: Travis Moonblood
716 Words
POV: Travis Moonblood
Raith steps back.
That is all I need.
The old fool’s courage drains from him as fast as his spine bends, and the crowd feels it. Fear always spreads quicker than truth. I turn from him with a curl of my lip and face her again.
Awen.
She is standing exactly where she stood before, still as carved stone, grief wrapped around her like armor. Moonlight kisses her hair, silver threads catching blue flame, and for a heartbeat the hall forgets to breathe.
I do not.
“You will answer me,” I say, voice carrying now, sharpened for witnesses. “You stand before your pack, before the elders, before Veluna herself, and you will not pretend you did not hear me.”
Her eyes flick to mine.
There it is. That crack. That flash of disbelief she is trying to bury.
Good.
“Your father gave his blessing,” I continue, stepping closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of her power locked tight beneath her skin. “He knew what was required. Unity. Strength. Continuation. You were promised.”
A murmur ripples through the hall. I let it. I need it. Promises sound heavier when spoken aloud.
Still, she does not speak.
The silence stretches. Uncomfortable now. Dangerous.
I open my mouth to force it.
The air changes.
Not a roar. Not a strike.
A weight.
Old. Immovable. Like a mountain deciding it has tolerated enough weather.
“You will step back.”
The voice is rough with age, worn smooth by command. It does not rise. It does not need to.
I turn, irritation already sharpening to anger, and then it falters.
He stands between us without haste, without apology.
Hairless. Scarred. His scalp bare as polished stone, marked with faded sigils cut deep enough to have once bled power into bone. His shoulders are thick with old muscle, the kind earned over decades of survival, not display. No crown. No sigil chain. No banner at his back.
And yet the elders straighten.
I know him then.
Not by name. By absence.
An Alpha who should not still be alive.
An Alpha who stepped down instead of being broken.
One of Gregarious’s contemporaries. One of the last who remembers what packs were before politics softened their teeth.
He does not look at Awen. Not once.
His gaze settles on me.
“You will not make claims in a house still holding its dead,” he says. “You will not corner a grieving heir. And you will not force a bond where the moons have not spoken.”
I bare my teeth before I can stop myself. “You have no authority here.”
One brow lifts. Barely.
“I have enough,” he replies.
Behind him, I feel it then.
The pressure.
Contained. Coiled. Wrong in its stillness.
Someone stands just beyond the old Alpha’s shoulder. Someone young enough to be overlooked. Broad enough not to be. Silent in the way predators are silent when they are being ordered not to move.
The old Alpha does not turn, but his next words are not meant for me.
“Hold,” he says quietly.
The pressure tightens. Then steadies.
Whoever it is listens.
That unsettles me more than defiance would have.
The old Alpha steps half a pace closer to me, close enough that I can smell iron and ash and old blood on him. His voice drops, meant only for my ears.
“You are reaching for something that will break you,” he says. “And you are doing it in front of witnesses.”
I straighten, forcing my shoulders back. “The claim is lawful.”
His eyes flick, briefly, to Awen. Not possessive. Not appraising.
Protective.
“No,” he says. “It is convenient.”
The word lands harder than any blow.
Around us, the hall holds its breath.
Awen still has not spoken.
And for the first time since her father’s body went cold, I feel it.
Not her grief.
Not her power.
The unmistakable sense that something has already been decided, far beyond my reach.
I step back.
Not because I choose to.
Because for the first time, I am no longer certain I am the strongest wolf in the room.
- Writer
