Ch. 81..85: A Warrior Luna's Awakening Chapter 81-85
Chapter 81
Freya’s POV
I tugged twice, hard, trying to free my wrist from Silas’s grip.
No luck.
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If I really wanted to pull my hand away completely, I’d have to break each of his fingers one by one. And that would wake him.
I bit my lip and let out a soft sigh. Fine. He wanted to hold on, he could hold on. Sitting against the nightstand, I could still rest. After all, years of Iron Fang Recon Unit missions had trained me to sleep anywhere, anytime. Short bursts of rest were enough to restore my strength.
I settled on the floor beside the bed, back against the nightstand, letting him clutch my hand. Lights out, eyes closed–I drifted off.
Morning came with the push of a door, and I jolted awake. Wolf instincts alert, I caught the figure in the doorway: Wren, Silas’s personal secretary.
Wren froze, eyes wide, voice trembling. “Miss Thorne… you… you didn’t sleep with Alpha Whitmor last night, did you?!”
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I blinked, black rising to my cheeks. “You’re overthinking. I was just… doing my job. Bodyguard duty, nothing more.”
His gaze flicked suspiciously to my wrist, still trapped in Silas’s grip. Somehow, it didn’t make sense to him. A bodyguard’s duty didn’t normally involve hand–holding all night. Not to the Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition. Not to Silas.
“Even as his bodyguard, Miss Thorne… Alpha Whitmor would never allow someone to stay by his side while he sleeps.” Wren’s voice carried disbelief.
I rolled my eyes. “Then ask him. He’s the one still holding my hand–I had no choice.”
I might be the one trapped here, yet somehow Wren’s expression made it look like I’d taken advantage of Silas. As if I’d barged into his Alpha’s bed.
Then a low, husky voice cut through the tension. “You’re saying it’s me holding your hand?”
My body froze. I turned, and there he was–Silas, awake. Eyes dark, cold, yet edged with that raw intensity that always kept the room taut.
“Yes,” I said carefully, “last night… I wasn’t comfortable sleeping on the bed. I sat on the floor, leaned against the nightstand, and you grabbed my hand when I came to check on you.”
His gaze sharpened, surprise flickering in the golden depth of his eyes. My wrist, still in his hand, radiated warmth straight into his palm and fingers.
Sleep… uneasy sleep. I realized then he’d had a nightmare. His past clawing into his dreams again. The memory of whips, of a father’s cruelty, of being helpless as a pup. How many times had he relived it? Therapy. Medication. The nightmares had eased… for years. Until last night.
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Maybe it was me, seeing the scars on his back, that reopened old wounds in his subconscious.
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And yet… the warmth of my hand seemed to tether him to the present. It didn’t make him gag or recoil.
I cleared my throat. “Alpha Whitmor? Could you… release my hand now?”
Numbness had crept in from hours of
pressure.
He frowned. “I thought you said you’d call me Silas Not Alpha Whitmor.”
I blinked, irritation threatening. And Wren, witnessing this, looked as though lightning had struck him— shocked to the core.
Silas Whitmor, who never let anyone call him by his given name, expected me to.
I bit back a smirk. “Silas… can you
let
go now?”
He hesitated, then slowly eased his fingers from around my wrist. Freedom. Sweet, though I flexed carefully to wake circulation back into my hand.
“I’ll be heading back to my room,” I said, standing and brushing off the carpet. “Today I’m visiting the Stormveil Primal Hall. I won’t be able to cover you, so the other guards will have to manage.”
I opened the connecting door, stepping back into my chamber.
Silas’s gaze fell to his hand. The warmth lingered on his skin. For a long moment, I sensed he didn’t want to let go, as if holding my hand anchored some fragile part of him. A wolf hiding behind steel and ice, finding safety in the smallest tether.
Even from here, I could feel it. The Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition, wolf blood fierce and commanding, still trembling from dreams of pain–and still seeking comfort.
And I… well, I was there.
Chapter 82
Freya’s POV
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I stepped out of the mansion, cradling my parents‘ ashes tightly. Every step toward the Stormveil Primal Hall carried the weight of my promise: today, their remains would finally rest among our ancestors, and their memorial tablets would take their rightful place. From this moment on, their spirits would join Grandfather, Grandmother, and the lineage of the Thorne family in the Hall–a place steeped in centuries of wolfblood legacy.
The car came to a smooth stop at the gates. My pulse quickened at the sight of the hall. Solid ebony beams, etched with age, loomed above, and the polished wood plaque gleamed faintly in the dawn: “Stormveil Primal Hall.”
On either side, inscriptions read: “Honor your bloodline. Uphold the pack.” The air itself felt heavy with expectation, the weight of generations lingering like the scent of old wolfhide.
I swallowed hard. This was the hall Grandfather had sworn to defend with his life, and now I would step in
as his kin.
I lifted my foot to step forward, and a sharp voice stopped me. “This is the Stormveil Primal Hall. Unauthorized personnel may not enter.”
“I am Freya Thorne of the Fifth Branch,” I said steadily, pressing the ashes closer to my chest. “My parents have passed. By family custom, their ashes are to remain here for three days, and their memorial tablets installed within the hall.”
“The Fifth Branch?” the guard asked, brow furrowing. “Isn’t that line extinct?”
I squared my shoulders, letting my wolf senses sharpen. “Our branch has long resided in The Capital. I’ve already informed Seventh Uncle James by WolfComm–he is aware of today’s arrangements. Please let me speak to him.”
The guard hesitated. “He… is not here today.”
I arched a brow. “Not here?”
Before he could answer, a voice rang out, commanding and low: “Uncle James is unavailable. I will be in charge. Any issues, speak to me directly.”
I turned. Jocelyn Thorne, her presence radiating control and authority, flanked by several others. Her scent carried the faint trace of pack arrogance, sharp as iron.
The guard relaxed. “Miss Jocelyn, this is Freya Thorne of the Fifth Branch. She wishes to place her parents‘ ashes and memorial tablets in the hall today.”
Jocelyn’s gaze swept over me, icy and contemptuous. “The Fifth Branch? Everyone knows that line is gone. And the Primal Hall isn’t for just anyone.”
I met her stare evenly, letting my wolf instincts anchor my confidence. “Whether the Fifth Branch survives can be verified. Any Thorne of the pack may check.”
“Verify?” Jocelyn scoffed, a derisive curl of her lips. “You think you can just walk in and challenge the
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family’s authority?”
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I held my ground, calm but firm. “The Thorne lineage is a matter of blood, scent, and pack recognition. I am family. You may test it if you wish.”
Her entourage tittered, their amusement sharp and predatory. “Family? You really think sharing a surname makes you Thorne–blood?”
I ignored their sneers, turning back to the guard. “Contact Uncle James. He will confirm my claim.”
“Freya, Uncle James is not someone you can summon,” Jocelyn snapped, her voice tight with superiority.
“I am his niece,” I said evenly. “Why would I not call him?”
A round–faced woman at her side snorted. “You claim the bloodline, but the pack would never recognize you without a proper lineage claim. Trying to stick your nose in the Primal Hall… you’re dreaming.”
The others erupted in laughter, cruel and mocking, but I tuned them out. My blood, my loyalty, my wolf instincts gave me every right to be here.
I tightened my grip on the ashes, letting the scent of my parents anchor me, letting the weight of generations guide me. My body pulsed with low, controlled feral energy.
I would not be turned away. The wolfblood in me, even from a branch thought long gone, had every right to reclaim its place in Stormveil Primal Hall.
Chapter 83
Freya’s POV
Jocelyn Thorne’s voice cut through the air, smooth yet laced with venom.
“Since Uncle James isn’t here today, I’ll handle this matter in his stead.”
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Her lips curled into a smirk as her gaze settled on me. “Freya… this is the Stormveil Primal Hall. Not just anyone can claim a place here. Even if you truly had ties to the Stormveil Pack’s Fifth Branch, don’t even dream of placing your parents‘ ashes among our honored dead, much less erecting their memorials. You’d best turn around and leave.”
My grip on the ashwood urn tightened, my face cold. “On what authority?”
A snide laugh cut across her words. Martong, her ever–present shadow, leaned in mockingly. “On the authority that Jocelyn is the heiress of Stormveil’s First Branch. If she tells you to crawl out of Ashbourne on your knees, the enforcers will see to it. You really think you can defy her?”
My jaw set. “So the First Branch believes it can trample the laws of the Stormveil Pack?”
Martong sneered, her voice dripping with arrogance. “When Jocelyn wields that authority, no one dares to oppose it. And don’t forget–she doesn’t stand alone. Behind her is Silas Whitmor of the Ironclad Coalition. Jocelyn and Silas grew up side by side. Who can compete with that bond? With just a word from her, Silas could make sure you’re cast out of Ashbourne–hell, out of the entire continent!”
“Is that so?” My voice was steady, sharp as a blade. “Then I would like to see if Silas Whitmor truly means to drive me out of my homeland.”
At that, Martong faltered, her eyes flicking with sudden recognition–yesterday, she had seen me with Silas at the restaurant.
“You think your… acquaintance with him compares to Jocelyn’s?” she sneered again, recovering quickly. “They’re not just childhood friends. Jocelyn is-
“Enough, Martong,” Jocelyn snapped, silencing her with a glare. She turned back to me, her gaze cold, her wolf aura rolling off her in waves. “Freya, even if you had some sort of connection with Silas, it gives you no right to meddle in Stormveil affairs. This is the Primal Hall of our pack. I’ll make it perfectly clear: you’re not stepping inside.”
I narrowed my eyes. “And what gives you the right to bar me?”
Her chin lifted with confidence. “My will is enough. If I say you cannot enter, then the Hall’s sentinels will not let you take a single step beyond that threshold.”
I looked past her to the guards stationed at the gates. Their postures were rigid, their eyes fixed, waiting for her command.
“So even if I am Thorne blood–Fifth Branch born–I am denied entry?”
“Even if you were,” Jocelyn spat, her voice full of old spite, “if I forbid you, you will not cross that threshold. Yesterday, you humiliated me before Silas. Today, I’ll see to it you pay.”
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Her arrogance seared the air between us. My heart thudded with cold fury, but my voice remained steady, the echo of my ancestors in every word.
“Stormveil’s law was not built on your whims. The pack’s creed has always been clear: honor your bloodline, stand with your kin, in strength and in hardship alike. Yet here you stand, denying your own kin the right to honor their dead. What wolf would call that loyalty?”
Jocelyn’s face twisted, color draining as my words struck. She hadn’t expected me to know the Stormveil creed–let alone speak it aloud.
“My word is law here,” she snarled, snapping her fingers at the guards. “Remove her. I won’t have the stench of a pretender tainting the Primal Hall.”
The enforcers hesitated only a moment before stepping forward. “Miss Thorne,” one said gruffly, “whatever the case, you should leave.”
I stood rooted, both hands cradling the urn, my eyes fixed on the towering doors of the hall. The storm of voices around me blurred. All I could see was the threshold barred to me, the place where my father, Arthur Thorne, and my mother, Myra, should rest among our kin.
If their spirits were watching, what would they think of a daughter unable to carry them home?
“Out, now!” Martong jeered, joined by the laughter of other pack heirs trailing behind Jocelyn. Their cruel delight rang in my ears. Jocelyn’s eyes gleamed, savoring every flicker of humiliation she thought she’d inflicted.
“Hurry it up!” Jocelyn barked. “Our great–grandfather’s spirit is honored in the Hall today. Disturb him with your trespass, and no one here will shield you from the consequences!”
The guards moved in closer. One, eager to impress Jocelyn, reached out, hand raised as though to strike.
My wolf stirred within me, rising in a low, simmering growl. In a single motion, I drove my boot upward, kicking him back with a thud that cracked the stillness. He hit the ground hard, gasping, shock etched across
his face.
The courtyard fell silent.
“You dare-” the man choked, scrambling back up. Rage twisted his features as he swung at me, fist heavy with brute force.
I sidestepped, swift as a shadow, and drove him down again, pinning him beneath my heel. His body hit the stone, the breath knocked from him. I pressed him to the ground, my foot locked on his spine, one hand steady on the urn I carried.
The others faltered, uncertainty flashing across their faces. He was their strongest fighter–and I had felled him without spilling a drop of ash.
I lifted my head, voice ringing out into the air, loud enough for the spirits themselves to hear.
“Elders of the Stormveil Pack, hear me! I, Freya Thorne of the Fifth Branch, stand before your Hall this day. I bring with me the ashes of my father, Arthur Thorne, and my mother, Myra, to join their kin. I call upon the bloodline, upon the honor of our pack. Open these doors, and let me in!”
My words carried on the wind, fierce and unyielding. My wolf blood surged with the weight of legacy, with
Chapter 84
Third Person’s POV
The entire crowd froze. Especially Jocelyn.
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Freya’s voice wasn’t only heard by those guarding the Stormveil Primal Hall–it carried beyond, reaching every ear in the bustling heart of Ashbourne.
The Hall stood in the city’s central plaza, its blackstone pillars carved with the runes of Stormveil’s bloodline. The earlier clash had already drawn attention, but Freya’s defiant cry stopped passersby in their tracks. Humans and wolves alike paused, watching as the lone woman stood firm before the sealed gates, clutching the wooden urn draped in a blood–red battle flag.
Jocelyn’s composure cracked, her voice snapping like a whip.
“Drag her away from the gate! Don’t let her shout another word. Do you want the Elders–or the Patriarch himself–disturbed by this circus?”
“Yes, Alpha–heir!” the guards scrambled to obey, their boots crunching against the stone as they surged toward Freya.
At that same moment, Silas emerged from the towering headquarters of Stormveil’s family industries alongside high–ranking Thorne elders. Adel Thorne, Lennon Thorne and the other branch leaders walked at his side, their tone deferential.
“Alpha Silas, had we known you’d be traveling to Ashbourne, we would have prepared a proper welcome,” Adel Thorne offered smoothly. Stormveil had once dominated the city, but its glory had waned. Only Jocelyn’s ties to Silas kept the pack’s prestige afloat.
The other branch elder chimed in, eager to please. “Perhaps tonight we host a cleansing feast in your honor. We could invite Jocelyn as well–you and she grew up like bonded cubs, did you not?”
They meant to remind him of Jocelyn’s “destined bond.” But Silas’s attention had already drifted. His voice cut through their chatter, calm but sharp.
“The Stormveil Primal Hall lies nearby, does it not? I think I’ll take a look.”
The Thornes stiffened. “The… Primal Hall? You wish to go there?”
“Why?” His tone cooled, steel beneath the velvet. “Am I not welcome?”
“Of course, you are! It would be our honor,” Lennon said hastily. “The Patriarch himself is in the Hall today. He would be pleased to meet you.”
They did not understand his sudden interest, but none dared deny him.
The group turned toward the Hall, their stride purposeful. But before they even reached the obsidian gates, the scene revealed itself–chaos, guards strewn across the flagstones, and a lone figure standing tall amidst the carnage.
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Silas halted. His pulse thundered.
There she was.
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Freya. Spine unyielding, eyes cold as tempered steel, both hands cradling the urn draped in the crimson flag of her father. Around her, bodies groaned, some crawling, others still on the ground from where her wolf–blooded strength had thrown them aside.
It was the airport all over again–her defiance against overwhelming force.
Jocelyn’s shrill voice cut through the air, bitter and frantic.
“Freya! The Primal Hall is no place for your insolence! I’ve already summoned the City Guard–if you don’t leave now, you’ll be dragged out in chains!”
“I am not here to fight,” Freya’s voice rang like steel against stone. “I am here to honor my blood. To place the ashes of my parents within the Hall!”
Jocelyn’s father, Lennon flustered and sweating, rushed to her side. “What madness is this? Do you think the Hall is open to every stray who claims the Stormveil name?”
Freya’s gaze cut to him like a blade. “Arthur Thorne’s blood runs in my veins. My mother Myra died bearing the same mark. Their spirits deserve the Hall. Their urn will rest here.”
Lennon scoffed, his face pale despite his bluster. “The Fifth Branch has been dead for years! Don’t insult us with lies.”
“Then check the Stormveil Codex,” Freya snapped back, her voice unwavering. “The blood of the Fifth Branch still flows, and I will not be denied.”
Silas‘ fists clenched at his sides as he watched her–every word, every act of defiance stirring something primal in his chest.
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Chapter 85
Third Person’s POV
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Lennon Thorne’s gaze flickered with unease. Just then, the distant wail of sirens cut through the air. A pair of Ashbourne patrol cars rolled up, their lights flashing crimson against the ancient stone of the Stormveil Primal Hall. Several enforcers stepped out, their presence commanding silence in the tense crowd.
“Who’s causing the disturbance here?” one of them demanded. The patrols of this territory naturally knew the Stormveil Pack by name.
“It’s her!” Lennon barked, pointing at Freya Thorne, his voice louder than his daughter Jocelyn’s. “She’s here to provoke at the gates of our Primal Hall! Arrest her now before this spectacle shames us all!”
The enforcers strode toward Freya. Yet as their eyes fell upon what she carried, their expressions hardened, then shifted into something heavier.
Clutched tightly in Freya’s arms was a dark oak urn, its polished surface draped with the crimson banner of the Ashbourne Legion.
“This is…” one officer’s voice faltered.
Freya’s voice rang clear, her spine unbending. “The ashes of my father, Arthur Thorne, and my mother, Myra. I came here today only to return them to their kin–into the Stormveil Primal Hall where their spirits belong. They gave their lives for the nation, for the Pack. Their souls deserve a place of honor.”
The enforcers fell silent for a moment. Then one stepped forward and asked, softer now, “May we know… how they fell?”
Freya’s grip tightened on the urn. Her words cut the air like steel. “They joined the Iron Fang Recon Unit. On foreign soil, far beyond our borders, they fought and bled for our people. They fell in service, defending
lives not their own.”
A heavy silence followed. Then, as one, the enforcers straightened and saluted. Their hands rose to their brows, eyes locked on the urn draped in crimson.
The crowd rippled with shock. Jocelyn Thorne and Lennon stood frozen, their outrage turning into disbelief. They had expected the patrols to drag Freya away–but instead they were saluting her.
Lennon’s voice cracked, thick with fury. “What are you doing?! Don’t stand there saluting—take her away!”
But the enforcers merely looked at Freya again, almost pleading. “Perhaps it is better if you step back for now. Conflicts between kin can be settled in time, but-”
“No,” Freya’s voice cut like a blade. She turned toward the towering gates of the Stormveil Primal Hall. Raising the urn high, her voice thundered through the gathering.
“I am Freya Thorne, daughter of the Fifth Branch of Stormveil. Today I bear the ashes of my father Arthur and my mother Myra.”
“Once, when our lands were torn by war, when the packs bled and the skies darkened, the Fifth Branch gave seven brothers to the battlefield. All but one perished. My grandfather, Rowan Thorne, bled thirteen wounds on these very steps, holding the Hall against invaders, and never retreated a single step.”
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“My father Arthur and my mother Myra followed the same oath. They wore the crest of Bloodmoon, marched with the Iron Fang Recon Unit, and for thirty years gave their strength to the nation. They fell as warriors, their names engraved among the honored dead of the Ashbourne Legion’s Hall of Martyrs.”
“I, Freya Thorne, unworthy daughter of the Fifth Branch, plead before the Pack–open these gates! Let my parents‘ ashes rest among their kin. Let their names be carved within the Stormveil Primal Hall!”
Her voice cracked like thunder, echoing across the square.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Every wolf stood still, even those who moments before raised fists against
her.
In that moment, Silas Whitmor, Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition, found himself transfixed. His gaze could not leave her–the steel in her voice, the blaze of conviction in her eyes. There was grief, yes, but also a fire that burned with ancestral pride.
No one moved to stop her now. The Fifth Branch of Stormveil–extinguished in rumor, but in truth, loyal and blood–bound. Such a legacy could not be denied.
Even Jocelyn stood dazed, struggling to reconcile her shallow understanding of the family’s past with the legacy Freya’s words revealed. To her, the Fifth Branch had been little more than a fading name in the lineage scroll. She had never known the weight of their sacrifices.
Lennon, at her side, masked his shock with anger. He had never expected Freya to dare reveal such truths before the Pack. If her branch’s bloodline was publicly acknowledged here, his grip on power would fracture. Rage twisted in his gut as he opened his mouth again—
“Even if you speak so boldly, who can say your words are true?!” His voice trembled with fury. “I will not-
“They are true.” A new voice rose.
It was Abel Thorne, standing apart until now. His gaze was steady. “I recognize her. She is the child we once called Little Freya. At first, I did not see it she has grown. But hearing her words, seeing her bearing, there can be no mistake. She is of the Fifth Branch.”
“Brother—!” Lennon snapped, but his protest choked in his throat.
Because at that very moment, the gates of the Stormveil Primal Hall creaked open.
Gasps rippled through the crowd as an elder figure emerged, leaning on a carved wolf–bone staff. His hair was silvered, his face lined with age, but his eyes carried the sharp weight of authority.
The High Elder Ken of Stormveil Pack–the living pillar of their lineage.
His gaze locked upon Freya. “You are… child of the Fifth Branch?”
Freya straightened her spine, her arms unyielding around the urn. “Yes.”
The Elder studied her, and in his weary eyes flickered the ghostly faces of the seven brothers of old, bloodied yet unbroken. He remembered being a boy, watching them march to war one by one.
“Don’t go,” he had begged them. “You’ll die.”
One of them had only ruffled his hair, smiling as he answered, “If we don’t go, more will die. We go not to
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embrace death, but to shield life. Remember that.”
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He had not understood then. But when the smoke cleared, only one of the brothers returned, limping, maimed.
And now, before him, stood their descendant–unyielding, carrying the ashes of another fallen son of the Pack.
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