Ch. 86..90: A Warrior Luna's Awakening Chapter 86-90
Chapter 86
Third Person’s POV
Ken Thorne’s sharp gaze softened into something warmer, almost grandfatherly.
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“Good… good… good!” he thundered, his voice carrying like the growl of an elder Alpha. “The blood of the Fifth Line deserves its place in the Stormveil Primal Hall. The ashes of Arthur and Myra shall rest where they belong! I would like to see who dares stand in the way!”
As his words fell, his ironwood staff struck the stone floor with a thunderous crack. The sound reverberated through the ancient hall like a war drum. Silence fell instantly. No wolf in the courtyard dared to breathe too loudly.
“Freya,” Ken’s voice softened as he turned toward her, “come. Carry your parents‘ ashes and walk with me, your great–grandsire, into the Primal Hall.”
“Yes, Alpha–Elder,” Freya answered firmly Her arms tightened protectively around the urn cloaked in the national colors.
But before she could move, a voice rang/out.
“I want to walk in with her.”
The crowd turned. Silas Whitmor, Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition, stepped forward, his presence alone drawing a murmur of shock.
Ken Thorne’s eyes narrowed. “This is the Stormveil Pack’s ancestral rite. Outsiders have no place within the Primal Hall.”
A flicker of irritation crossed Silas’s face.
Freya moved closer to him and lowered her voice. “This is Stormveil’s hall, Silas. Today is about my bloodline. But… thank you.”
“Thank me?” For a heartbeat Silas was caught off guard. Was that truly what he had been doing–caring? If not, why had he spoken so impulsively? Why had he stepped forward as if her battle was his own?
After a pause, he said quietly, “Then I will wait here until you return.”
The words rippled through the gathered wolves like a storm wind. The Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition, the infamous Whitmor, waiting outside Stormveil’s hall–for her? Eyes darted between them, stunned, whispering disbelief.
Freya studied his face a moment longer before giving a small nod. “Alright.”
Then, straightening, she turned back to Ken Thorne and followed him into the Stormveil Primal Hall. The rest of the pack, elders and kin alike, exchanged uneasy glances before trailing inside behind her.
The injured guards who had tried to bar her way earlier were carried off to heal, while the enforcers kept the swelling crowd at bay. Slowly, the throng dispersed until the stone courtyard emptied, leaving Silas Whitmor standing sentinel before the Primal Hall’s looming doors.
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His gaze lingered on the carved totems of wolves and moons etched into the archway. Yet his thoughts replayed only one image–Freya’s face as she had spoken outside, sorrow and unyielding pride burning together.
A lineage of martyrs. A bloodline that had given everything.
He had once thought of her as merely an amusing challenge, a distraction in his restless Alpha life. But now… something was shifting. Something primal.
Within the Primal Hall, the air was heavy with the scent of cedar, ash, and wolf–magic. Freya had been here as a child, trailing behind her father Arthur during rites. But today–bearing his ashes–it was as if the spirits of her ancestors watched her every step.
Ken Thorne led her to the altar, where rows of obsidian–etched name tablets rose like a silent army of generations past. He pointed to the section of the Fifth Line. “Place them here. Arthur and Myra Thorne have earned this ground.”
“I had asked Seventh Uncle James if the memorial tablets were prepared,” Freya murmured, her voice tight. “I… don’t know if they were ever finished?”
Ken’s expression darkened. “James… Where is that whelp?”
The surrounding kin shifted uneasily. Finally, a younger pack member whispered, “He is… playing cards, Elder.”
Ken slammed his staff against the floor with a snarl. “Cards! While his kin wait to be honored? Worthless pup! Fetch the tablets, now!”
Moments later, the carved memorial stones of Arthur Thorne and Myra were brought forth, the names etched in silver runes that glowed faintly in the dim firelight.
Freya’s eyes blurred. She placed the tablets beneath the stone markers of her grandparents, hands trembling. Then she lowered herself onto her knees, the urn still clasped tightly, and bowed until her forehead touched the cold floor.
“Unworthy daughter of the Fifth Line, Freya Thorne, bows before the ancestors. May Arthur and Myra Brown, heroes of the Iron Fang Recon Unit, rest among their kin. May the Stormveil remember.”
Her voice rang through the hall like a vow.
Ken Thorne’s eyes glistened with unspoken grief, though his posture remained rigid, Alpha–Elder strong. When Freya rose, he turned, his gaze snapping toward Lennon Thorne and Jocelyn.
“You two–kneel!” His roar cracked like thunder.
Lennon and Jocelyn flinched, paling.
“Grandfather, why? Why would you-” Lennon stammered.
“Do you dare ask?” Ken’s voice was cold steel. “What you attempted today at the gates of the Primal Hall-
you think the ancestors do not see?”
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Jocelyn scrambled to explain, her voice honeyed with excuses. “Great–grandfather, how was I to know she was truly of the Fifth Line? Her name carried no generational mark, and many wolves attempt to claim ties to Stormveil for their own gain. I could not have known-”
Ken’s staff struck again. Sparks of wolf–magic shivered across the floor. “And so you would cast out the blood of martyrs, while defending your own pride? Kneel, or be stripped of your Stormveil name!”
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Freya’s POV
When Ken Thorne’s voice thundered across the Stormveil Primal Hall, I felt the weight of generations pressing down on us.
“Wouldn’t it occur to you to ask your uncles?” he snapped at Jocelyn, his tone edged with fury. “You claim you didn’t know whether Freya belonged to the Fifth Branch. Are you telling me that all your uncles and elders are just as blind as you?”
The air inside the Hall chilled. The carved stone wolves that lined the chamber seemed to watch in silence, their eyes gleaming with judgment.
At that moment, James Thorne stumbled in, sweat dampening his collar. One of the Primal Hall attendants had called him in a panic, and from the look on his face, he already knew the storm that awaited him.
He might not have known me well, but he knew of the Fifth Branch–my branch. The Bloodmoon Pack had bled more than any others. My kin had been soldiers, guardians, martyrs. Most had died with steel in their hands and wolves at their throats. What remained of us… was me, standing here now, clutching the urns of
my parents.
Ken Thorne didn’t hesitate. He hurled his wolf–carved cane at James with a sharp crack, the wood striking true. “And you dare show your face here? This was your duty, James! You were meant to greet Freya at the gates of the Primal Hall, to welcome her and Arthur and Myra’s ashes with the honor they are due. Instead, she was forced to stand outside, barred entry, raising her voice just to be heard!”
The words struck deeper than any cane. For a moment, my chest ached–not from shame, but from the raw pain of knowing how far my family had fallen in the esteem of our pack.
James winced, lowering his head as Ken advanced. My great–grandfather–though well into his eighties- still moved with the force of an Alpha in his prime. His boot struck James square in the ribs, sending him stumbling. No one moved to intervene.
James choked out, “It was Jocelyn–she insisted she’d handle Freya’s return. I warned her told her she belonged to the Fifth–but she assured me she had it in hand.”
Every gaze in the Hall shifted to Jocelyn Thorne.
Her lips tightened, but she lifted her chin. “I thought Seventh Uncle had been deceived. The Fifth has been absent from Ashbourne for years. And there were reports three years ago–rumors that Arthur and Myra fell abroad. So why, Freya, are their ashes only returning now? It doesn’t make sense.”
My wolf snarled inside me, low and furious. I fixed Jocelyn with a stare that could’ve split stone.
“They fell in battle beyond our borders,” I said, my voice cold. “It took years to recover their remains, years to bring them home across hostile lands. Do you know how many of our honored dead never return at all? How many of their ashes lie forgotten in foreign soil? You dare call it ‘strange‘ that I fought tooth and claw to bring them back? You speak of sense? You know nothing of sacrifice.”
Jocelyn’s face drained of color, then flared red with humiliation. She couldn’t meet my eyes–not with the entire Stormveil bloodline staring down at her.
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Ken Thorne’s voice cracked like a whip. “The three of you–on your knees! You will kneel before the Fifth’s shrine until dawn, and perhaps then you will remember whose blood bought the stones beneath your feet. If not for the warriors of the Bloodmoon, for Arthur, for Myra, for the Iron Fang Recon Unit–this Hall would be ash and ruin, and none of you would dare call yourselves Thorne!”
James and Lennon exchanged a helpless look. Jocelyn trembled with anger she didn’t dare show. One by one, they dropped to their knees before the shrine of the Fifth Branch.
Ken’s eyes softened only when they turned to me. “Freya, your parents‘ urns will be guarded here in the Primal Hall until their funeral rites. In three days, the Stormveil Pack will stand to honor them.”
Abel Thorne’s voice rumbled from the side, cautious. “Grandfather, you’re too old to march in a funeral procession. Let the younger generation see to it. It’s ill–omened for elders to bury the young.”
Ken’s glare silenced him instantly. “Arthur and Myra carried the weight of this world on their backs. They bled for this land, so that pups like you could sleep beneath a peaceful moon. If I cannot walk behind their coffins, then I am unworthy of the name Thorne.”
The chamber fell silent again, reverent.
At last, he turned to me, his voice softening. “Child, you’ve returned to Ashbourne. Stay with me at the ancestral grounds. I’ll see that you are given a place worthy of the Bloodmoon’s last daughter.”
I shook my head gently. “Thank you, Great–Alpha, but I have matters yet unfinished. I’ve already secured my own den. But… if you wish to see me, I’ll come. As often as you like.”
Ken Thorne’s eyes glistened. He nodded, his wolf still burning bright behind them. “Good. And know this, Freya–this Hall is yours as much as it is mine. If anyone dares to bar you again… strike them down. If blood is spilled, I’ll bear the weight.”
His cane struck the stone once more, the sound echoing like a heartbeat through the ancestral Hall.
Chapter 88
Third Person’s POV
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Jocelyn knelt rigidly on the cold stone floor of the Stormveil Primal Hall, her face pale. Ken Thorne’s words still echoed like thunder in the vaulted chamber, each syllable cutting into her pride like a blade. She had long basked in the false glory of clinging to Silas Whitmor’s name, earning the shallow reverence of pack members who fawned on her. Now, stripped bare before the family’s ancestral spirits, she had not felt such humiliation in years.
Freya could see it clearly–her great–grandfather’s rage had not been for show. The old Alpha Elder’s fury came from a place of fierce love for her bloodline. She bowed her head, heart tight, before answering softly.
“I will, Elder Ken. I’ll come sit with you, talk with you whenever you wish.”
When she finally stepped out of the Stormveil Primal Hall, the night air hit her lungs like a cleansing fire. Out beyond the circle of torches that guarded the ancient stone grounds, a lone figure stood–silent, still, as though carved from steel and shadow.
Silas Whitmor.
Freya froze, her pulse leaping. He was really waiting. Not seated, not hidden away in a nearby vehicle, but standing openly, unwavering, before the sacred hall of her ancestors.
As though sensing her gaze, Silas lifted his eyes to meet hers. For a moment, everything within her chest twisted and surged. His steady, storm–gray stare locked with hers, unflinching. Then, he began to walk toward her, every step purposeful.
“Did you settle what you came here to do?” His voice was low, even, carrying that quiet command only an Alpha of his stature could hold.
“Yes,” she nodded.
“They didn’t give you trouble?”
“No.”
“Then why stand here?” she finally asked, her voice tinged with disbelief. “You’ve been waiting like this for… more than an hour?”
“Standing at the gate of your ancestral hall,” Silas replied calmly, “was the only way I would see you the very moment you emerged–before anyone else could.”
The words struck her harder than she expected.
“But it’s exhausting,” she countered, her throat tight. “And people stare. Don’t you think it draws too much attention?”
“I don’t care.”
His answer was flat, unwavering.
Freya faltered, brushing her hand against her cloak, unsure what to say. Finally, she muttered, “The rites are
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finished for tonight. Let’s… go back.”
But before she could turn, his voice cut through the night.
“Freya.”
She froze, glancing back.
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“As long as you don’t cast me aside,” Silas said, eyes burning with a solemn intensity, “I’ll always wait for you -like this.”
Her breath caught. What did he mean by always?
He didn’t explain further. Instead, he simply reached out, clasping her hand firmly, and guided her toward the waiting silver Maybach at the edge of the grounds.
Inside the car, silence stretched until Silas asked,
“When will your parents‘ ashes be laid to rest?”
“In three nights,” she whispered.
“I’ll be there.”
“You?” she blinked in surprise.
ཕེལ་འགྲེ ས ་་་་
“They were fallen warriors,” he said simply. “And they were your parents. It’s my duty to honor them.”
Freya stared at him for a long moment, her chest aching, before finally nodding. “Alright.”
Later, back in Silas’s estate, Freya slipped into her chamber when her WolfComm vibrated. It was Lana Rook.
“How are you in Ashbourne?” Lana’s voice carried warm concern.
“Everything’s in place,” Freya murmured.
“And your parents‘ ashes?”
“They’ve been placed in the Stormveil Primal Hall. In three nights, they’ll be interred at the Ashbourne Legion’s Hall of Martyrs.”
“That’s good. They’ll rest in honor,” Lana said. Then her tone sharpened, “By the way–did you hear Aurora’s been detained?”
“Detained?” Freya was startled.
“Of course! At the airstrip–after what she did, insulting the ashes of your parents, mocking the fallen? The Iron Fang Recon officers were furious. With so many witnesses, there was no escaping it. Ten days in detention, and worse, an official disciplinary mark on her record. Aurora’s career in the Bluemoon Airborne Wing? Over.”
Lana’s laugh was edged with satisfaction. “Can you imagine? Caelum Grafton’s been scrambling, begging for strings to be pulled, trying to shield her from punishment. But who would dare? She disrespected warriors.
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who bled and died for the packs. That’s a line even an Alpha of the Silverfang cannot cross.”
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Freya sat silently, her grip tightening on the phone. Aurora’s arrogance had always burned, but this… this was different. She had tried to desecrate the remains of her parents–of heroes.
And now, the wolves themselves had answered.
Chapter 89
Freya’s POV
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If Aurora had actually gone through with opening my parents‘ urn, I knew she wouldn’t just be in detention -she’d be facing three years in prison under the Pack Accords.
Even if the Iron Fang Recon Unit hadn’t intervened that night, once I had settled my parents‘ remains, I would have made sure she paid. I could never forgive someone who tried to desecrate the ashes of Arthur and Myra Brown. Aurora had chosen her path, and she would suffer the consequences.
As for Caelum Grafton… that man was nothing more than a stranger to me now. Our paths had diverged the moment he defended Aurora’s insult.
Lana’s voice buzzed through my WolfComm, pulling me back.
“Where are you staying now, Freya? The old house in Ashbourne?”
“No,” I shook my head, though she couldn’t see it. “The place has been abandoned for too long. It’s falling apart, not fit for living. Maybe someday I’ll restore it, but for now… I’m staying at Silas Whitmor’s estate.”
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed by a near–screech.
“You’re what? You’re living in Silas Whitmor’s mansion? You mean–you’re cohabiting? When did that happen?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, sighing. “It’s not what you think. I’m his bodyguard–just for three months. After that, we’ll go our separate ways.”
“You? A bodyguard for him?” Lana sounded incredulous.
“It’s complicated,” I muttered. “Let’s just say the Iron Fang Recon Unit asked it of me. Some things, I can’t explain.”
“Fine, I get it.” She dropped the subject immediately—after all, Lana knew me well enough to recognize when I couldn’t speak freely.
But she still couldn’t help herself. “Freya, be careful. Everyone knows the Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition is unpredictable. They say he’s ruthless–kill–on–a–whim ruthless. Don’t get caught in his moods.”
Her warning sent images flashing in my mind: Silas bowing deeply before my parents‘ urn in The Capital’s hall of remembrance, his quiet figure standing vigil outside the Stormveil Primal Hall, his solemn promise to accompany my parents to their final rest in the Ashbourne Legion’s Hall of Martyrs. And… the moment I glimpsed last night, when his walls crumbled, and he looked less like a monster and more like a broken child.
“He’s not always what people say,” I admitted softly. “There’s another side to him–one most never see.”
“Oh, Moon above,” Lana groaned. “Don’t tell me you’re falling for him?”
“I am not,” I shot back instantly, rolling my eyes though my cheeks warmed. “I just buried a marriage during the Lunar Severance Phase–I’m not about to fall headfirst for another man. I’d have to be an idiot.”
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“Hmm,” she hummed in a way that meant she didn’t believe me. “Well, fine. But when you’re back in The Capital, I’ll introduce you to someone who’s actually safe to fall for.”
I was about to laugh when silence pressed between us.
“Freya?” Lana’s voice softened. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing… I just–something came up. I’ll call you later.” I hung up before she could press further.
Because when I lifted my gaze, I found Silas Whitmor himself leaning against my doorway, watching me with those storm–gray eyes–expression unreadable. How much had he heard?
We locked eyes. The air thickened. Then he crossed the threshold, closing the distance between us until I could feel the weight of his presence.
“Tell me,” he said at last, voice low and sharp as a blade’s edge, “since when is falling for me the mark of a fool?”
My heart lurched. So he had heard.
I stared, unable to speak.
He leaned down, his lips brushing dangerously close, his wolf–amber eyes rippling with something unfamiliar–something almost tender. “Or is it that you hate me, Freya?”
“I don’t hate you.” I forced my chin up, meeting his gaze head–on. “But you know where I stand. I just came out of the Lunar Severance Phase. I don’t plan on giving my heart to anyone. And you–you don’t care about me like that.”
His lips curved, but it wasn’t amusement–it was something darker, deeper. “And if I did? If I wanted you?”
My throat went dry. “It wouldn’t matter. I wouldn’t return it. Not now.”
“Not now,” he repeated softly, studying me. Then his smile widened, a wolfish curl of lips that both unsettled and entranced me. “But later… later is a different story.”
I had no reply.
That night, I tossed restlessly in bed, the events of the day pressing heavily on me. Sleep refused to come. And just when my body finally began to drift, I heard it–faint movement from the room next door.
I stiffened. My instincts snapped awake. I slid from the bed and crept into the hall.
And there he was. Silas, already descending the stairs, his tall frame cloaked in shadow.
When his eyes caught mine, a flicker of surprise crossed his face. “You really are a good bodyguard,” he said evenly.
And I couldn’t tell if it was approval… or a challenge.
Chapter 90
Silas‘ POV
I couldn’t sleep. Not tonight.
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The weight of the Ironclad Coalition, the endless blood–feuds, the phone call from my father… it all clawed at me like unseen fangs. So I left my room, my wolf restless beneath my skin, and headed for the sitting room downstairs. The silence of the mansion pressed close, broken only by the low thrum of my heartbeat.
But I wasn’t alone.
Freya emerged from the shadows of the hall, barefoot, her eyes wary yet steady. She looked as if she had expected me. A good bodyguard indeed.
“Where are you going at this hour?” she asked.
“The sitting room,” I answered. My voice sounded rough even to my own ears. “Since you’re awake, you may as well join me for a drink.”
We descended together. I opened the cabinet and pulled a bottle of dark red wine. “What do you drink, Freya?”
“I don’t.” Her reply was firm, almost clipped. Always the dutiful protector. No weakness, no indulgence.
I didn’t press her. Instead, I poured for myself. One glass. Then another. The wine burned down my throat, but I welcomed it. A third followed, then a fourth. I wasn’t savoring it. I was trying to drown something.
When I reached for the next pour, her hand shot out, slender but strong, stopping me.
“Enough. You’ll ruin yourself.”
Her words shouldn’t have mattered. Yet when I looked up, her eyes–steel–gray, steady as the mountains of Stormveil–met mine, and something inside me twisted.
“You care?” My tone was even, but the truth clawed beneath it.
There was a flicker of hesitation before she said, “Yes. I don’t want anything happening to you while I’m meant to protect you.”
I almost laughed. So it’s only duty, then? My wolf bristled at the thought. “If you weren’t bound to guard me, would you still care?”
Her lips parted, but no answer came.
I leaned in, closer than I should have, close enough to breathe her in–storm and moonlight, tinged with the faintest trace of her wolf. “Or is it that if you cared for me–truly cared–you’d worry no matter what?”
She frowned, instinctively drawing back, but I caught her wrist, holding her there. My voice dropped to a whisper, roughened by drink and something deeper. “Freya… fall for me. Just a little. Would that be so terrible?”
Her eyes widened. Shock. Maybe anger. And Moon help me, she was beautiful like that. Her face so close,
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her lips trembling between defiance and restraint.
“No.” The word came sharp, unyielding.
I blinked, lashes heavy from drink, from weariness. “Why?”
She turned it back on me with a question of her own. “Would you ever love me?”
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. I couldn’t answer—not truthfully.
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Her voice cut through, clear and fierce. “When I give my heart, it’s to someone who will fight beside me, live and die with me, never betray me. Someone who doesn’t stand at another woman’s side while I bleed. Someone who doesn’t break every promise.”
Her words struck like claws across my chest, peeling back armor I hadn’t realized I still wore. She was speaking of Caelum Grafton. But every syllable lodged itself in me, demanding–prove you are not him.
“What if I could be that?” The words slipped out, rough and low. “What if I could be the wolf you just described? Would you give me your heart then?”
She stared, stunned into silence. I didn’t wait for her answer. Instead, I leaned in again–not for her lips, though the urge was maddening–but for her shoulder.
“Don’t move,” I murmured. “Just let me rest here.”
And she didn’t push me away. My head lowered onto her shoulder, and the strangest sensation washed through me. Safety. Her frame was smaller than mine, but steady, strong. My wolf settled against her scent as if he had been waiting centuries for this moment.
“My father called me today,” I said suddenly, surprising even myself.
She made a small sound, surprise clear in it. No one ever spoke of my father. The world barely remembered he existed, and I had long since wished I could forget him too.
“Our bond is… poisoned,” I admitted, my voice almost a growl. “If I died tomorrow, the first to celebrate would be him.”
Her silence was heavy, her warmth grounding me in the storm.
I nearly told her more. I nearly confessed that as a boy I had craved one thing–to have someone at my side when he belittled me, when he carved into me with words sharper than claws. But the wine, the weight of it all, stole the rest.
“Never mind.” I swallowed the truth back into the dark where it belonged.
Still, I did not lift my head from her shoulder.
For the first time in years, I allowed myself to lean.