Ch. 96..100: A Warrior Luna's Awakening Chapter 96-100
Chapter 96
Third Person’s POV
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From that day forward, Ken Thorne swore in silence: as long as breath lingered in his chest, Freya Thorne would never stand alone.
When the elder Alpha bent low before the memorial wall of the Fifth Branch, the rest of the Stormveil pack followed. Dozens of wolves lowered their heads and offered three deep bows toward the bloodline’s plaques.
Even Jocelyn Thorne, despite the bitterness twisting her heart, had no choice but to kneel alongside the others. Her wolf snarled inwardly at the indignity, but tradition bound her tighter than her own will. Still, as her head dipped, her resentment toward Freya only deepened.
Freya only stands tall because of her branch, Jocelyn thought, rage curdling under her calm mask. Ken Elder still reveres the Bloodmoon martyrs, and her parents died as heroes. But Ken is old, his strength failing. Once this funeral is done, when the embers of the Fifth Branch fade… she will be nothing again. Nothing.
The last bow was offered, and Freya rose, Cradling the urns of Arthur and Myra against her chest, she led the line of mourners from the Stormveil Primal Hall toward the gates.”
The family fell in behind her, their dark garments flowing like a black tide.
Jocelyn’s lips curved into a cold smile as she whispered to one of her cousins, “Were it not for the pack lending her its weight, she would walk this funeral alone.”
One of her peers snickered, echoing her disdain. “Without us, the send–off would be pitiful. A single girl and two urns–how tragic.”
“Yes,” Jocelyn murmured, satisfied. “Pathetic indeed.”
But her satisfaction withered the moment they reached the gates.
Her breath caught. Her smirk froze.
Outside the Primal Hall, two immaculate lines of wolves in the dark armor of the Iron Fang Recon Unit stood at rigid attention, their scarred faces solemn beneath the banners of Stormveil.
And they were not alone. Beyond them waited dignitaries–Alphas and officials from the Ashbourne Council, their attire black and marked with silver crests of mourning.
Jocelyn staggered inwardly, her wolf faltering in shock.
The spectacle was a slap across her face. She had mocked Freya for needing the pack to carry her through this day. Yet even had the family abandoned her, the Bloodmoon dead would still have been honored–not just by Stormveil, but by the Iron Fang warriors and the wider Coalition itself.
Because martyrs were never forgotten.
Even the passersby in Ashbourne’s busy streets halted in silence, compelled by the sight of the funeral guard.
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Then Jocelyn’s gaze snagged on a figure among the crowd, and her heart lurched.
Silas.
The Ironclad Alpha, clad in a sharp black suit, his expression unreadable but his eyes fixed solely on Freya.
Jocelyn’s wolf recoiled. Impossible. Silas had no reverence for death. He had never stood in honor at another wolf’s passing–save for two: his mother, and his grandsire. That was all.
And yet here he stood, for Arthur and Myra.
Did that mean, in Silas’s cold heart, the Bloodmoon pair ranked alongside the only two souls he had ever mourned?
The realization seared Jocelyn, her claws biting into her palms as jealousy and hatred coiled like vipers inside her.
Freya, meanwhile, bore her parents‘ urns forward. As she approached the Iron Fang lines, every wolf in the formation lifted a hand to their chest, fists clenched over hearts in the old warrior’s salute.
It was the highest tribute–the pack’s eternal vow to remember their fallen.
A ceremonial banner of crimson was unfurled, draped carefully across the urns. Not just cloth—it was marked with the sigil of the Bloodmoon Branch, an emblem of their sacrifice.
A low, mournful howl began among the Recon wolves, swelling and carrying through Ashbourne’s streets.
Freya’s eyes stung as the sound rose. It was the sound of remembrance, the wolf–song of honor.
Her parents had lived and died by their creed–that the pack’s peace was worth their blood. And in this moment, that creed resounded in every voice, every chest, every howl that shook the sky above the city.
When the howls faded, one of the Ashbourne Council representatives stepped forward, bowing his head before Freya. “Arthur and Myra Thorne gave everything to shield this land. Ashbourne, the Stormveil Pack, and the Coalition itself will never forget their names. Nor their daughter.”
Freya lowered her gaze to the urns in her arms, her voice a whisper only her wolf could hear.
I will carry you forward. Always.
Chapter 97
Freya’s POV
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The Stormveil Pack never forgot my parents. That’s why they negotiated tirelessly with the Bloodmoon Pack and beyond, pulling every string to bring my parents‘ ashes back to Ashbourne.
And today… they could finally rest in the soil of the land they died to protect.
“We’ll take your parents to the Ashbourne Legion’s Hall of Martyrs,” one of the officials said, his tone steady with solemn respect.
I gave a small nod.
My hands tightened around the urns.
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When I climbed into the armored car, my parents‘ old comrades from the Iron Fang Recon Unit joined me. They had traveled across the country just to stand guard one last time. Kade was there, Lana too.
And then–through the tinted glass, my gaze caught him.
Alpha Silas.
The Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition stood among the crowd, his frame wrapped in a black suit, his expression carved in somber stone. Our eyes locked across the distance, through the window, through the noise, until it felt as though no one else existed.
He had kept his word. He came to see my parents off.
A storm churned in my chest.
When I first met Silas, I thought of him as an enigma carved from shadows–an Alpha whose mood was as mercurial as the moon, whose aura reeked of blood and death. But around my parents, he had shown nothing but reverence.
It was that reverence that cracked something open inside me, revealing a man who wasn’t all steel and silence.
The engine rumbled. The vehicle rolled away from the Stormveil Primal Hall.
Through the window, I saw villagers stop in their tracks, heads bowed, hands pressed to hearts. They knew what this procession meant. They knew who my parents were.
Tears blurred my vision, hot and merciless. These people… they were sending my parents home. With respect. With honor.
By the time we reached the Hall of Martyrs, the ceremonial guards were already waiting. The burial rite unfolded with a reverence that clawed at my chest. Four soldiers bore the urns, lowering them with ritual precision into the cold earth.
I clutched my parents‘ portraits and followed, my legs moving as though bound by grief.
Behind me, my kin of the Thorne line and Stormveil’s officials trailed in silence. Lana, Kade, and Silas
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remained further back, but I felt Silas’s gaze burning into me like a brand.
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Lana’s glance darted his way more than once, her expression betraying surprise. Everyone in Ashbourne whispered of Silas’s ruthlessness, of the way he tore through alliances and enemies alike. For a wolf of his rank to come… and to stand humbly at the back, not seeking recognition, not staking dominance-
No. He was here for my parents.
And for me.
The thought rattled me.
Lana’s sharp intake of breath told me she’d noticed it too–the way his deadened, abyss–dark eyes softened when they fell on me. The way his focus never wavered.
Could Silas Whitmor truly… care for me?
If he did–then Goddess help me. Because I didn’t know if that was salvation, or ruin.
The ceremony pressed on. A crimson flag was draped across the urns, gleaming with the sigil of our Legion. Beside them, I placed a silver bullet charm–a relic my father never parted with.
That bullet had nearly claimed his life once. He survived only because my mother refused to let him go, cutting it from his body with her own hands under battlefield fire. From that day forward, he swore that his life belonged not only to the Pack and the nation, but to her.
And when they fell together–when the cannons rained down and my father wrapped himself around my mother, refusing to let go–it was a vow fulfilled. His life was hers. And theirs belonged to the cause.
The rifles of the honor guard lifted.
Seven shots split the sky.
Each one a wolf’s howl of farewell.
Each one a call: “Heroes, return to the Pack.”
My tears spilled freely then.
Mother. Father. You can finally rest.
When it was over, I forced myself to stand tall. To breathe. To speak with the Ashbourne officials, to thank my parents‘ brothers–in–arms, to wear dignity even while my heart bled. Because that’s what being a Thorne
meant.
Even if my wolf wanted to collapse and howl to the moon.
Chapter 98
Third Person’s POV
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Ken Thorne stood firmly at Freya’s side throughout the funeral rites, his silent presence sending a clear message to all who watched.
Even though Arthur and Myra were gone, Freya was still blood of the Thorne line, still a daughter of Stormveil. And Stormveil would shield her..
Among the younger generation of the family, whispers stirred.
“Freya Thorne… she’s not as insignificant as we thought. Look how many officials surround her. Even the great–elder himself stands at her side. And today–even Silas Whitmor came.”
“No kidding. Silas never shows up for funerals outside his own bloodline. Never.”
“Don’t tell me he’s actually taken a liking to Freya? Then what about Jocelyn?”
“Jocelyn? Please. She’s only ever held herself up on Whitmore guilt. She forgets–Silas Whitmor isn’t the type to cling to weakness. Why would he tie himself to a girl with one half–ruined eye?”
“And once she loses his backing, what will she and her pathetic father do? The Metropolitan Pack will throw them out of Stormveil’s holdings fast enough.”
Outside the washroom, Jocelyn Thorne stood frozen, hearing every poisoned word spill from her cousins‘ mouths. Her nails bit so deeply into her palms she almost drew blood.
Her face darkened as she pushed through the door.
Silence dropped like a blade.
The cousins who had been mocking her only breaths ago went rigid, eyes darting nervously toward her. They were the same wolves who usually flattered her, bowed to her presence in the Metropolitan Pack. Yet behind her back, they bared their fangs.
Jocelyn’s gaze cut through them until it locked on the one who had spoken the loudest–Jewel Thorne.
In two strides she was upon her. One hand clamped around Jewel’s jaw with bruising force, tilting her head back, Jocelyn’s shadowed eye burning through the lens that covered it.
“You said I was arrogant. A cripple. Did you?” Her lips curled into a venomous smile. “Maybe I should take your eye right now–make you a cripple too. Let’s see if Silas Whitmor still shields me then. Let’s see who dares touch me.”
Her free hand inched toward Jewel’s eye, fingers stiff and cruel.
Jewel shrieked, thrashing. “No! Please–please, Jocelyn, I was wrong! Forgive me! You’re nothing like Freya
-you’re above her, you’re-”
The others stood mute, throats dry, too afraid to intervene. Everyone knew what Silas Whitmor was to Jocelyn. That bond–no matter how twisted–kept her untouchable.
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Chapter 98
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Jocelyn sneered. Her nails dragged across Jewel’s cheek, leaving bloody streaks. “Think carefully next time. Every word you speak should pass through your skull first. Or one day… you’ll wake up without your eyes.”
Jewel trembled violently, nodding, tears of terror streaking her face.
Jocelyn released her, her expression black as storm clouds as she strode from the washroom. Inside, she knew the truth better than any of them. Her strength wasn’t hers–it was Silas’s shadow she leaned on.
And she could never afford to lose it.
Her ruined eye was his doing. That scar was her tether. As long as she kept that wound raw in his conscience, Silas Whitmor’s guilt would remain her shield.
But then–her steps faltered.
Not far down the corridor, she saw them.
Silas and Freya.
The Ironclad Alpha stood close to her cousin, his gaze fixed on Freya with a softness Jocelyn had never witnessed from him. Not once.
Her stomach dropped. Her wolf recoiled. Silas had never looked at her–or anyone–like that.
Could he truly…?
She froze as Silas reached out. His hand lifted toward Freya’s cheek.
..
Freya reacted instantly, her fingers clamping around his wrist, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing?”
“Only this,” Silas said quietly. In his hand lay a folded handkerchief. “You’ve still got tears on your face.”
Freya blinked, stunned by the sight of the pale cloth in his grip. She hesitated, then slowly released him. “I can wipe them myself.”
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“Then take it.” His palm opened, revealing the light–blue fabric resting there as if it belonged only to her.
Freya had nothing else on her, no paper, no cloth, and the weight of his expectant gaze pressed her until, reluctantly, she accepted the handkerchief. She dabbed at her face, trying not to think of the way his eyes followed her.
“Why are you crying?” His voice was low, graveled, almost intimate. “Because they were your parents?”
“Isn’t that reason enough?” she answered, her tone sharp.
Silas’s lids lowered, shadows shifting in his gaze. “When my mother died, I didn’t shed a single tear. She was the one who bore me, and still, nothing came. They called me cold–blooded. They called me a monster.”
His eyes lifted again, locking with hers. “Tell me, Freya. Do you think I’m a monster too?”
Chapter 99
Freya’s POV
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If Silas Whitmor were truly a cold–blooded monster, he wouldn’t have stood at my parents‘ funeral. He wouldn’t have come all the way to Ashbourne just to honor them.
So when he asked if I thought him one, my lips tightened before I countered, “Was your mother cruel to you?”
His voice carried no tremor, no bitterness–just a steady calm that made the words land like steel. “She hated me. Especially this face. She despised it most of all.”
I froze. What kind of mother could hate her own pup’s face–hate it to the point of loathing?
Then his eyes found mine again. Those sharp, lupine eyes that so often looked dead as a battlefield at dusk. Yet now… there was something flickering beneath. “And you, Freya,” he asked softly, “do you hate my face?”
I blinked, taken off guard. His lashes trembled faintly, his gaze rising with quiet desperation–calm on the surface, yet underneath… the faintest thread of yearning.
A strange ache stirred in my chest. “No, I murmured. “Your face isn’t one anyone could hate.”
At that, the faintest smile touched his lips. Just a curve, subtle, but it cracked the stillness in his eyes. For an instant, the deathly calm in them seemed to melt, leaving a heat that felt dangerously close to temptation.
I swallowed and cleared my throat. “Here. Your handkerchief.” I held it out to him.
He took it back, folding the fabric into his palm. Then his gaze caught mine again. “Promise me, Freya. Never despise this face.“,
I frowned at the odd request but answered simply, “All right.”
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Truth be told, I’ve never hated a face. I only ever hated the wolf beneath it. If I truly loathed someone, I couldn’t bear to even look at them–let alone share the same air. Like Caelum Grafton.
But Silas wasn’t done. He lifted his right hand, extending his little finger, of all things. “Then hook claws with me. Swear it.”
I stared, stunned. This was the Ironclad Alpha–the same man whose name shook the whole Capital, who crushed rivals with nothing more than a look. And here he was, using a pup’s oath, childish and old- fashioned.
“…What?” I breathed.
“Is that so strange?” he asked, his expression unreadable. “When I was a boy, a girl once told me that a hooked promise lasts a hundred years. Break it, and you’ll lose the thing you treasure most.”
For a moment, my wolf stilled. That exact phrase… I’d heard it before. I’d believed it once too, as a child. Every oath sealed claw–to–claw was bound by those words.
Could it be? No. Impossible.
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I would have remembered if our paths had crossed as pups. His face, even younger, would have been unforgettable. And my memory is sharp as talons; I’d never forget a wolf like him.
Shaking the thought away, I lifted my hand. “Fine. Then let’s do it.”
Our little fingers hooked together. A strange pulse rippled down my spine, like the faint echo of a long- forgotten howl.
“Claw to claw,” Silas murmured, his voice low, almost reverent. “A hundred years unbroken.”
Something inside me faltered. For the briefest heartbeat, I felt like a child again–swearing to someone in shadows, just like this.
But before the memory could take shape, it slipped through my mind like mist.
And then I felt the weight of eyes burning holes into me,
I turned slightly, and there she was–Jocelyn Thorne. Her lips pressed thin, her gaze full of venom and raw hatred.
Her wolf bristled under her skin, her whole body rigid with fury as she watched Silas and I hook fingers like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I remembered hearing once that she had asked Silas to do this long ago, when they were younger. And he had cut her down with a single look, telling her he owed her nothing, promising her nothing.
Yet now, he had done it with me. Easily
Her ruined eye–the scar he had given her–glittered with bitter rage. She had sacrificed so much, carved herself bloody just to stay at his side. And still, he had never once offered her even a pup’s promise.
But he had given it to me.
I looked away from her, my stomach twisting.
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And when I glanced back at Silas, I caught the faint smile still tugging at his lips, as though the oath we had just made was something more than a game. Something binding.
I had no words for that.
But I could feel Jocelyn’s fury like a storm gathering behind me, sharp as claws against my back.
Chapter 100
Third Person’s POV
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Lana had seen enough to stiffen her hackles. Silas Whitmor, the Ironclad Alpha, stood claw–to–claw with Freya Thorne, and the sight was almost… tender. The infamous predator of the Ironclad Coalition, feared across the Capital, showing softness–it didn’t fit.
Beside her, Kade Blackridge’s wolf surged forward. He was halfway to storming in when Lana caught his arm, yanking him back.
“Not here,” she hissed under her breath. “This is Freya’s parents‘ burial, Kade. You want bloodshed at the Hall of Martyrs?”
Kade froze, jaw tight, lips pressed into a thin pale line. His gaze stayed locked on Silas and Freya.
Lana muttered low, “Don’t tell me the Ironclad Alpha actually likes her.”
The scene before them–silken and almost intimate was nothing like the cold, steel–edged image Silas carried. The way he looked at Freya… it wasn’t hatred. It wasn’t, indifference. It was possession. Perhaps even hunger.
Kade’s growl rumbled out, sharp as ice. He doesn’t love her. Don’t dream it.”
Lana arched a brow. “What’s this, then? Afraid your Freya’s going to be claimed? Relax. She just clawed her way out of a Lunar Severance with Caelum Grafton. The last thing she’ll want is another male sniffing
around.”
But Kade’s wolf wouldn’t be soothed. He had lost once before–lost her to Caelum, too late to even bare his heart before her bond had been sealed. He’d fled across oceans, burying his ache for three long years, thinking he could kill the hunger inside. But the moment he saw her again, his wolf had risen, feral and unrelenting. He had never stopped wanting her.
Part of him still wanted to tear Caelum apart for not treasuring her. Yet another part of him thanked the Silverfang Alpha’s arrogance–because without it, Freya might never have broken free.
Now, when he thought he might finally have a chance, another wolf had stepped between them. Silas Whitmor, of all wolves.
When the rites were done, Freya turned to Silas. “I won’t return to the Whitmor estate with you. I want to stay here awhile, at my parents‘ resting place.”
“I could keep you company,” Silas offered.
She shook her head firmly. “No. I want to speak to them alone.”
For a long moment, Silas’s silver eyes studied her. Then he dipped his head. “As you wish.”
He turned away, leaving Freya in the stillness of the graveyard. She stood before the stone markers carved with Arthur Thorne and Myra Brown’s names, staring at the black–and–white portraits fixed above them. Their smiles–bright, resolute, unwavering–shone even in death.
“Rest easy, Father. Mother,” Freya whispered, her voice trembling yet strong. “I’ll visit often. I’ll bring Eric
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too. What you fought for, I’ll carry. What you loved, I’ll honor. And what you guarded, I’ll keep safe.”
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Her hands curled into fists, nails biting her palms. “I’m divorced now. I envied your bond, the way you lived and died as one. I didn’t have that fortune. My own bond shattered, and I won’t mourn it. I’ll live every day with my head high. My life is more than love. When I join you in the earth, I want to stand before you unashamed, proud to say: I was the daughter of Arthur Thorne and Myra Brown.”
Her words drifted into the night wind, raw with grief yet sharpened with resolve.
Outside the Hall of Martyrs, Silas had barely set foot beyond the gates when a shadow slammed into him, driving him against the cold stone wall.
The Whitmor guards bristled, growls tearing from their throats, ready to strike. But Silas lifted a hand, still pinned by the elbow jammed into his throat. “Stand down.”
His gaze slid to the wolf pressing him hard against the wall. “Kade Blackridge. Do you mean to fight me
here?”
Kade’s glare burned. “What if I do?”
Silas’s lips curved faintly, his tone flat as steel. “Then you won’t leave Ashbourne in one piece.”
From the sidelines, Lana ran forward, panic flashing in her eyes. “Enough! Both of you! You’re supposed to be Freya’s friends, not tearing each other’s throats out at her parents‘ burial!”
Neither wolf listened. Their eyes locked, power crackling in the air like a storm before the strike.
Kade’s voice dropped low, guttural, his wolf close to the surface. “Freya is not yours to toy with, Silas. If you dare lay a claw on her, I’ll hunt you down myself.”
Silas’s silver eyes narrowed, glinting coldly. “What if I told you I’ve never toyed with her?”
Kade blinked, stunned by the sudden gravity in his tone.
“I’ve not played games with Freya Thorne,” Silas said, each word slow and measured. “And hear me well- what lies between her and me is none of your concern.”