She opened the image. The grounds were drowning in golden moonblossoms, and the ceremonial gown in the preview was exactly Selene's style—a golden flowing dress that hugged every curve.
Lyra let out a quiet scoff. No pain. No longing. Just the clean, sharp edge of release.
If every detail was designed around Selene's taste, then Selene could have the honor of being the mate.
She pulled up the scent-recording she'd been saving—the captured memory from the abandoned den, preserved while Selene gloated about stealing credit for a rescue she'd never performed. Lyra selected the most damning segment and sent it to Fenris.
Then she typed one final message:
"Fenris, I wish you and your mate a happy bonding. May it last a hundred years."
The moment it sent, she blocked every way he could reach her. Scrubbed her scent-tag from his tracking range. Powered off her identity token.
The departure call echoed through the crossing station.
Lyra picked up her traveling pack and walked toward the caravan, step by step, until she disappeared into the covered wagon that would carry her beyond the borders.