Lyra was waiting in the corridor.
“Planning your dramatic escape?” she asked mildly.
I didn’t answer.
She circled me slowly, eyes glittering. “You know, the pack already whispers that the Moon has chosen me. I wouldn’t have believed it myself—but after your little… incident…”
“You stole my child,” I said quietly.
She leaned close enough that I could smell the blood-magic clinging to her skin. “And you lost yours. That’s the difference between us, Elira. I take what I want.”
I smiled.
It surprised her.
“Enjoy your borrowed throne while you can,” I said. “Because the Moon remembers theft.”
Her eyes flashed. “You think Kael will ever let you go? You’re still useful to him.”
She was wrong.
That was the last time I would ever let them decide my worth.
That night, I packed only what I could carry.
The mate-mark still burned faintly on my shoulder—not glowing, not alive, but aching like a scar that refused to fade. I pressed my fingers to it one last time.
“I choose myself,” I whispered.
And when I crossed the border at dawn, the Silvermoon wards did not howl after me.
They were already forgetting my name.
The Frostline Pass did not welcome runaways.