The silence shattered the moment we began to walk. It wasn't a sudden noise, but a creeping, rustling sound, like dry leaves skittering across pavement. The pack members who had been bowing in submission were now sneaking glances, their eyes wide and disbelief etched into every line of their faces.

"Is that... no, it can't be," a woman whispered near the front. I recognized her—Martha, the old cook who used to sneak me extra bread when Derek cut my rations. Her hand flew to her mouth as our eyes met. I gave her the faintest nod, and she nearly collapsed.

"It’s Malia," a warrior muttered, his voice trembling. "The Alpha said she drowned. He said she went rogue."

"Look at her," another hissed. "That’s no rogue. That’s a Luna. No... that’s a Queen."

I walked with my head held high, Thatcher’s solid presence at my side anchoring me to the earth. Lilyana was perched happily on his hip, oblivious to the shockwaves she was sending through the crowd just by existing. Her little hand played with the lapel of Thatcher’s suit, completely at ease in the arms of the most feared predator on the continent.

Derek was still frozen at the top of the stairs. He looked like a statue carved from grey stone, his face drained of all color. He wasn't breathing. I could see his chest, still and tight, as if his lungs had forgotten how to work. Beside him, Briar was the picture of panic. Her perfectly manicured claws were digging into the sleeve of Derek’s ceremonial jacket. I saw the dark bloom of blood staining the white fabric.

"Do something," she hissed, her voice low but carrying on the wind to my enhanced ears. "She’s dead. That’s a ghost. Tell them it’s a trick!"

Derek didn't answer her. He couldn't take his eyes off me. It wasn't love in his gaze—it was terror. Pure, unadulterated terror.

We reached the top of the stairs. I stopped right in front of him, close enough to smell the stale sweat of his fear beneath his expensive cologne.

"Alpha Derek," Thatcher’s voice was a low rumble, devoid of warmth. "You seem unwell."

Derek jerked as if he’d been slapped. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "Your... Your Majesty. We... we weren't expecting..."

"My mate?" Thatcher finished for him, his golden eyes narrowing. "Strange. I would think you’d be eager to welcome the Lycan Queen."

Derek’s gaze flickered to me, then quickly away, unable to hold eye contact. He gestured weakly toward the grand doors. "Please. Enter. The... the hall is prepared."

We swept past them. As I crossed the threshold of the pack house, a shiver ran down my spine—not from fear, but from the memory of how I had last left this place. Dragged out the back entrance, bleeding and screaming. Now, I was walking through the front door, and the floorboards didn't creak under my feet; they seemed to firm up beneath the weight of my new station.

The Throne Room was exactly as I remembered, though perhaps smaller. Or maybe I had just grown bigger than the cage they tried to put me in. The high ceilings, the banners of Shadow Creek, the heavy wooden throne that Derek sat on like a petty tyrant—it all looked so insignificant now.

Thatcher didn't wait for an invitation. He walked straight to the dais. But instead of sitting in the guest chair positioned to the side, he moved to the center. The Alpha’s chair.

Derek hurried in behind us, Briar trailing him like a nervous shadow. When Derek saw Thatcher claiming the central seat of honor, his jaw tightened, but he didn't dare say a word. He simply gestured for a servant to bring another chair for himself, effectively demoting himself in his own home.

Thatcher sat, placing Lilyana on his knee. She looked around the room with wide, curious eyes.

"Allow me to handle the introductions properly, since you seem to have lost your tongue," Thatcher said, his voice echoing off the stone walls. The gathered elders and high-ranking wolves watched in stunned silence. "This is my mate. My heart. The Lycan Queen, Malia."

The name hung in the air like a guillotine blade.

I stepped forward, smoothing my dress. I looked Derek dead in the eye. "Thank you for hosting us, Derek," I said, my voice dripping with polite poison. "It’s... nostalgic to be back. The dungeons are still in the basement, I assume? Or have you renovated?"

Derek flinched. The color that had started to return to his face vanished again. He opened his mouth to speak, to assert some kind of dominance, but his Alpha command failed him. It withered in the presence of the King. He just stood there, gaping like a fish out of water.

"Dinner is served!" a nervous Beta announced from the doorway, breaking the suffocating tension.

The banquet hall was set with the finest silver—silver that made my skin crawl, reminding me of the chains. But I forced a smile. We took our seats at the head table. I sat to Thatcher's right, while Derek and Briar sat across from us.

Briar was recovering from her initial shock. I could see the wheels turning behind her narrow eyes. She took a long sip of wine, her gaze flicking over my dress, my jewelry, and finally settling on my face with a sneer of jealousy.

She stood up, tapping her glass with a fork. The room fell silent.

"A toast," she announced, her voice shrill. She raised her glass, her eyes locked on mine. "To the Shadow Creek Pack. To loyalty. And to new beginnings. May we always leave the... dead weight of the past behind us, where it belongs."

The insult was clumsy, but clear. She was calling me dead weight. She was trying to remind everyone that I was once nothing—a discarded Omega.

I didn't get angry. I felt a calm, cold power rise in my chest. It was the Luna aura, amplified by the royal blood of the Lycan King flowing through our bond. I didn't even stand up. I just looked at her.

"To truth," I said softly. My voice wasn't loud, but it resonated with a power that made the silverware rattle on the table. "And to karma, Briar. Because unlike the past... karma always finds its way home."

I pushed a wave of dominance toward her. It wasn't enough to hurt, just enough to press down on her wolf.

Briar gasped. Her hand jerked violently. The wine glass slipped from her fingers, shattering against the edge of the table. Red wine exploded outward, soaking the front of her pristine white dress. It looked like a gruesome wound across her chest.

She shrieked, jumping back, frantically swiping at the stain. "My dress! You did that on purpose!"

"Oh dear," I said, taking a calm sip of my water. "You really should be more careful with things that are fragile, Briar. They break so easily when you don't treat them with respect."

Derek stared at the red stain spreading across her chest, then looked at me. For the first time, he truly saw me. Not as the girl he broke, but as the woman who had come back to break him.

The banquet droned on, a parade of endless toasts and hollow praises that made my teeth ache. I sat rigidly beside Thatcher, my hand resting on his knee beneath the tablecloth, grounding myself against the oppressive memories this hall held. Every stone, every shadow seemed to whisper of the girl I used to be—the weak, unwanted mate who scrubbed these floors while Briar laughed.

Lilyana, however, had no such reservations. Her patience, thin at the best of times, had evaporated entirely.

"Mama, down," she grumbled, wiggling in her chair.

I hesitated, glancing at the crowded room, but Thatcher gave a subtle nod. "Let her stretch her legs, love. No one here would dare harm a hair on her head."

He was right. The air in the room was thick with the scent of fear and submission, all directed at us. I lifted Lilyana down, and she immediately toddled off, her little velvet shoes silent on the stone floor.

I watched her like a hawk as she navigated the sea of legs, heading straight for the dais. The Alpha's throne sat there, currently occupied by a brooding Derek. He was swirling his wine, staring into the dark liquid as if it held the answers to his ruined evening.

Lilyana stopped right in front of him. She didn't bow. She didn't cower. She just stared, her golden eyes—so like Thatcher's—locking onto Derek's face with an intensity that was unsettling for a three-year-old.

Derek blinked, pulled from his misery. He looked down, his annoyance fading into confusion as he met her gaze. He leaned forward slightly, the glass in his hand halting halfway to his mouth.

"Who are you?" he murmured, almost to himself.

I saw his nostrils flare, taking in her scent. It was masked by the powerful odor of the Lycan King, but beneath that... there was something else. Strength. Raw, untamed power.

A flicker of desperate hope lit up Derek’s eyes. I saw the gears turning in his head—the mad, frantic calculation. *Could she be mine?* I could practically hear him thinking it. *The heir I lost? The power I craved?*

My stomach churned. Before I could stand, the intermission was announced. The heavy wooden doors to the garden were thrown open to let in the cool evening air. Thatcher was immediately surrounded by a group of nervous Elders hoping to curry favor, and for a split second, I lost sight of him.

"I need air," I whispered to no one, slipping away from the table. I needed to get away from Derek's hungry stare.

I stepped out into the garden. It was beautiful, filled with blooming night jasmine and roses, but to me, it was just another cage. This was where Derek used to make me wait for hours while he entertained guests, forbidden to enter the main house.

"Malia."

The voice was right behind me. I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat.

Derek stood there, blocking the path back to the hall. The desperation I had seen earlier was now a blazing fire in his eyes. He took a step closer, invading my personal space.

"How?" he demanded, his voice rough. "How are you alive? I saw the blood. I smelled the death on you."

"You saw what you wanted to see," I said, my voice trembling slightly despite my best efforts. The walls of the garden felt like they were closing in. The scent of him—musk and cruelty—triggered a wave of nausea. "Step back, Derek."

He didn't listen. He reached out, his hand clamping around my upper arm. His grip was hard, possessive. Just like before.

"And the child," he hissed, leaning down until his face was inches from mine. "She has power. Real power. Is she... did you save my heir? Is that my daughter?"

panic flared hot and bright. The sensation of being trapped, of being held against my will, sent a jolt of pure terror through me. The garden vanished. I was back in the dungeon. The silver chains were biting into my wrists. The walls were crushing me.

*No.*

I wasn't that girl anymore. Thatcher had taught me better.

*"Center yourself, Malia. Use his weight against him."*

I didn't pull away. I stepped *into* him, catching him off guard. With a sharp twist of my hips and a violent jerk of my arm against the weak point of his thumb, I broke his grip.

Derek stumbled back, more out of shock than pain.

"Don't you ever touch me," I snarled. The fear was still there, hammering in my chest, but the rage was stronger.

I shoved my sleeve up, thrusting my wrist toward his face. In the moonlight, the jagged, silvery scars from his shackles stood out in stark relief against my skin.

"Look at this, Derek!" I shouted, my voice cracking. "You put these here! You chained me like an animal! You killed your heir when you threw me in that cell!"

He stared at the scars, his face paling. "Malia, I... I had to do what was best for the pack. You were weak..."

"I was your mate!" I screamed, the tears finally spilling over. "And you destroyed me for a crown that doesn't even fit you!"

He reached for me again, his expression twisting into something ugly and entitled. "You belong to me. The Moon Goddess gave you to me first. That child—"

A low, vibrating sound cut through the air. It wasn't loud, but it shook the ground beneath our feet. The paving stones cracked with a sharp *snap*.

Derek froze. We both turned.

Thatcher stood at the edge of the garden path. He wasn't yelling. He wasn't running. He was simply standing there, his hands loose at his sides, but the air around him was distorting, rippling with heat and lethal intent. His eyes were no longer human; they were two pools of glowing, molten gold.

He took one step forward. The sound of his dress shoe hitting the stone sounded like a gunshot.

"Thatcher," I breathed, the relief nearly buckling my knees.

He didn't look at me. His gaze was fixed entirely on Derek. He moved with a terrifying, fluid grace, closing the distance between them in a blink. He didn't strike Derek. He didn't need to.

Thatcher leaned in close, his lips brushing Derek's ear. The Alpha of Shadow Creek was trembling, paralyzed by the sheer weight of the Lycan King's aura pressing down on his neck.

"If you ever," Thatcher whispered, his voice a deadly caress that made the hair on my arms stand up, "touch my Queen again... if you even look at her or my daughter with anything other than absolute submission... I will tear your throat out right here."

He pulled back, his golden eyes boring into Derek's soul. "I won't wait for the Council. I won't wait for a trial. I will paint this garden with your blood, and I will enjoy it."

Derek couldn't speak. He couldn't move. He just stared, eyes wide with the realization of just how small he truly was.

Thatcher turned to me, the monster receding instantly behind a mask of gentle concern. He held out his hand. "Come, Malia. The air out here is tainted."

I took his hand, leaving the ghost of my past shivering in the dark.

The garden confrontation had left me trembling, not with fear, but with a cold, simmering rage. Thatcher’s arm was a heavy, reassuring weight around my waist as we walked back into the banquet hall, leaving a paralyzed Derek in the shadows. The air inside was stifling, thick with the scent of roasted meat and nervous wolves.

I needed a moment. Just a moment to compose myself before the Council session began.

"I need to check on Lilyana," I whispered to Thatcher. He nodded, his golden eyes scanning the room for threats before releasing me.

"Don't go far," he murmured, pressing a kiss to my temple. "I'll be watching."

I moved toward the side of the hall where the servants were bustling in and out of the kitchens. The clatter of plates and hushed whispers spilled out from the swinging doors. I intended to ask for a glass of water, something to wash the taste of Derek’s proximity from my mouth.

Instead, I heard a voice that made my blood run cold.

"...just a few drops, Marcus. Enough to make her wolf unstable. If she shifts in front of the Council, they'll see she's dangerous. Unfit."

I froze near the slightly ajar door, pressing myself into the shadows of a heavy velvet curtain. It was Briar. Her voice was a hiss of pure venom.

"Wolfsbane is risky, Briar," Gamma Marcus replied, his tone hesitant. "If the King smells it..."

"The King will be too busy watching his 'Queen' froth at the mouth," Briar snapped. "Do it. Put it in her wine for the toast. I want her humiliated. I want her broken before Derek even thinks about claiming that brat as his heir."

My hands curled into fists at my sides. She wasn't just trying to ruin me; she was targeting my stability, my ability to protect my daughter. Three years ago, I would have cried. I would have begged.

Now? Now I just felt a dark sense of opportunity.

I slipped away before they could spot me, circling back toward the main table. As I approached, a small, trembling hand tugged on my skirt. I looked down to see a young Omega girl, her eyes wide with terror. I recognized her instantly—Sarah. She used to help me bandage my wounds in secret when Derek’s "training" sessions got too rough.

"Luna Malia," she breathed, her voice barely audible over the din of the hall. She held a tray with two ornate goblets. "Please... the Gamma... he messed with the red one. He said it's for you."

She was shaking so hard the wine threatened to spill. I placed a steadying hand on her shoulder.

"Thank you, Sarah," I whispered, looking into her fearful eyes. "You are brave. Go now. Don't let them see you talking to me."

She scurried away, vanishing into the crowd. I took the tray from a nearby table where she had set it down. Two goblets. One for the Alpha's mate—Briar. One for the guest of honor—me. They looked identical, but I could smell the faint, acrid tang of wolfsbane beneath the heavy aroma of the vintage red in the left glass.

I walked to the head table, my movements fluid and calm. Briar was already seated, looking smug. She had changed her dress, hiding the wine stain from earlier, but she couldn't hide the malicious glint in her eyes.

"Back so soon?" she purred. "I hope the garden air cleared your head."

"It was refreshing," I said smoothly, setting the goblets down on the table. With a sleight of hand I had perfected during my time surviving in the rogue lands, I switched them. It was a movement so fast, so subtle, that unless you were looking for it, you'd miss it entirely.

I pushed the tainted goblet toward her.

"I thought we might start over," I said, offering a tight, diplomatic smile. "A toast, before the Council begins? To... clarity."

Briar looked suspicious for a second, but her arrogance won out. She believed her plan was foolproof. She believed I was still the stupid, trusting girl she had tormented years ago. She reached out and took the goblet.

"To clarity," she mocked, raising the glass.

We drank.

I took a small sip of the untainted wine, watching her over the rim of my glass. Briar drained half of hers in one go, eager to get the show on the road.

Almost immediately, her eyes widened. She coughed, a wet, hacking sound.

"Excuse me," she wheezed, clutching her throat. "It went down... wrong."

"Oh dear," I said, my voice dripping with false concern. "Are you alright? You look pale."

She tried to stand, but her legs gave way. She collapsed back into her chair, sweat beading instantly on her forehead. The wolfsbane was working fast. It wasn't a lethal dose—just enough to cause severe gastric distress and loss of motor control.

"I... I feel..." She gagged, clamping a hand over her mouth.

Just then, the heavy oak doors at the end of the hall boomed open. Elder Cornelius, the head of the Alpha Council, strode in, followed by four other stern-faced elders in grey robes. The room fell instantly silent.

"The Council is in session," Cornelius announced, his voice booming. He looked at the head table, expecting order and dignity.

Instead, he saw Briar lurch forward and vomit violently all over the table.

Gasps rippled through the room. Derek jumped back, looking at his intended Luna with horror. Briar was heaving, groaning in agony, drool and bile dripping from her chin. It was disgusting. It was humiliating. It was perfect.

"Is this the hospitality of Shadow Creek?" Elder Cornelius asked, his nose wrinkling in distaste. "Your future Luna seems... indisposed."

"She's sick!" Derek shouted, trying to salvage the situation. "Get a healer!"

"She's weak," I corrected, my voice cutting through the chaos. I stood up, smoothing my gown. "And perhaps a bit careless with what she ingests."

Two Omegas rushed forward to drag a sobbing, retching Briar away. The smell of vomit and wolfsbane hung heavy in the air. Derek looked at me, his eyes narrowing as realization dawned on him, but he couldn't prove a thing.

Thatcher returned to my side, slipping his hand into mine. He didn't ask what happened. He just squeezed my fingers, a silent message of approval.

"Alpha Derek," Elder Cornelius said, taking his seat at the center of the room. "We are here to witness your mating ceremony and review the pack's standing. You may begin your report."

Derek, flustered and sweating, stepped forward. "Yes. Yes, Elders. Shadow Creek has prospered. Our borders are secure. Our numbers are..."

"I have a correction," I interrupted.

Every head turned toward me. Interrupting an Alpha during a Council report was unheard of. But I wasn't just anyone. I was a Queen.

Derek glared at me. "This is pack business, Malia. You have no right—"

" I have every right," I said, stepping away from the table to stand in the center of the room, directly before the Elders. My voice rang out, clear and unwavering. "The Alpha's report contains a falsehood regarding the pack records. Specifically, the entry concerning the death of the former Luna."

Cornelius leaned forward, his interest piqued. "The former Luna? You speak of yourself?"

"I speak of a crime," I said, turning to face Derek. He looked like a cornered rat. "I demand the floor, Elder Cornelius. I wish to testify on charges of Crimes against the Moon Goddess."

The silence in the hall was absolute. Accusing an Alpha of crimes against the Goddess was the highest charge possible. It was a death sentence if proven true.

"Speak, Queen Malia," Cornelius said gravely. "The Council hears you."