Eryn POV:

What they sent was a plain black carriage, as forgettable as my entire existence to the Sinclairs. I sat in the back, eyes closed, feeling the vehicle move. Anya was beside me, a silent, tense statue.

The coachman was taking the long way, winding through the city, doubling back on streets. A deliberate delay.

I opened my eyes.

"They want us to be late," I said to Anya, my voice calm. "To embarrass us at the ceremony."

Anya's hands clenched in her lap. "Shall I handle it, Miss?"

Handling it meant the coachman would have a very sudden, very permanent stop.

I shook my head. "No. Let them play their games. The real fun hasn't even started."

Finally, the carriage pulled up to the Ewing estate. The gates were magnificent, wrought iron and obsidian, designed to intimidate. A crowd of guests, the elite of the werewolf world, were gathered outside. Their whispers were a low hum, their stares like physical blows.

The carriage door opened. I stepped out into the sea of judgment.

The cheap dress felt even cheaper under their gazes. The heavy veil they'd given me obscured my face, making me a faceless, pathetic figure.

A woman stepped forward to meet me—old, her hair a severe white bun, face a mask of stern disapproval. She introduced herself as Martha Miller.

She didn't even look at me. She addressed the air just over my head, her voice loud and imperious, for all the guests to hear.

"Due to your tardiness, you have missed the auspicious time to enter through the main gate."

She pointed with a gnarled wooden cane towards a small, narrow iron door to the side, covered in moss and rust, set into the stone wall like an afterthought. The service entrance.

"As per pack law, latecomers must enter through the servants' passage," Martha declared, her voice ringing with satisfaction. "It is a matter of respect for the Moon Goddess."

Stifled laughter rippled through the crowd. Forcing a future Luna, no matter how unwanted, to use the servants' entrance was an unprecedented humiliation.

Anya trembled with rage beside me, ready to lunge forward.

I put a hand on her arm, commanding silence.

Everyone was watching, waiting. They expected tears. Submission. They expected me to scurry through that little door like the rat they thought I was.

I guessed, in his dark room, Brandon Ewing was likely leaning forward, waiting for me to break.

I stood perfectly still, letting the weight of their scorn wash over me. It felt like nothing.

Then, slowly, I raised my hands and tore the veil from my head.

The sudden defiance silenced the whispers. I let the cheap fabric fall to the dusty ground and ground it under my heel.

Gasps were audible now.

I lifted my chin and met Martha's shocked gaze. My voice was not loud, but it cut through the air, clear and sharp as glass.

"I am here to be the mate of Brandon Ewing. The Luna of Obsidian Fang."

I took a step forward. The force of my presence, the sheer unexpectedness of my rebellion, made the old woman stumble back.

"I am not here to crawl through a dog door."

I pushed past her, my touch surprisingly firm, sending her staggering, and walked directly to the magnificent, closed main gates. They loomed over me, a symbol of power and exclusion.

I placed a hand on the cold iron, then turned to face them all—the sneering crowd, the furious housekeeper, and the unseen eyes I knew were watching me.

My voice rang out, a clear and unbreakable vow.

"Today, I either walk through this gate, or I will tear it down and walk through its ruins."