Three days since the prison confrontation. Intruder's words loop endlessly through my mind. You ever wonder where your scar came from, Luna? I've tried to ignore it, tried to be the perfect wife, attending councils and smiling at pack members who bow and call me Luna. But the question burrows deeper each day, festering like a wound that won't heal.
I need answers. Not from Rhys. He'll ask why I care, why it matters now, why I'm questioning everything when I should be settling into my new role. He'll make it about loyalty and duty and the future we're building together.
I need someone who might tell the truth.
I find Isla in the training yard, sparring with young warriors. Her blade moves in controlled arcs, correcting stances, demonstrating footwork. Sweat gleams on her scarred arms. She's forty, lean and hard as iron, the pack's head warrior trainer. She trained me from age twelve, taught me every strike, every defense, every way to turn an opponent's strength against them.
The young warriors bow when they see me, then scatter at Isla's dismissal.
"Luna," Isla says, wiping sweat from her face with a cloth. "What brings you to the training yard?"
"I need to ask you something. About my parents."
Her jaw tightens visibly. She doesn't meet my eyes, turning instead to pack training weapons into a wooden rack. "Your parents are dead. What's there to ask?"
"Did they ever mention where I came from? Before Ironvale?"
Isla's hands still on a practice sword. "You were born here."
"Was I?" I step closer, my voice sharpening. "Because I don't remember anything before age six. Not a single memory. Not their faces, not their voices, not the house we lived in. Nothing."
Isla turns away, starts packing weapons with deliberate focus. "Some stones are better left unturned, Ardena. You're Luna now. Focus on that."
"I'm asking you as more than Luna." I move to block her path, forcing her to face me. "I'm asking as the girl you trained. The one you stayed late with when I couldn't master the defensive sequences. The one you protected when older warriors tried to bully me. Please."
Isla finally looks at me. Something raw flashes in her eyes. Guilt, fear, sorrow, all tangled together. "I can't help you. Don't ask me again."
"Isla—"
"I said no." She pushes past me, her shoulder hitting mine hard enough to make me stumble. She walks away without looking back.
I stand alone in the training yard, fury and desperation coiling tight in my chest. Everyone knows something. Everyone's hiding pieces of a truth I can't see.
***
The pack archives sit in the lower level of the elder's hall. Restricted access. Locked after dark. I wait until midnight, then slip from bed while Rhys sleeps. His breathing stays deep and even as I dress in dark clothing and ease out of our chambers.
The halls stand empty. Guards patrol outside, their routes predictable. I've studied them for days, memorizing rotations and blind spots. I move through shadows, keeping close to walls.
The archive door looms before me. Heavy oak, iron lock. I pull a thin blade from my sleeve. Isla taught me this skill years ago, though she never imagined I'd use it to break into restricted records. The lock clicks open after several tense seconds.
Inside, the archives smell like old paper and dust. Shelves tower to the ceiling, packed with records dating back centuries. I light a single candle, my hands shaking, and start searching.
Birth records first. I find my own entry, dated eighteen years ago. Parents listed as Fenris and Lyra. But the handwriting looks newer than the surrounding entries. The ink appears less faded, the paper less yellowed.
I dig deeper. Tribunal records. Pack disputes. Territorial agreements. My fingers trace spines until I find it.
Bloodfang Conflict – Classified.
My heart stops. I pull the file down, open it on the floor.
Inside, reports detail the Bloodfang massacre. Fifteen years ago. A tribe of sixty wolves, labeled insurgents. Eliminated by Ironvale forces under Alpha Torrhen's command. Rhys's father. The justification reads clinical and cold. Bloodfang wolves were plotting a multi-pack uprising, stealing resources, threatening peace. The attack came swift, brutal, and complete.
At the bottom of the file, one line makes my vision blur.
Casualties: 59 confirmed dead. 1 survivor: female child, age 5, recovered from the wreckage. Relocated under Pack Protection Protocol.
Five years old. Fifteen years ago. The math aligns perfectly with my earliest memories, or lack of them.
I flip frantically through the file, looking for the child's name, her placement records, any identifying information. Nothing. The pages have been torn out cleanly, leaving only ragged edges.
Footsteps echo down the corridor outside.
My head snaps up. Panic floods my veins. I shove the file back onto the shelf, blow out the candle, and press myself into the shadows between two bookcases. My heart hammers so loud I'm certain whoever's coming will hear it.
The door opens. A guard enters, lantern raised, sweeping light across the room. "Thought I heard something," he mutters to himself.
I hold my breath. My wolf screams at me to run, to fight, to do anything but stand frozen. I force myself into stillness, every muscle locked.
The guard lingers near the entrance. His lantern beam passes inches from my hiding spot. After what feels like hours, he shakes his head and leaves. The lock clicks shut behind him.
I wait five full minutes before moving, counting each second. Then I slip out through a side window, landing hard in mud outside. I run back to the Alpha's house, keeping to shadows, my clothes now filthy and torn.
I climb through a window, strip off the dirty clothes, and slide back into bed beside Rhys.
He stirs, reaching for me in his sleep. His arm drapes across my waist, heavy and possessive. "Ardena?" he murmurs, not quite awake.
"I'm here," I whisper.
He settles back into sleep. I lie rigid, staring at the ceiling.
One female child, age 5.
I know. Deep in my bones, beneath my skin, in the way my wolf has been howling since the wedding. I know.
I'm Bloodfang.