Chapter 14 1When Silence Breaks—A Reckoning At The Blood Moon Festival

In the festival grounds, the air buzzed with murmurs and hushed conversations as elegantly dressed women from noble houses and distant packs filled the space. The flickering torchlight cast golden hues over the gathering, illuminating the lavish decorations and the dancers twirling in mesmerizing rhythm at the center of the festivities. Applause and whispers rippled through the crowd, but among the seated pack leaders, impatience stirred. At a long table beside the Alpha’s vacant throne, the high lords and betas exchanged glances, their expressions darkening. Lydia Voss sat with poise, while her daughter stood nearby, dressed in the simple garb of a maid. “How much longer will the Alpha keep us waiting?” High Lord Alister grumbled, his fingers drumming against the table. His irritation was shared by the others, their displeasure evident in the stiff set of their shoulders. “Does he mean to disgrace the pack leaders by refusing to host us properly? How dare he insult those who have upheld tradition for generations?” Murmurs of agreement spread among the gathered Alphas, high lords, and betas, their collective discontent palpable. “Patience, my lords,” a man interjected, bowing slightly in deference. The insignia of the Shadow Fang Pack gleamed on his chest—a mark of his high status within the pack’s noble houses. His name was Lord Ronan, Scarlet’s uncle. “Our Alpha is tending to final preparations. He will make his appearance soon.” “Perhaps,” Lord Garrick mused, his tone carefully measured, “he is still holding onto old grudges. He has avoided hosting this ritual for years, and now that he has finally agreed, he refuses to face us directly.” Though Garrick’s voice remained smooth, there was no mistaking the subtle challenge in his words—a veiled insult to Alpha Darius, questioning his strength. “Directly?” The words cut through the noise like a blade. A ripple of tension spread through the gathering as the deep, commanding voice carried over them. One by one, the pack members rose to their feet in acknowledgment, their heads bowing instinctively at the presence of the man who had spoken. Only the pack leaders remained seated, their silence thick with defiance. A slow, deliberate rhythm of footsteps echoed across the stone floor. Each step carried a silent proclamation of unshaken authority. The torches flickered in the night breeze, casting jagged shadows as Alpha Darius emerged from the darkness. Silence fell. Clad in ceremonial black and silver, the Shadow Fang crest gleamed against the fabric. His piercing gaze swept over the pack leaders, lingering just long enough to let them feel the sharp edge of his scrutiny. "You speak as if I’ve spent my years cowering in the dark," Darius said. His voice was steady, controlled. "As if my absence was retreat, not a choice." The high lords stiffened. Pride kept their faces still, but the shift in their posture was unmistakable. Lord Garrick, the one who had spoken moments ago, leaned forward slightly, his mouth pressing into a thin line. Darius descended the stone steps toward the high table, each movement slow, deliberate. He stopped just before them, his presence alone commanding the space. "Tell me, High Lord Garrick," he continued, voice dipping into something colder, sharper. "Is it fear that makes you mistake strategy for weakness? Or is it guilt?" A flicker of emotion passed through Garrick’s eyes before he masked it. "We speak of tradition, Alpha Darius. For years, you denied your duty to host the ritual. We only question whether you truly intend to uphold it now, or if we are wasting our time." Darius let out a low chuckle. No humor, only warning. "Tradition," he mused. "A word you wield when it serves your purpose." His gaze swept over the table. "How convenient you call upon it now." A murmur rippled through the gathered crowd. Some shifted uneasily. Then, with deliberate ease, Darius reached for the ceremonial goblet. The golden surface caught the firelight as he lifted it, turning to face the crowd. "Tonight," he declared, his voice carrying over the festival grounds, "we uphold the Blood Moon Ritual. Not for those who twist traditions to their benefit, but for the packs who look beyond them." The murmurs ceased. Darius raised the goblet higher. "To the Blood Moon," he said. A pause. Then, one by one, voices joined him. "To the Blood Moon!" The festival roared to life. Music. Laughter. Celebration. --- The Old Manor The journey to the old manor was shrouded in silence, broken only by the crunch of their boots against the frost-kissed ground. The deeper they ventured into the estate, the more the air thickened with an eerie stillness. Milicent stole a glance at Cedric. The Beta’s face was as unreadable as ever, though his sharp eyes flickered with a hidden purpose. She tightened her grip on her shawl, uneasy. Why did the Alpha send him with me? The manor loomed ahead—an aging beast of stone and ivy, its once-grand presence now a mere shadow of itself. The heavy wooden doors groaned as Cedric pushed them open, revealing a vast hall swallowed by dim candlelight. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, disturbed by their intrusion. Milicent swallowed hard. “This place is—” “Forgotten,” Cedric finished, stepping forward. His boots echoed against the marble floors as he swept his gaze over the grand, abandoned chamber. “It holds memories, but no life.” She shuddered, rubbing her arms as she followed him. “Then let’s not linger.” They walked through the corridors, their breath forming faint clouds in the chill. Milicent’s heart pounded faster with each passing moment. Cedric, however, remained composed—watchful. “You serve the Luna closely,” he remarked, his voice cutting through the quiet. Milicent slowed, glancing at him warily. “…Yes?” He picked up an old candelabrum from a nearby table and dusted it off, his fingers tracing over its ornate carvings. “Then tell me, how does she treat you?” Milicent stiffened. Why is he asking this? “She—” Milicent hesitated, biting her lip. “She is kind.” Cedric’s brow arched as he turned to her fully. “Kind?” he echoed, stepping closer. “Is that all?” Milicent felt her nerves prickle. “She doesn’t mistreat me, if that’s what you’re asking,” she answered quickly. “The Luna… she’s nothing like the Kara Voss we know.” His eyes narrowed slightly, watching her too closely. “Nothing like Kara Voss,” he repeated. "Yet, she is Kara Voss." Milicent turned away, pretending to study the faded paintings along the hall. “People change, Beta.” Cedric took a slow step forward, his towering presence suddenly suffocating. “Change? Isn't that strike you as odd?” Milicent forced a small smile by said nothing. Cedric asked smoothly, his gaze never leaving her. “Tell me, what do you know of Kara Voss?” Milicent’s breath hitched. Is he testing me? She kept her tone even. “I know she was raised in privilege, but she’s different now.” Cedric tilted his head slightly. “Different how?” “She’s more—reserved.” Cedric hummed, circling her slowly. “That’s quite the change for someone who was once impossible to ignore.” Milicent swallowed. Be careful. “Time humbles people.” “Or something happened,” Cedric countered, his voice dropping lower. Milicent forced herself to hold his gaze. “Are you suggesting our Luna isn’t who she says she is?” Cedric studied her for a long moment before stepping back. “I’m suggesting that people rarely change overnight.” Milicent exhaled softly, masking her relief. Then, as if fate wished to shatter her composure, her foot caught against a loose stone. She let out a small yelp as she lost her balance. In an instant, a strong arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her upright. The warmth of Cedric’s body pressed against hers, steadying her before she could fall. Milicent gasped, her fingers clutching his sleeve instinctively. “Careful,” Cedric murmured, his voice oddly softer now. Milicent’s breath hitched as she stared up at him. He was close—too close. His firm grip still lingered around her waist, his gaze locked onto hers. “I—” She quickly stepped back, heat rising to her cheeks. “I’m fine.” Cedric tilted his head slightly, studying her as though he could see right through her. “Are you?” Milicent took a shaky breath. “Of course.” She hurried forward, desperate to put distance between them. “We should find the dress quickly.” She turned a corner, moving toward the room where the gowns were stored. But before she could steady her nerves, Cedric’s voice followed her, low and relentless. “You hesitated when I asked about the Luna,” he said, his footsteps echoing behind her. “Why?” Milicent froze. “I didn’t,” she insisted, though she knew it wasn’t convincing. Cedric reached her side again, his gaze locked onto hers. “You did,” he countered. “And you’re stumbling over your words now.” Milicent swallowed hard, gripping her skirts. Think, Milicent. Before she could respond, her foot snagged against the corner of an old rug, sending her tumbling forward once more. A firm hand caught her wrist, yanking her back before she hit the ground. Again. Her heart pounded as she found herself inches from Cedric’s chest. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You’re clumsy when you lie,” he murmured, his fingers still wrapped around her wrist. Milicent’s breath caught. “I—” He didn’t let go immediately. His grip wasn’t forceful, but it was firm—steady. His warmth seeped through her skin, a stark contrast to the cold, empty manor. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, Cedric sighed and released her hand, stepping back. “Let’s finish this,” he said, his voice unreadable once more. Milicent nodded quickly, rushing ahead, desperate to escape the way his presence made her feel—both exposed and safe at the same time. But one thought clung to her. Cedric was suspicious. And why should he be suspicious of their Luna?