Kalethorn sat alone in the council chamber long after the last torch had guttered out. Only embers smoldered in the great hearth, but he barely noticed the cold. His hands gripped the arms of the chair carved for his forefathers, the weight of the Blood Moon throne pressing down though he had yet to wear its crown.
He could still smell her.
Keona.
The bond clung to him like a second skin, tugging at his chest, clawing at his resolve. Even now, with stone walls between them, he could feel the faint echo of her emotions — sorrow, doubt, a trembling resilience that refused to break.
He clenched his jaw. "I should have severed it. I should have forced the bond to snap when I spoke the rejection." But the truth gnawed at him: he had not been able to. The rejection had been a declaration, not a death.
The door creaked. He did not need to look to know who entered.
"Brooding does not suit you," Selene's voice lilted as she glided inside. Her perfume filled the air before she reached him, sharp and sweet, masking the faint musk of wolf beneath layers of cloying herbs.
Kalethorn straightened, his expression hardening. "The council is over. What do you want, Selene?"
She tilted her head, feigning injury. "Is it so strange that your chosen Luna comes to comfort you after a day of discord?"
He turned his eyes away, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.
Selene stepped closer, her hand grazing his shoulder. "You let Darius speak unchecked in our hall. You let Keona remain under our roof. Do you not see how this weakens you in the eyes of the elders?"
His hand shot up, gripping her wrist in an iron hold. "Do not mistake my patience for weakness."
Selene only smiled, her eyes glinting. "Patience… or hesitation?"
Kalethorn released her with a growl. "I do not hesitate. I act for my pack."
She circled him slowly, her words a serpent's hiss. "Then why does your gaze still wander to her? Why do you defend her when no one watches?"
He froze, her words striking too close.
Selene leaned in, her whisper hot at his ear. "You feel it still, don't you? The bond. You rejected her, but it binds you. It gnaws at you. Admit it."
He shoved back the chair, standing so quickly it scraped the floor. "Enough."
Her smile widened. "You cannot cut it, Kalethorn. But you can bury it with me. I will be the Luna they respect. I will give you heirs who can shift, who can lead. The elders will follow, the packs will bow. Together, we will hold the Blood Moon throne without challenge."
Kalethorn's chest heaved. He wanted to deny it, to snap that her words meant nothing. But duty shackled his tongue. She was right in one regard: the elders respected her name, her strength, her lineage. Keona, frail and unshifted, was a wound in their eyes.
Yet when he closed his eyes, it was not Selene's touch he felt. It was Keona's scent, the silvery blaze that had burned when she struck down the Dreadwolves. That power… untrained, wild, yet pure. Not curse. Not darkness. Something else entirely.
He dragged a hand down his face. Why do you haunt me so?
Selene's smile faltered, as if sensing the drift of his thoughts. "If you do not cut her loose, she will be the end of you. Already whispers spread — that she draws Caelum's creatures, that she carries his taint. Do you think the elders will tolerate that?"
Kalethorn's eyes snapped open. "Whispers spread because of you."
Her expression turned sharp. "I only repeat what others think. Better to wield a rumor than be destroyed by it."
He stepped toward her, looming. "If I discover you've fanned those flames—"
"You'll what?" Her chin lifted, defiance showing. "Cast me aside? For her?"
The silence was answer enough. His hesitation betrayed him.
Selene's laughter was soft, but laced with bitterness. "You'll never choose her. You can't. She will tear you from your throne before you even sit in it. And when the elders force your hand, I will be standing at your side — not her."
She swept past him, leaving her perfume hanging in the air like a faint memory.
Kalethorn braced his hands on the table, breathing hard. His pride urged him to dismiss her words, but doubt gnawed like teeth at his resolve.
—————
Later, alone in his chamber, he stared at the moon through the window's narrow silt. The bond tugged again, pulling him toward her. Keona.
He remembered the look in her eyes during the attack — not frailty, not weakness, but raw courage. She had stood when others faltered. She had faced death and unleashed a power no one else could summon.
And yet, he had cast her aside. For duty. For the Black Mane Howlers. For the weight of a crown not yet his.
His fists clenched. If she is cursed, then why do I feel stronger when she breathes? If she is cursed, why does her strength echo in me like a voice in an empty house?
The bond pulsed again, sharp this time, as though in answer.
"Damn you," he whispered, but his voice cracked.
—————
The next day, the elders gathered again in hushed tones, their voices rising and falling in argument. Kalethorn stood at the edge of the chamber, listening without intervening.
"…what do we do with the girl?" One asked.
"…it seems like the Alpha shields her despite the rejection. He appears to be in a dilemma," another said.
"…she should stay, I believe she came to us for a reason. Surely the Dreadwolves will return, and only she cut them down."
The divide was widening. Half saw Keona as salvation. Half as ruin.
Selene entered, graceful as ever, and the elders quieted. Her voice carried a smooth, certain tone. "If Keona remains, she will destroy us. If she leaves, the bond that still lingers will destroy our Alpha. The solution is simple — bind her, or cast her out."
Kalethorn's jaw tightened. He wanted to roar at them, to silence her tongue, but his duty held him back. Every word he spoke in her defense only bound him tighter to Keona in their eyes. Every silence carved another wound.
He left the chamber before his fury betrayed him.
In the training yard, the clash of blades greeted him. Wolves sparred in human form, their sweat glistening in the sunlight. Kalethorn watched them, but his mind wandered to a different battle — one that had not ended.
Chains or fire. Elandra's riddles gnawed at him. He felt the weight of chains every time he stood beside Selene, her promises of legacy and power shackling him to the throne. Yet the memory of Keona's power burned like fire — dangerous, consuming, but alive.
His chest ached with the choice he could not make.
—————
That night, as he walked the walls of the fortress, he found himself staring in the direction where Keona stayed. The pull was unbearable, each step dragging his body closer though his mind screamed to turn away.
He stopped, gripping the stone so hard his knuckles whitened.
If he gave in — if he acknowledged her, trained her, allowed her a place at his side — the elders would rebel. Selene would strike. The pack would fracture.
But if he continued as he was, forcing her into silence, dismissing her strength, he feared she would slip into Darius's waiting arms. The thought was a blade to his heart.
His eyes closed, the bond flaring. He could almost feel her — restless, doubting, strong despite her fear.
He whispered under his breath, though no one heard:
"What are you doing to me?…. I cannot let you go. But I cannot keep you either."
And the weight of those words broke him more than any battle ever could.