Ayra did not sleep that night.
She lay still, staring at the ceiling, listening to every small sound in the pack house. The wind against the windows. Footsteps in distant corridors. The faint howl from the forest.
Seven days.
No.
Six now.
Six days until the ceremony.
Six days until Vincent publicly rejected her.
Six days until she ran into the forest.
Six days until the blade entered her side.
Her chest tightened.
Not again.
She sat up abruptly.
"I won't go," she whispered into the darkness.
If the ceremony was the beginning of everything, then she would erase it.
No ceremony.
No humiliation.
No running.
No death.
It was simple.
At least, she told herself it was.
Morning came too fast.
Ayra dressed in plain clothes instead of the silk gown prepared for her first fitting.
She braided her hair tightly instead of letting it fall softly the way elders preferred.
When her maid knocked, Ayra opened the door before she could speak.
"I need to cancel today's fitting," Ayra said quickly.
The maid blinked. "Cancel? But the ceremony is in"
"I know when it is," Ayra interrupted, then softened her voice. "I am not feeling well."
That part was true.
The maid hesitated but nodded. "I will inform the seamstress."
One small change.
Ayra closed the door again and pressed her back against it.
Her heart pounded.
She had altered something.
If the week could change, then maybe fate was not fixed.
Later that morning, she went to see the pack physician.
She forced herself to look pale.
She did not have to try very hard.
"I feel dizzy," she said quietly. "Weak."
The physician frowned and checked her pulse.
It raced.
Of course it did.
"You are under stress," he said gently. "The ceremony weighs on you."
Ayra lowered her eyes.
"I do not think I am ready," she whispered.
He studied her for a moment.
"You are Luna by blood," he said. "Ready or not, it is your duty."
Duty.
The word felt heavy.
"I want to postpone it," she said softly.
He stiffened slightly. "Postpone? The elders have announced it. The entire region prepares to attend."
Ayra swallowed.
"I… need more time."
The physician sighed. "This is not my decision."
Of course it wasn't.
Nothing ever was.
She left his office with her hands clenched.
Fine.
If they would not postpone it willingly, she would force them.
By afternoon, she went to the elder council chamber.
Her steps slowed as she approached the heavy doors.
In her last life, she had walked through those doors full of nervous hope.
Now she walked in with fear disguised as calm.
The elders looked up in surprise.
"Ayra," one of them greeted. "Is something wrong?"
Yes.
Everything is wrong.
"I wish to speak about the ceremony," she said, keeping her voice steady.
Their expressions shifted instantly.
Concern. Confusion.
"What about it?" the head elder asked.
"I do not believe it should happen," she said.
Silence filled the chamber.
The words echoed louder than she expected.
The head elder's brows lowered. "Explain."
Ayra's mind raced.
She could not tell them she died.
She could not say she was stabbed in the forest.
No one would believe her.
"I believe the timing is poor," she said carefully. "The borders have been restless. There are rumors of rogues."
That part was not entirely false.
She remembered whispers of rogue activity near the eastern line.
The elders exchanged glances.
"You think we cannot protect you?" one asked sharply.
"I think gathering neighboring packs here makes us vulnerable," she replied quickly.
Her hands trembled behind her back.
She hoped they did not notice.
The head elder studied her closely.
"This ceremony strengthens alliances," he said. "Canceling it would show weakness."
Weakness.
The word hit hard.
She almost laughed bitterly.
If only they knew.
"I am asking you to reconsider," she said softly.
The elder leaned back in his chair.
"And what does Vincent say about this?"
Her throat went dry.
She had not spoken to him alone yet.
In her previous life, she had waited for him to come to her.
He never did.
This time, she would not wait.
"I have not discussed it with him yet," she admitted.
"Then speak with your Alpha first," the elder said firmly. "If he agrees, we will consider it."
Dismissed.
She bowed slightly and left.
Her heart pounded harder now.
She had to face Vincent sooner than planned.
As she stepped into the courtyard, she saw him.
Training.
Shirt damp with sweat.
Movements precise and powerful.
Vincent.
Strong. Focused. Unshakable.
He knocked a warrior flat with a clean strike and pulled him back up immediately.
Calm authority.
Not cruel.
Not heartless.
Just controlled.
Her chest ached.
He had looked broken when she died.
She remembered that clearly.
He had held her.
Called her name.
That memory clashed violently with the public rejection she remembered.
Which one was real?
Both were.
That made it worse.
Vincent noticed her watching.
Their eyes met.
His expression shifted slightly.
Concern flickered there.
He walked toward her without hesitation.
Every step steady.
Every movement confident.
"Ayra," he said. "You look unwell."
His voice was low.
Controlled.
But softer than usual.
Her throat tightened.
"I need to speak with you," she said.
He studied her face carefully.
"Now?" he asked.
"Yes."
He nodded once and gestured toward a quieter part of the courtyard.
As they walked, her heartbeat roared in her ears.
This was different.
Last time, she had avoided him out of fear.
Now she walked toward him.
To change fate.
They stopped beneath a large oak tree.
"What is wrong?" he asked directly.
She met his eyes.
Dark.
Sharp.
Steady.
"I want to cancel the ceremony," she said.
He did not react immediately.
No anger.
No surprise.
Just silence.
"Why?" he asked.
Because you reject me.
Because I die.
Because something is wrong.
"Because I do not think it is safe," she said instead.
His gaze sharpened.
"Safe?"
"There are rogues near the border," she continued. "If we gather everyone here, we become a target."
Vincent's jaw tightened slightly.
He had heard the same reports.
"I will increase security," he said calmly.
"That is not enough," she pressed.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"You fear something specific," he said quietly.
Her breath caught.
He always noticed more than people thought.
"I just have a bad feeling," she said.
He stepped closer.
Not threatening.
Protective.
"If someone has threatened you," he said evenly, "tell me."
Her heart twisted.
If she told him about the forest, would he believe her?
Or would he think fear made her unstable?
"I just… do not want the ceremony," she whispered.
Silence stretched.
Vincent watched her carefully.
"You have waited your entire life for this," he said slowly.
Had she?
Or had others waited for her?
"I changed my mind," she replied.
His gaze softened slightly.
"That is not how this works."
The words were firm.
Not cruel.
Just honest.
The same honesty that would later break her in front of everyone.
Panic rose again.
"If I refuse?" she asked quietly.
His expression darkened.
"You will not," he said.
Confidence.
Absolute.
Her stomach dropped.
He believed she would endure anything.
Even rejection.
Even humiliation.
Even,
Death.
Her hands clenched at her sides.
"I do not want to stand before everyone," she said, voice shaking slightly.
Vincent's eyes flickered with something unreadable.
"Why?" he asked again.
Because you reject me publicly.
Because you look at me like a stranger.
Because I run alone.
She forced herself to breathe.
"I am afraid," she admitted softly.
The words felt heavy.
Vincent stared at her.
Then something changed in his expression.
Not irritation.
Not disappointment.
Concern.
"Afraid of what?" he asked gently.
She swallowed.
She could not tell him the truth.
"Of failing," she whispered.
The answer was safe.
Believable.
He exhaled slowly.
"You will not fail," he said firmly.
His certainty felt like both comfort and a trap.
He reached out slightly, then paused, as if unsure whether to touch her.
"You are stronger than you think," he added.
Her eyes stung.
If that were true, she would not have died so easily.
"I still wish to postpone it," she said quietly.
Vincent straightened.
"No."
The word was not harsh.
But it was final.
"The ceremony will proceed," he said. "I will not show weakness to the region."
There it was.
Duty again.
Power.
Responsibility.
He turned slightly, signaling the conversation was ending.
Then he paused.
"If something is truly wrong," he said without looking at her, "I will handle it."
He walked away.
Strong.
Certain.
Unmovable.
Ayra stood frozen beneath the oak tree.
Her attempt had failed.
The ceremony would happen.
Public rejection would happen.
Unless,
Unless the future could change in other ways.
Her eyes slowly hardened.
If she could not avoid the ceremony,
She would avoid the humiliation.
She would not stand there waiting for his choice.
She would make her own first.
Her heart pounded again.
Not from fear.
But from decision.
This time, she would not run into the forest alone.
And this time,
She would not die helpless.