A Warrior Luna's Awakening (Freya and Caelum) novel Chapter 135

Chapter 135

Third Person’s POV

Jocelyn had once believed herself the woman closest to Silas.

+8 Pearls

For years, she had convinced herself that his aloofness toward females was simply his nature–that the Ironclad Alpha’s blood ran too cold for passion, too controlled for affection. He was a man of power, forged of iron and shadow, who could look at queens and warriors alike and see nothing but background noise.

But what Jocelyn had witnessed at the shoreline shattered that illusion. She had seen him move–truly move–not for the defense of territory or pack, but for Freya.

The way he had stepped forward, his aura rising like a steel storm, his dominance breaking through the air–Silas had chosen to act for her.

It was not nothing.

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And Jocelyn, sharp–eyed and politically bred, knew exactly what that meant. When an Alpha like Silas bent his will to shield a woman, when the wolf stirred from within to claim rather than dismiss–that was not strategy. That was instinct. That was heart.

Her stomach coiled in resentment.

She turned to her uncle, Abel Thorne, who stood with the calm detachment of one who had seen storms come and go. “So, Uncle,” she said, voice laced with a bitter laugh, “you’ve decided that Freya is the better bet for Stormveil’s fortune? That because Silas favors her, I am suddenly… dispensable?”

Abel’s sigh came heavy, weighted with the tired patience of an elder. “Jocelyn, I say this for your good.”

“For my good?” Jocelyn’s eyes gleamed with venomous light. “You mean to tell me that all these years I clawed my way into Stormveil’s recognition, that I sacrificed more than any of your pure–blooded heirs, only for you to toss me aside the moment Freya appears? Don’t forget–Stormveil stands where it does today because I paid the price. Because I lost an eye to ensure our Pack a foothold in the Ashboone.”

Her words hissed like a wounded wolf’s snarl.

But Abel’s gaze hardened, and for once, he did not soften his tone. “Do not forget, child, that sacrifice gave you entry. You were born outside Stormveil’s core bloodline. Without that act, you would have been kept at arm’s length. You call yourself savior, yet it was the opening that allowed you through the gates. Do not mistake circumstance for merit.”

His meaning pierced her like a claw.

It was true. The scars she carried, the missing eye she flaunted as proof of loyalty–they had allowed her to climb into the halls of Stormveil Primal Hall and sit among heirs who bore Ken Thorne’s blood. But she had not risen by strength or cunning. She had risen on debt, on pity, and on Silas Whitmor’s occasional indulgence of her presence.

And now, with Freya Thorne at Silas’s side, even that thin thread unraveled.

Abel had spoken enough. He let the matter die, folding his arms as though her bitterness were beneath further comment. Jocelyn could only seethe in silence, her wolf bristling beneath her skin.

The ceremony stretched into its latter hours, the cornerstones of steel and stone already blessed with the oaths of leaders and signed by mortal dignitaries. At the tail end of the event, a sudden roar split the sky.

The crowd turned as one. Reporters surged forward, cameras flashing in a frenzy, voices rising into a tide of awe

Among them, Jocelyn spotted Silas standing beside Freya. Her pulse tightened.

She drifted closer, her tone sweetened with false innocence. “Silas,” she said lightly, “how do you find the display? The lead pilot is my cousin Aurora–first female captain in the Bluemoon Airborne Wing.”

Silas’s gaze slid toward her, a blade of steel cutting through pretense. The curve of his mouth held something between mockery and indifference. Jocelyn felt skinned under that stare, as if he peeled away her words until nothing remained but the hunger beneath.

But she pushed forward, voice carrying venom wrapped in silk. “No wonder Caelum Grafton cast Freya aside for her. Freya cannot compare. She has no place in high skies, no gift for strategy or invention. She is strong, yes, brutishly so, but that is all. Fists are cheap. Wealth buys strength. Guards can be hired. But brilliance? That belongs to women like Aurora.”

The words were meant to bite, meant to show Freya’s unworthiness.

Silas’s reply was a growl, quiet but sharp enough to chill the marrow. “Your tongue must be terribly idle, Jocelyn, if it spends itself on such useless things.”

Her pride flared, but before she could retreat, Freya herself turned, her voice cutting like a hawk’s cry. “And you? Do you fly, Jocelyn?”

Caught, Jocelyn sneered. “I don’t need to. I hold a seat in Stormveil’s council. Without me, the Thorne fortunes would not stand where they do today. That is power Freya will never hold. Compared to me, she is still nothing.”

She lifted her chin high, the arrogance of survival worn as armor. But deep inside, Jocelyn felt the press of shadows, the sense that she had already lost something more valuable than a council seat: Silas’s gaze.

And wolves lived and died by the eyes of their Alphas.