A Warrior Luna's Awakening (Freya and Caelum) novel Chapter 72

Chapter 72

A flicker of guilt shadowed Caelum’s wolf–gold eyes.

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Yes. Back then, when he had nothing–no rank, no forge, no authority–Aurora had saved him. What reason would the daughter of Bluemoon’s Beta have to lie about something as sacred as being a wolf’s savior?

It must be Freya, he thought grimly. She must have caught whispers of the incident, and chose to use them now–just to wound him, to drive a wedge into his bond with Aurora.

His voice came steady, resolute, carrying the weight of an Alpha’s vow. “Aurora, I believe you. To me, there has only ever been one wolf who pulled me from the river’s jaws. My savior is you.”

He shouldn’t doubt her again. To doubt was to slash her heart open with his own claws.

Relief spread across Aurora’s face, her lips curving into a victorious smile. “Good. Then don’t ever question me again, Caelum. If you do… I won’t forgive you.”

“Never again,” he swore.

And yet, deep in his chest, his wolf stirred restlessly, claws raking at his ribs with unease.

Aurora had offered to bring him to Ashbourne, to meet her kin of the Bluemoon Pack. But Ashbourne was also the soil of Freya’s bloodline–the ancestral ground of the Stormveil Pack.

Perhaps there, he would cross paths with her. If so, he would demand answers from Freya herself. Why had she chosen to strike him with that truth like a blade? Why attempt to deceive him–if deception it was?

When Freya Thorne disembarked the plane, Silas Whitmor walked at her side. She had intended to check into her own lodging, but Silas was not a wolf to be swayed.

“You’ve agreed to serve as my shield for three moons,” the Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition reminded her, voice low and implacable. “A guardian wolf does not nest apart. You’ll stay with me.”

Freya frowned, her hand resting lightly on the wooden ùrn in her lap. “Tomorrow, I begin the rites for my parents. I’ll be consumed by it, Silas. Living under your roof will… complicate things.”

Silas’s silver gaze was calm, unyielding. “I told you before–I do not need you shadowing me every hour. Protect me when you can. Beyond that, your time is your own. But three months is three months, Freya. You swore it to Aldred, and I will hold you to it.”

Her lips parted, then closed. He was right. She had sworn.

“…Very well,” she conceded at last. Three moons would pass swiftly enough.

The driver awaiting them was a local wolf of Ashbourne. After they loaded their things, Silas gave a curt order: straight to one of the city’s finest dens of food.

Freya settled into the back seat, her gaze sliding to the window. Ashbourne was nothing like ‘The Capital. Here, the air was gentler, rivers winding like veins of silver, streets shaded with heavy green, low buildings rising between weeping willows. Memories stirred like ghosts in her chest.

Three years ago, before Arthur and Myra deployed with the Iron Fang Recon Unit, they had promised her. “When this is done, we’ll return to Ashbourne together.”

Suddenly, a familiar landmark caught her eye beyond the glass. A weathered ancestral hall stood proud against the bustle of

the city streets.

The driver’s voice carried reverence. “That was the day the city learned: Stormveil wolves do not sell their dead. The developers fled with tails tucked, and no wolf since has dared cast greedy eyes upon that Hall.”

Freya’s chest tightened. Yes. Arthur had told her of that day–how her grandfather’s silhouette had been a hero’s, standing before the Hall, daring death itself. Stormveil blood was not rich, but it was unyielding, united. That was the marrow of her pack.

The car rolled past, and Freya’s palm tightened around the urn. She would bring her parents back to Stormveil Hall, back to the stones her grandfather had bled to defend. It was their rightful place.

At her side, Silas Whitmor cast her a sidelong glance, something unspoken flickering in his eyes.

Moments later, the car arrived at the restaurant. They stepped into its polished interior. But before Freya could gather her bearings, a voice rang sharp and lilting across the hall.

“Silas? What brings you to Ashbourne?”

Freya’s head lifted. Approaching was a young woman with an oval face framed by sleek hair, golden–rimmed spectacles perched on her nose. Her body gleamed with the newest fashions, her wolf scent thick with wealth and ambition. Even her jewelry sang of high value.

Freya stilled, her wolf bristling faintly. Whoever this female was, she clearly knew Silas–and did not expect to find him here.

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