A Warrior Luna's Awakening (Freya and Caelum) novel Chapter 78

Chapter 78

Third Person’s POV

Freya didn’t dwell on things she had no business prying into.

+8 Pearls

So when Silas warned her not to touch the room at the end of the third–floor corridor, she nodded without hesitation.

“Understood,” she said calmly, shifting the urn of her parents‘ ashes in her arms. “Anything else I should know?”

“That’s all,” Silas replied. His expression was unreadable, voice clipped with the kind of command that came naturally to an Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition. “Settle your belongings. If you need anything, the steward will see to it.”

Freya inclined her head in acknowledgment and stepped into the chamber prepared for her.

The room was decadent, far too ornate for her taste. Gilded molding, velvet curtains, and a sweeping carpet in faded crimson gave it the heavy fragrance of a bygone age. The furniture was French–inspired, romantic, almost suffocating in its excess. Freya preferred sharp lines and practicality–nothing like this.

But this wasn’t her home. She was here on obligation, under an arrangement meant to last three months. She could endure anything for three months.

She placed the urm gently on the nightstand, its weight heavier than steel in her arms. Then, pulling out her WolfComm, she called the keepers of the Stormveil ancestral hall.

She had already contacted them back in the Capital, confirming the rites: three days in the Stormveil Primal Hall, then a place in the Ashbourne Legion’s Hall of Martyrs. Still, she wanted to be sure.

The line connected quickly.

“This is Freya Thorne, from the Bloodrnoon pack, which is the fifth branch of Stormveil. I’ve returned to Ashbourne. Tomorrow, I’ll bring my parents‘ ashes to the Stormveil Primal Hall for the three–day vigil, before setting their spirit tablets.”

The voice on the other end was gruff but not unkind. “Understood. Come tomorrow. We’ll prepare for the rite.”

Elsewhere, in the dim corridors of the Stormveil Pack’s main seat, Jocelyn Thorne walked beside her uncle James, Arthur’s seventh cousin, the weary caretaker of the Hall.

“Uncle Jmaes,” she asked smoothly, “who was that on the call?”

“A girl from the fifth branch,” he answered with a sigh. “Freya Thorne. She’ll be bringing Arthur and Myra’s ashes tomorrow.”

Jocelyn’s eyes gleamed with faint amusement. “The fifth branch? The Bloodmoon? I thought they were gone.”

“Nearly,” he said, his voice lined with regret. “Arthur fell with the Iron Fang Recon Unit, Myra never returned from the field. Their son, Eric, gone years ago. All that remains is the daughter.”

Jocelyn tilted her head, lips curving faintly. “Will you be receiving her in person?”

He hesitated. Technically, duty demanded it. But duty was heavy, and the lure of his nightly card game was heavier still.

“Then allow me,” Jocelyn interrupted, her tone honey–smooth. “I’ve been meaning to take a few friends to see the Stormveil Primal Hall. I’ll greet Freya on your behalf.”

She smiled sweetly. But when she lowered her gaze, the warmth in her eyes cooled into steel.

The air here was colder, as though shadows themselves bent to the Alpha’s presence. On the wall hung an oil painting–two men tall; framed in heavy iron.

The portrait was of a woman, breathtaking in her beauty. She wore a jewel–toned qipao, Whitmore jade glittering on her wrist. Her gaze held both pride and fire, but beneath the paint one could almost sense the desperation that had haunted her

Silas’s jaw tightened. The memory came unbidden.

The jade bracelet, shattered against stone. Her voice, raw and sharp:

“I don’t want the Whitmore heirlooms. I don’t want the Whitmore chains. Let me go! You’re all mad. Every last one of you!”

Later, her beauty had withered, like a rose burned from the inside out. At the end, she had clutched his hand, nails biting deep, words carved into his soul:

“You are his son. You will inherit his madness. That blood runs in you. So listen to me, boy–don’t love. Never love. You are not fit to love. You will destroy everything you touch.”

Silas stood before the portrait, silent, his broad shoulders taut with the echo of a curse that wasn’t of witches, but of bloodline.

And now, Freya Thorne-

7

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The daughter of the fallen, the last ember of Stormveil’s fifth branch-

was in the room just beyond.