A Warrior Luna's Awakening (Freya and Caelum) novel Chapter 85

Chapter 85

Third Person’s POV

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Lennon Thorne’s gaze flickered with unease. Just then, the distant wail of sirens cut through the air. A pair of Ashbourne patrol cars rolled up, their lights flashing crimson against the ancient stone of the Stormveil Primal Hall. Several enforcers stepped out, their presence commanding silence in the tense crowd.

“Who’s causing the disturbance here?” one of them demanded. The patrols of this territory naturally knew the Stormveil Pack by name.

“It’s her!” Lennon barked, pointing at Freya Thorne, his voice louder than his daughter Jocelyn’s. “She’s here to provoke at the gates of our Primal Hall! Arrest her now before this spectacle shames us all!”

The enforcers strode toward Freya. Yet as their eyes fell upon what she carried, their expressions hardened, then shifted into something heavier.

Clutched tightly in Freya’s arms was a dark oak urn, its polished surface draped with the crimson banner of the Ashbourne Legion.

“This is…” one officer’s voice faltered.

Freya’s voice rang clear, her spine unbending. “The ashes of my father, Arthur Thorne, and my mother, Myra. I came here today only to return them to their kin–into the Stormveil Primal Hall where their spirits belong. They gave their lives for the nation, for the Pack. Their souls deserve a place of honor.”

The enforcers fell silent for a moment. Then one stepped forward and asked, softer now, “May we know… how they fell?”

Freya’s grip tightened on the urn. Her words cut the air like steel. “They joined the Iron Fang Recon Unit. On foreign soil, far beyond our borders, they fought and bled for our people. They fell in service, defending

lives not their own.”

A heavy silence followed. Then, as one, the enforcers straightened and saluted. Their hands rose to their brows, eyes locked on the urn draped in crimson.

The crowd rippled with shock. Jocelyn Thorne and Lennon stood frozen, their outrage turning into disbelief. They had expected the patrols to drag Freya away–but instead they were saluting her.

Lennon’s voice cracked, thick with fury. “What are you doing?! Don’t stand there saluting—take her away!”

But the enforcers merely looked at Freya again, almost pleading. “Perhaps it is better if you step back for now. Conflicts between kin can be settled in time, but-”

“No,” Freya’s voice cut like a blade. She turned toward the towering gates of the Stormveil Primal Hall. Raising the urn high, her voice thundered through the gathering.

“I am Freya Thorne, daughter of the Fifth Branch of Stormveil. Today I bear the ashes of my father Arthur and my mother Myra.”

“Once, when our lands were torn by war, when the packs bled and the skies darkened, the Fifth Branch gave seven brothers to the battlefield. All but one perished. My grandfather, Rowan Thorne, bled thirteen wounds on these very steps, holding the Hall against invaders, and never retreated a single step.”

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“My father Arthur and my mother Myra followed the same oath. They wore the crest of Bloodmoon, marched with the Iron Fang Recon Unit, and for thirty years gave their strength to the nation. They fell as warriors, their names engraved among the honored dead of the Ashbourne Legion’s Hall of Martyrs.”

“I, Freya Thorne, unworthy daughter of the Fifth Branch, plead before the Pack–open these gates! Let my parents‘ ashes rest among their kin. Let their names be carved within the Stormveil Primal Hall!”

Freya straightened her spine, her arms unyielding around the urn. “Yes.”

The Elder studied her, and in his weary eyes flickered the ghostly faces of the seven brothers of old, bloodied yet unbroken. He remembered being a boy, watching them march to war one by one.

“Don’t go,” he had begged them. “You’ll die.”

One of them had only ruffled his hair, smiling as he answered, “If we don’t go, more will die. We go not to

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embrace death, but to shield life. Remember that.”

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He had not understood then. But when the smoke cleared, only one of the brothers returned, limping, maimed.

And now, before him, stood their descendant–unyielding, carrying the ashes of another fallen son of the Pack.

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