The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 103

Third Person’s POV

Agnes huffed, frustration sparking like static along her wolf senses.

“My comm-crystal and terminal were both breached too. Celestine Ward is ridiculously cautious. Even though I told her before that I didn’t keep recordings of the choreography, she didn’t believe me.”

She could easily imagine her entire device being torn apart—every file sniffed through, every memory stone cracked open.

Fortunately, the equipment she used had been provided by Aysel specifically for this trap.

If it had been her real personal stack—the one full of her own private wolf-notes, rehearsal footage, and embarrassing moon-day journals—she would have died of humiliation on the spot.

Fuming now, practically baring her teeth, Agnes paced the hospital den with her heavily wrapped leg. She could hardly wait for the day Celestine’s true nature was revealed to the entire Pack-run world.

Who knew how many similar crimes Celestine had committed in the shadows?

If her victim had truly been a powerless young she-wolf with no backing, she might have lost her art, her name, and her future, with no place to howl her injustice.

Aysel soothed her for several minutes before ending the call.

So many years had passed, and Celestine’s tricks had not evolved in the slightest.

The difference was simply this—

The last time Celestine stole from Aysel, even with every piece of proof laid bare, the Moonvale Pack still forgave Celestine after one well-timed crying fit.

They had even weaponized Yuna Ward’s death to force teenage Aysel into swallowing the injustice whole.

Every shred of evidence had been burned under the watch of her own Pack elders.

Back then, Aysel had been raised on guilt, obedience, and blind trust in family—a pup trained to lower her head until she had no strength left to fight.

But wolves who relied on shortcuts were never blessed with endless luck.

This time, every wound from her past would be returned—layer for layer, bite for bite.

…

“Julia.”

Inside the grand moonlit theater, Celestine stopped the dancer as they brushed past each other in the corridor.

“Do you need me to recommend a few wolves to fill in for you?”

Her eyes curved sweetly, voice gentle—her outer persona the perfect mask of the poised, elegant Pack heiress.

But Julia knew the rotting truth beneath that pretty façade.

Their touring performance was already halfway through, reviews soaring higher each night. Yet right before the great Moon-Master’s inspection, several key supporting dancers had collapsed—injuries, panic, “accidents.”

Even with replacements, the lineup needed to be re-synchronized, tension choking the entire troupe.

The troupe leader’s rage had done nothing to fix it.

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