The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 11

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 11**

**Aysel’s POV**

In the time before Celestine joined our pack, I held the title of the sole daughter of the Moonvale bloodline—the Alpha’s cherished child, born beneath the glow of a full moon, blessed by the Goddess herself. My existence had been woven with pride and expectation, until the day she arrived, shattering the delicate fabric of my world.

Celestine came to us like a fragile wisp of a thing, her pale eyes shimmering with unshed tears and a tragic tale that ensnared the hearts of everyone around. Whispers slithered through the pack like shadows, murmurs that my aunt Yuna had met her demise because of me—because I had chased after a stray wolf pup on my Birthday, drawing her into a perilous chase that ended in heartbreak. They didn’t see it as a twist of fate; they branded it as my sin, a mark of guilt that would forever stain my soul.

And so, Celestine Ward, the pitiful orphan of my mother’s sister, was welcomed into our fold, brought in to mend the rift I had supposedly created.

They called her my sister.

I called her the curse that had usurped my place.

From the very beginning, the moon itself seemed to reject our bond. Wherever we ventured together, calamity was sure to follow.

And naturally, it was always my fault.

The day we tumbled down the stairs, both of us left bruised and weeping, it was Celestine who regained consciousness first. Her initial words were a desperate plea to the Alphas, begging them not to hold me accountable for our misfortune.

So noble. So self-sacrificing.

But it wasn’t until I found myself imprisoned—locked away without sustenance for two long nights—that I stumbled upon the painful truth.

She had pushed me.

All because I had refused to relinquish the foreign doll that Alpha Remus had brought home from his travels.

That doll was meant for me.

Yet, when Celestine gazed at it with her quivering lips and downcast gaze, my father’s resolve crumbled. “Aysel already has plenty of toys,” he declared, dismissing my feelings. “Let her have it.”

That night, my spirit shattered.

And when I stubbornly refused to smile and share, they labeled me as jealous, spoiled, and heartless. They locked me away in the cellar, claiming it was a time for reflection.

By the time Damon Blackwood discovered me, feverish and alone in the dark confines of that cellar, I had come to a stark realization: no one comes to the aid of a wolf who refuses to submit.

Afterward, my grandmother took me away from that place.

She was the only one who recognized the beast I had become—a cub with sharp teeth but no rightful place to bite. For three years, she nurtured me in her serene valley, teaching me to heed the moon’s call and to contain my fury until it was honed enough to cut.

When she finally sent me back to the Moonvale Pack, I made a promise to her: that I would behave, that I would strive to live in harmony.

Harmony. What a cruel joke.

Celestine had flourished under their protection—sweet, graceful, and adored by every wolf in the territory. Meanwhile, I had morphed into something unrecognizable.

When she smiled, the pack basked in the warmth of sunlight.

When I smiled, they recoiled in fear, sensing the danger that lurked beneath.

Yet, my grandmother never ceased her attempts to shield me. She endeavored to keep our connection alive, inviting us both to her quaint cottage each summer, clinging to the hope that perhaps, just perhaps, we could rediscover the love we had once shared.

She never grasped the truth: some wolves are destined to be enemies.

That summer, Celestine expressed her desire to accompany me on a visit. She claimed she wanted to “spend time as sisters.”

Luna Evelyn was overjoyed by the prospect. I, however, was not.

For the initial days, I endured her presence—the feigned gentleness, the way she flinched at the slightest raise in my voice. Even my grandmother began to notice how I would bend to her every word, how I would retreat instead of snapping back in defense.

One night, as I drifted into sleep, I overheard them engaged in a hushed argument in the living room. Celestine’s voice quivered with indignation, while Grandmother’s trembled with disappointment. I couldn’t discern their exact words, but by morning, the atmosphere in the house felt tainted, heavy with unspoken conflict.

The following day, I ventured into the mountains to gather moonberries. Before departing, I carefully measured out Grandmother’s medicine and tucked it into her pocket, reminding her gently to take it on schedule.

Celestine opted to stay behind, claiming she wasn’t feeling well.

Upon my return, the air was thick with the acrid stench of ash and death.

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