The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 110

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**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 110**

In the dimly lit theatre, where shadows danced with the flickering light of the stage, Celestine’s instincts surged within her like a wild beast clawing to be set free. Vengeance coursed through her veins—sharp, instinctive, and as primal as the howl of a wolf under a full moon.

How dare anyone accuse her of theft? The very thought ignited a fire in her core. She envisioned dragging the accuser before the Council, their cries for mercy ringing in her ears as she pursued justice with relentless fervor.

Yet, the reporter who had first spoken was not intimidated. Instead, he curled his lips into a smirk that dripped with provocation, his tone smooth and serpentine. “But Miss Ward,” he drawled, “the girl outside didn’t just perform a rough version. She danced the very same ‘Chasing the Wind’ that we witnessed tonight.”

“Impossible!” Celestine snapped, her voice sharp and fierce, the wolf within her rising, clawing at the surface.

For a fleeting moment, the obvious questions slipped from her mind—how had outsiders witnessed the performance so swiftly? How could they draw comparisons before the final curtain had even descended?

But Damon, her loyal companion, had already begun to piece the puzzle together. His gaze snapped toward the lower seats, eyes narrowing in on Fenrir, who stood ominously beside the official theatre videographer.

Fenrir’s expression was a brewing storm, dark and foreboding, his voice crackling with barely contained fury. “You said this was strictly for official archiving. Why is it being broadcast live?”

In the realm of pack-run theatres, filming was an unspoken taboo. Wolves held the sanctity of performance in high regard; the audience’s phones remained tucked away, respecting the sacred art that unfolded before them. The mere idea that someone could challenge Celestine’s originality so rapidly was unfathomable.

Yet here was the undeniable truth: the outside world had witnessed the dance before the applause had even faded into silence.

Fenrir, who had originally intended to quell the earlier uproar and keep the incident from spilling into the public eye, now found himself grappling with the reality that the entire performance had been streamed live from start to finish.

The throng gathered outside was colossal. It was no wonder that accusations were flying like sparks on a windy steppe, igniting chaos in their wake.

While Fenrir didn’t genuinely believe that Celestine had committed plagiarism, he understood the treacherous nature of art. Perception could twist and shape truth into something unrecognizable. If the pack echoed a falsehood long enough, it could consume the truth whole, leaving nothing but shadows in its wake.

The thought that someone might have orchestrated a mimic performance with the intent to sabotage her sent a chill through his blood, curdling like poison.

“Turn off the livestream,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous, a warning that reverberated in the air.

Across the theatre, the cameras swung back toward Celestine and Damon, who were increasingly cornered by aggressive reporters, their questions sharp and relentless. Fenrir’s irritation flared, a tempest brewing within him.

The videographer blinked, confusion etched on his face. “But my instructions were to stream the entire performance,” he replied, eyeing Fenrir’s tailored coat and the restless energy radiating from him. Wealthy, yes, but perhaps unstable—definitely not someone whose commands dictated his paycheck.

Fenrir’s jaw tightened, frustration coiling like a spring.

The videographer hesitated, caught in a web of conflicting loyalties. The performance had concluded; technically, he could end the stream. However, with a scandal erupting and no directive from his superiors, he was uncertain whether to heed this intense noblewolf’s demands.

Above all, headquarters had been unequivocal: follow central command tonight, no exceptions.

Fenrir’s authority meant little compared to the weight of his actual employers.

The stream continued, an unyielding tide of exposure.

Fenrir’s wolf bristled with agitation.

He stepped forward, his voice dropping into a menacing growl that could freeze the marrow in one’s bones. “Shut it down now, or the Moonvale Pack will withdraw every coin of their funding by tomorrow.”