The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 200

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**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 200**

Aysel’s POV

Dariusz, with his weary gaze, could offer me nothing more than a single, haunting line—just a fragment of a truth that seemed to slice through the very fabric of my reality. For someone well-versed in the tangled history of the Moonvale Pack, that solitary line bore the weight of claws sharp enough to shred the imagination into pieces.

It was all rooted in the tragedy of Yuna’s death.

I understood that Dariusz had once contemplated delving deeper into the shadows of that past, but time had eroded his resolve, and Celestine Ward was perpetually on guard. He harbored a fear that knowledge could tip the balance of fate in ways he could not control. Thus, he buried those words deep within himself, choosing silence over the pursuit of truth.

Yet, for me, it was inconsequential. If guilt festered in Celestine’s heart, then that one line would be enough to send tremors through her very core.

Dariusz’s eyes locked onto mine, filled with a desperate hope that seemed to pulse in the air between us. “Miss Vale, if her mother’s death was indeed orchestrated, this clue could liberate you from the haunting shadow of having taken a life. I do not seek your pity—but at the very least… make them hesitate.”

I felt my fists tighten, the strength coursing beneath my skin like a coiled spring. My jaw clenched, and the cold moonlight filtering through the window caught the glint of my amber eyes as I remained silent for what felt like an eternity. Finally, I broke the stillness, my voice barely above a whisper, “Just… don’t let him die,” before I turned and left the room, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on my shoulders.

Behind me, I could hear Dariusz’s stunned roar reverberate through the air, but all I felt was the vast emptiness that loomed larger than the ancient forests of Moonvale, a darkness that seemed to swallow my very senses whole.

In the recesses of my memory, Yuna Ward had always been a figure of kindness, her warmth radiating more intensely toward me than even her own daughter, Celestine.

The day she breathed her last, I could still recall her voice, soft and coaxing, almost like a lullaby that wrapped around me. I was just a child of six, feverish and disoriented from the storm that raged outside, and after awakening from a restless sleep, the details of that fateful day became a blurred tapestry—what was real, what was a nightmare, all intertwined in confusion.

The only certainty that remained was the adults’ unwavering condemnation. They delivered their verdict with a chilling lack of hesitation.

Above all else, it was undeniable: Yuna Ward had truly perished. She hadn’t simply vanished into thin air or slipped into unconsciousness. She was dead.

I could still feel the warmth of her blood splattered across my face, the sticky, visceral reminder of life cruelly snatched away.

Could any creature truly believe that a mother who loved her child as fiercely as Yuna, a wolf-mother devoted to protecting her own, could ever orchestrate such a fate for her child, using her own living body as a pawn? Even I struggled to reconcile that notion within myself.