The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 231

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**

**Chapter 230**

**Finished**

Aysel emerged from the guest chamber of the Shadowbane Estate, a subtle yet contented smile dancing on her lips. Her movements were light and airy, almost as if she were gliding rather than walking, as she traversed the corridor adorned with ancestral totems that spoke of the Sanchez lineage. Each step resonated with a sense of freedom, her spirit buoyed by the secrets she carried.

In the distance, two house attendants—low-ranked omegas of the Shadowbane Pack—froze in their tracks at the sight of her. Their wolf ears twitched with a blend of fear and confusion, a palpable tension radiating from them.

With a casual wave of her hand, Aysel greeted them, her demeanor playful, reminiscent of a gentle mother responding to startled pups.

“Ulric Sanchez and his consort Ivy just had a bit of a scuffle,” she announced with a sweet lilt. “They’re not in the mood for company right now. Best to give them some time before you go in to clean up. I’ll make sure to inform the others.”

The attendants’ eyes widened in shock, their expressions shifting like the weather, the scent of their disbelief curling in the air like cold mist.

Aysel merely hummed a soft tune to herself, her steps light and carefree as she made her way toward the banquet hall, the rhythm of her walk almost musical, as if she were a note in a grand symphony.

**The Birthday Feast of Bastien Sanchez**

Inside the opulent hall, Bastien Sanchez—Alpha-Emeritus of the Shadowbane Pack—stood proudly before a towering ceremonial moon-cake, surrounded by a throng of children, grandchildren, and a host of pack dignitaries and allied clans. The atmosphere was festive, filled with laughter and the clinking of glasses, but Bastien’s focus was sharp as he prepared for the ceremonial first cut.

As he raised the ceremonial blade high, he glanced around, scanning the crowd for a familiar face.

“Where’s that one?” he muttered under his breath, squinting toward the usual spot where Magnus would stand.

Magnus, known as the continent’s strongest Alpha, allowed a small, indulgent smile to soften his otherwise formidable presence. The warmth in his eyes contrasted sharply with his lethal reputation.

“She went to play,” he replied, amusement threading through his tone.

Bastien clicked his tongue in mild disapproval. “Hmph. No sense of restraint,” he grumbled, recalling how just moments ago, he had insisted she remain to witness this significant moment.

A strange unease crept along the old Alpha’s spine, a feeling he couldn’t quite shake.

As if summoned by his thoughts, a bright, ringing voice echoed from the entrance, slicing through the festive air:

“Grandfather!”

Every head in the hall turned in unison, a wave of anticipation washing over them.

Bastien’s heart plummeted, the weight of dread settling heavily in his chest.

His hand trembled slightly, and the blade he held descended with precision, landing squarely on the decorative calligraphy that read “Blessed Birth.”

In a perfect stroke, the blade severed the character for “Bless” cleanly in half, a symbolic gesture that echoed the chaos about to unfold.

Before anyone could intervene, Aysel burst into the hall, her voice bubbling with excitement like a jubilant nightingale.

“Something big just happened!” she exclaimed, projecting her words with the fervor of a herald announcing a grand festival.

“Magnus’s father and his stepmother just started fighting!”

A hush fell over the room, quickly replaced by a stunned uproar.

Magnus’s father and his stepmother?

Wasn’t that Ulric Sanchez and his wife?

No, wait—his second wife.

Aysel’s choice of the term “stepmother” sent ripples of recognition through the crowd. Ivy had clawed her way to her position by leveraging her lineage and usurping the previous Luna—she was, after all, the infamous “second mate.”

But Ulric and Ivy?

One a delicate, refined noblewoman…

The other a wolf burdened by a crippled leg…

How could they possibly come to blows?

“That’s impossible,” James from the Darkmoon Pack blurted out, his voice tinged with disbelief. He was Ivy’s elder brother, the first to react to the shocking news.

Sure, Ivy had a fiery temper, but fighting? In public? At a Shadowbane feast?

And Ulric, as pitiful as he was after his injury, still retained some semblance of wolfish dignity.

But as soon as the words left his lips, James felt a wave of regret wash over him.

Aysel was clearly waiting for someone to prod further.

She perked up, her expression innocent and eager to assist.

“I don’t know either,” she said, raising her palms in mock innocence. “I walked in and heard Stepmother Ivy screaming that Uncle Ulric is a useless cripple—bad legs, bad stamina, not a real male wolf—and that she’s basically guarded an empty bed for decades.”

Gasps rippled through the hall, sharp and electrifying like thrown daggers.

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