The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 60

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 60**

**Magnus’s POV**

The sound of Bastien’s cane striking the polished marble floor reverberated through the vast hall, sharp and unsettling, much like the crack of thunder that heralds a tempest. “You still harbor hatred for us, don’t you?” he sneered, his voice laced with an arrogance that sent a shiver down my spine.

I chose silence, my lips pressed tightly together, forming a thin, defiant line. To label my feelings towards the Shadowbane bloodline as mere “hate” was a gross understatement. Bastien, that aging wolf, mistook my quietude for guilt, yet it was something far more intricate—an exercise in restraint.

If I unleashed my wolf’s fury, this grand estate would surely be drenched in blood before dawn dared to break.

I recalled every tale, not as they had been narrated to me, but as they had truly unfolded in the dark recesses of our shared history.

To my mother,

Ulric Sanchez—my father—was once the second son, a reckless spirit driven by an insatiable hunger for what he believed was rightfully his. My uncle Phelan, the rightful heir, embodied everything Ulric was not: noble, brilliant, and adored by Bastien himself. His Luna, Ulva, was the epitome of the ideal she-wolf, celebrated by the elders for her poise, her diplomatic grace, and her impeccable lineage.

Yet Ulric was different. He called it love, that foolish weakness for a musician named Raya. Her delicate features and cerulean eyes quaked at the harsh realities of our world. She never should have ventured into the den of wolves, yet fate had other designs.

He discovered her at a performance, captivated by her intoxicating scent—the wild honey of innocence. Disguised as a trader’s son, he pursued her with the fervor of a predator stalking its prey, promising her a life of peace and safety.

And she, naive and trusting, fell for his ruse.

When the truth finally shattered her world—that he was a Shadowbane, the son of Bastien—she attempted to flee. But Ulric, in his possessiveness, would not allow her to escape what he claimed as his own. He begged, he threatened, and he even swore his life in a desperate attempt to keep her by his side. In the end, she succumbed, whether out of love or pity, none could truly discern.

For a fleeting moment, they found happiness. But that fragile peace crumbled when Phelan died, and the bloodline began to tear itself apart at the seams.

Ulric craved more than just a mate; he yearned for power. But Raya was ill-equipped for the treacherous games of the court. She was blissfully unaware of the subtle cues of dominance—the scent of submission, the veiled battles lurking behind every smile.

Then Ivy entered the picture.

She was Ulric’s childhood bondmate, clever and merciless, the quintessential she-wolf. Upon her return from the border wars, she found Ulric ensnared in a marriage that dulled his ambitions. Ivy reminded him of what he had lost, whispering sweet nothings that rekindled the flame of his desires.

Raya discovered their betrayal, but instead of rage, she simply crumbled beneath the weight of her heartbreak.

At that time, she was pregnant with me.

My father, in his desperation, begged her to stay, insisting that the affair meant nothing. Yet even I, still nestled within her womb, could sense the fracture in her spirit. Her heart had turned to ash, a desolate landscape devoid of warmth.

When she tried to leave, he imprisoned her within the gilded cage of the Court—a place where even the moonlight dared not reach.

Her parents came for her once, desperate to reclaim their daughter. But the guards turned them away with cold indifference. That night, amidst a raging storm, their carriage overturned on the treacherous mountain road, and they never returned home.

From that moment on, Raya never smiled again.

When I was born, her mind was already unraveling like an old tapestry. She would call me her “little wolf,” only to forget she had ever uttered those words moments later. Sometimes, she would sit by the window for hours, whispering to ghosts that only she could see, trapped in a world of her own despair.

Ulric, unable to bear the sight of her madness, left for the border under the pretense of expanding the pack’s trade network. But it was nothing more than a coward’s escape, leaving us to rot under Bastien’s oppressive roof, surrounded by wolves who viewed my mother’s fragility as a source of entertainment.

They made her their scapegoat, and I became their amusement.

The Shadowbane estate reeked of decay and hierarchy, a toxic blend that suffocated the very air we breathed.

The females of the bloodline—my grandfather’s other mates, their daughters, their smug companions—laughed too loudly whenever my father left the room. The servants followed suit, bowing to the strong while kicking the weak. And Bastien, the old Alpha, the patriarch of this grotesque dynasty, simply turned a blind eye.

He cared little for the fate of a “tainted” mate and her half-blood child. To him, the law of fangs was absolute: the unfit would be devoured.

My mother, Raya, was beauty in its rawest form. No wolf could deny it. Her scent—soft wildflowers mingled with a hint of sorrow—stirred instincts even in the coldest of beasts. That was why my father’s younger brother, Conor, began to linger near her, his predatory gaze concealed behind a facade of innocence.

He would smile when no one was watching, whispering sweet words when they were. Until one fateful day, cornered and desperate, my mother fled down the marble stairs to escape his grasp, only to fall, her skull striking the unforgiving stone.

No one came to her aid.

They branded her a temptress, a human-blooded witch who seduced the pack’s males for sport. Conor’s mate led a group of females who dragged her before me—I was just a cub then—and beat her mercilessly beneath the moonlight, warning her not to “entice” other males.

Bastien ordered her wounds to be healed, not out of pity, but to prevent gossip that could tarnish the family crest.

That was the moment I learned: in the Shadowbane Pack, mercy was a luxury reserved for the powerful.

Raya began to fade after that, her mind fracturing like ice beneath a heavy foot. She would wake in the night, screaming at invisible wolves, then weep as she clutched me to her chest, as if I were her last anchor to sanity. On some nights, she attempted to end it all—once with silver shards, once by trying to drown both of us.

When she recovered, she would beg the moon for forgiveness, pressing her face against my fur. “I’m sorry, little wolf,” she’d whisper, her voice trembling. “I just want the pain to stop.”

Once, she reached out to my father’s sister, Luna of the Runeclaw Pack. She wrote letter after letter, pleading for assistance. Yet none were answered.

By the time I turned five, my father returned, but he did not come alone.

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