The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 70

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 70**

The great hall of the Moonvale Pack was in utter disarray, a cacophony of chaos that echoed through its once-elegant chambers.

What had been envisioned as a night of sophistication and celebration now lay tarnished, marred by the acrid stench of blood, the palpable tension of lust, and the heavy cloak of shame that draped over the gathering like a dark shroud. The scene that unfolded before the assembled wolves was grotesque enough to make even the most seasoned Alphas recoil in horror. Gasping breaths and low snarls sliced through the atmosphere as the guests beheld the lifeless form of a young wolf, dangling precariously from the upper balcony. And then there was Celestine—her garments torn as if she had fought valiantly against unseen foes, her complexion as pale as the moonlight itself—collapsing under the weight of countless horrified gazes.

A piercing shriek from Luna Evelyn shattered the thick tension in the air. Her eyes widened in horror as they fell upon the boy suspended from the window frame and the state of her daughter. “Celestine!” she cried, her voice breaking like fragile glass. Without a moment’s hesitation, she surged forward into the hall, her skirts billowing around her like storm clouds ready to unleash their fury.

Alpha Remus, attuned to the primal instincts of a beast cornered, felt the impending disaster wash over him. “Everyone,” he declared, his voice slicing through the murmur of confusion like a sharp blade, resonating through the mind-link with authority, “thank you for attending tonight’s feast. However, the Moonvale Pack must now attend to… private matters. This gathering is hereby concluded.”

The assembled wolves—Lords, Betas, and noble heirs—hesitated, caught in the tension that crackled in the air. They could smell the scandal, a pungent aroma that lingered like smoke. It was a taste they all recognized, yet none dared to challenge an Alpha’s command.

One by one, they began to drift away, their whispers slithering through the hall like snakes in the shadows, each word laced with intrigue and fear.

The Blackwoods lingered the longest, their presence a dark cloud over the proceedings. Damon’s eyes were cold as obsidian, reflecting the turmoil within him. The Eastern Alpha’s patience had been tested throughout the evening, and the horrific scene he had just witnessed had turned his distaste into a deep-seated disgust. Even as he offered a curt nod to the others and turned to leave, it was painfully clear that the alliance between the Blackwoods and Moonvale had splintered beyond repair.

And then—

Just as the last guest stepped beyond the threshold of the courtyard gate—

The night itself seemed to split open.

Above the manor, the heavens erupted into a dazzling display of light. Fire blossomed against the inky sky, painting it in hues of crimson and gold, a spectacle that felt both magical and foreboding. The wolves gazed up in awe, their hearts pounding as the moonlight fractured into a thousand shimmering shards of flame.

Then, a voice boomed forth, rich and commanding.

“Who said the celebration was over?”

The sound rolled across the land like thunder echoing through ancient mountains—deep, resonant, and magnetic—yet it carried a weight of authority that no wolf could dare ignore.

Every head turned, drawn toward the source of that powerful voice.

Through the swirling haze of smoke and cascading sparks, a tall figure emerged from the edge of the hall, his very presence eclipsing the stars above.

Magnus Sanchez, the Alpha of Shadowbane, stood before them. The strongest wolf on the continent. The Rafe of the Under-Moon.

His strides were deliberate and unhurried, yet with each step, the earth seemed to pulse in rhythm beneath him. His aura radiated outward like a living storm—raw dominance, ancient power, something sacred and untamed. The lesser wolves found themselves bowing instinctively, caught in the gravitational pull of his presence.

Gasps rippled through the crowd, a wave of disbelief and awe.

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