The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 72

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 72**

**Aysel’s POV**

“First, you must eat something.”

Magnus’s voice resonated softly, a blend of command and genuine concern, carrying that unmistakable undertone of Alpha authority that seemed to shape the very air around us. His eyes, illuminated by the flickering torchlight, glimmered with an otherworldly intensity, reminiscent of a wolf’s gaze slicing through the thick haze of incense and smoke that enveloped us. Then, with a gentler tone, he inquired, “Do you enjoy the fireworks?”

Above us, the night sky over the Moonvale Citadel blazed with a riot of colors.

Fireworks erupted in rapid succession, painting the heavens with arcs of silver and crimson, as if the howls of celestial wolves were being inscribed in flame. I turned, momentarily startled, my fingers instinctively tightening around the goblet of mead I held. “The fireworks… you arranged them?”

Initially, I had assumed they were merely part of the Moonvale Pack’s festivities—another hollow display to celebrate the engagement that had replaced my own. But now, as I observed the flickering reflections of the flames dancing in his eyes, it dawned on me how mistaken I had been. These fireworks were not for the Pack, nor for the traitors who had taken my place.

They were for me.

Magnus raised an eyebrow, a predatory calm curling the corners of his lips into a knowing smile. “Naturally. Birthdays warrant tribute. What others may offer you, I shall provide in abundance—and more.”

His words rolled through the air like distant thunder, resonating with a power that sent a shiver down my spine.

Then, as if compelled by his very presence, the sky above us erupted once more—not in random bursts, but in a stunning display of deliberate artistry. Among the cascade of shimmering lights, ancient runes of the Lycan tongue blossomed forth, and at their center, framed by a blaze of crimson and gold, my name emerged:

“Happy Birthday, Aysel Vale.”

For what felt like an eternity, I stood frozen in place.

Not since I was six years old—the year rain extinguished my candles and my aunt was taken from us—had I witnessed fireworks meant for me. In those days, I would hide behind the temple pillars, watching Celestine revel in their glow, my heart heavy with the shame of envy. A sinner’s daughter, I felt unworthy of any joy.

But tonight, the very heavens seemed to burn in my honor. The light cascaded over my face like a divine blessing, and for the first time in years, I felt something within me crack open—a tremor that danced between grief and awe.

In that moment, I turned to him, really turned to him. “Thank you,” I whispered, my voice barely above a breath.

It was not the voice of the cast-out daughter, nor the broken mate. It was the voice of a wolf reborn.

His smile widened, wolfish and knowing. “Then my offering is indeed worthy.”

Around us, the grand hall fell into an unexpected silence. It was as though the pack had been struck mute, conversations halting mid-sentence, the music fading into a hushed stillness. The courtiers of Moonvale, who had long ignored my presence, now lifted their gazes skyward in disbelief as my name blazed across the firmament.

Only now did they comprehend—the true celebration of the night had never been the engagement of Celestine Ward to Damon Blackwood. It was my night. My rebirth.

I could see it reflected in their eyes: shock, envy, and a calculating glint.

They understood this spectacle was not of Moonvale’s making. The Alpha of Shadowbane had accomplished what even Alpha Remus Vale, my father, had never dared to envision.

He had honored me.

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