The wind shrieks. Izel’s lifted into the air like a doll, her scream strangled. Nyssa turns her toward me. “See what power costs, child.” She hurls Izel down. The impact shakes the ground. Izel doesn’t rise.
I stare, horror and fury tangling in my chest. “You killed your own daughter.”
“She was weak,” Nyssa says. “I’ll birth something stronger from her ashes.”
She raises her hands again, fire gathering, and then directs it to the seats where Ivy is peeking between Tamsin’s arms, calling for me, “Mama, Mama, Mama.”
I move. Rowan moves. But the flames are faster.
Kade leaps.
The blow hits him square in the chest, letting his body become the target. He crumples, smoke curling from him.
“No!” My scream rips from both throats—mine and Nyx’s.
Blinding rage floods me. Nyx’s voice booms inside my skull.‘End her.’
I run, every heartbeat sounding like a drum. Nyssa laughs, raising her arms to strike again, but my claws meet her chest before the spell leaves her lips.
She stumbles back, blood and fire spilling from the wound. Still, she smiles. “You think killing me ends this?”
“No,” I whisper. “Killing youbeginsit.”
I raise my head toward the moon. “By the Moon’s law and the pack’s blood, I name Nyssa—traitor, murderer, and corrupter of wolves. Judgment is death.”
The silver light pours through me, through Nyx, through every bond that ties me to this land. My claws ignite with pure moonfire, and the Moonshard sword materialises in my hand. I strike once, hard and final, cutting her from the middle.
Nyssa’s scream rips the night apart. Her body bursts into shadow and ash, twisting upward until no trace of her is left.
The arena falls silent.
Smoke drifts. The fires shrink back to embers.
When the dust clears, Izel’s body lies still. Kade’s chest barely rises. Rowan kneels beside him, shouting for Brin.
I stand in the center of the arena, breathing hard.
Elder Maelin from my pack, who emerged from the seats approaches slowly, his voice reverent and proud. “The High Luna has spoken.”
THE MOON’S VERDICT
Freya
Dawn stains the horizon in pale crimson. The smoke from Nyssa’s witchfire last night still lingers above the clearing, contaminating the morning air.
Silence settles over the arena as I step forward. The Blood Moon is fading slowly, but its power flows through me now, still strong and intense, burning my body and cooling it at the same time. The silver veins on my arms glimmer faintly as I move toward the center.
We spent the remainder of the night laying the dead to rest—including Izel—murmuring prayers as the Goddess’s sacred fire bore them to her halls.
Now is the final act.
What remains of the High Conclave reassembles. The members stand on the dais, shaken, subdued after what they witnessed. Thane is gone—dragged away before dawn, I don’t know where. Maelin stands in his place, ancient, pale-eyed, andfull of wisdom. In place of Esme and the other dead member stands Brin, and an elder from Frostfang.
The High Council does not spend time mourning. It moves—as it must.
Rowan watches from Nightfell’s row, shoulders tense but his face bearing a calm look. Kade sits behind him, bandaged because the burns wouldn’t heal, but he’s alive. His head is bowed like he can’t bear to see what I’m about to do.
Amara, the elder from Ravencourt, raises her hand. “The Conclave resumes. High Luna Freya Vale-Thorne of Silvercrest, you may speak.”
