The White Stone Pack had not been quiet since that night.
Rumors spread like wildfire, whispered in hushed voices in the halls, in the training grounds, in the marketplace. So spoke in pity, so in mockery, and others in frustration at the wasted opportunity.
The rare oga of the White Stone Pack had finally been claid.
And then, she had been left behind.
No one knew why. No one understood.
But the truth was undeniable—Lenora Maen’s mate had abandoned her.
The pack’s whispers reached every corner, from the lowest-ranked wolves to the ruling family itself. Her uncle was furious. Enraged beyond reason. The mate bond had been the perfect opportunity to marry her off, to use her as a tool for securing power. Now, she was ruined, useless to him. His perfect pawn had been taken from his grasp before he could make his move.
And Frederick—he was seething.
He had always believed Lenora would be his. Even if he couldn’t claim her as her true mate, he had been so certain that one day, she would belong to him.
Now, she belonged to no one.
And she was wasting away.
Eamon Maen had seen many things in his years as the forr heir of the White Stone Pack. He had seen bloodshed, betrayal, the rise and fall of countless wolves. He had seen war.
But never had he seen his daughter like this.
The man who stood at the entrance of the secluded den was once full of life, powerful, strong. Even in his fifties, he held himself like a warrior, a wolf who had lived through the weight of his own choices. His broad shoulders were still sturdy, his body still commanding.
But his heart was failing.
The mate bond with his wife had been shattered years ago, and slowly, piece by piece, it was taking him with her. He had held on for Lenora, for the one thing that still mattered in his life.
But now, she was slipping from him too.
Eamon stepped forward, his boots scuffing against the dirt, his brown eyes—familiar, warm, tired—scanning the den. His once-dark brown hair was streaked with silver now, the weight of ti evident in the strands.
And there she was.
A curled-up ghost of the daughter he had raised.
Lenora’s wolf lay motionless, her once brilliant white fur dull and lifeless.
She had not shifted back in weeks.
She had not eaten in days.
She barely even breathed.
Eamon’s throat tightened as he slowly knelt beside her, reaching out to touch her fur. His fingers brushed the soft strands, the warmth still there, but fading. She was wasting away.
"Lenora." His voice was low, gentle, careful.
She did not move.
"Lenora, please."
Nothing.
Eamon swallowed against the ache in his chest. He had always been prepared to die before her, but he had never prepared for this. For his daughter to slip away before he did.
He exhaled heavily, his hands clenching into fists.
And then, he shifted.
His body contorted, bones snapping, fur sprouting as he let go of his human form. Where a man had knelt, a massive gray and brown wolf now stood.
His wolf was powerful, built like the warrior he once was. The streaks of silver in his fur were not from weakness, but from survival. He had lived long enough to see his pack change, his family break, his daughter suffer.
And now, he would not leave her alone in this.
With a low, soft growl, he slowly curled his massive fra beside her, pressing his warmth into her frail, shrunken form.
Lenora did not react.
But he felt it.
The faintest shift, the softest sigh, the subtlest press of her small body against his.
She was still in there.
She was still fighting, even if it didn’t look like it.
**
Outside the den, the pack had begun to notice.
They had watched for weeks as their future Luna had vanished from sight, her once vibrant presence reduced to nothing but whispers in the wind. They saw her father’s desperation, the way he lingered outside her den, bringing food that went untouched, speaking to a daughter who would not answer.
The younger wolves watched in confusion. The older wolves murmured in knowing sadness.
The ruling family, however, was furious.
"Unacceptable," Lenora’s uncle, Kieran Maen, spat as he paced inside the grand hall. His anger simred beneath the surface, barely contained, his fingers clenching at his sides.
"This was not the plan," he growled. "She was supposed to be mated to soone of our choosing. Not so bastard rogue who took her in the night and left her to rot."
Across the room, Frederick sat silently, his fingers drumming against the wooden arm of his chair. His expression was dark, his usual cocky arrogance long gone.
"She’s useless to us now," Kieran continued, eyes burning with frustration. "No respectable wolf will take a mate who has already been claid. She can’t be married off, she can’t be controlled—"
"She’s still weak." Frederick’s voice was cold, sharp, cutting through his uncle’s tirade.
Kieran narrowed his eyes. "What?"
"She’s weak," Frederick repeated, leaning forward, his lips curling into sothing cruel. "If she doesn’t recover, the pack will demand a new heir. One who isn’t broken. One who can actually lead."
Kieran studied his nephew for a long mont before his expression shifted, understanding settling into his features.
Frederick smirked.
Lenora might have been claid, but she was still an oga.
And an oga without a mate was vulnerable.
Very, very vulnerable.
***
Back in the den, Eamon still lay beside his daughter, his large fra pressing into hers, offering her comfort that she did not ask for, but desperately needed.
Minutes passed. Hours.
And then, finally—a movent.
Lenora shifted, her wolf stretching out slightly, just enough to press her nose against her father’s fur.
Eamon did not move, did not react.
He only waited.
A long sigh left her, barely audible, but there. A mont later, she nudged her nose against the food he had placed beside her the day before.
It was old, but still edible, she took a bite.Eamon exhaled, the smallest breath of relief passing through him.
She was still fighting.
Even if it was only one bite at a ti.
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