Chapter 64
Chapter 64
WADE
The banquet hall looks the same as it always has–polished floors, carved pillars, banners hanging perfectly symmetrical- but the air feels wrong the second I walk in. Too frantic. Too loud. Too fucking tight in my chest.
Omegas scramble around the tables with their heads down, moving like they’re bracing for someone to bite them. And honestly? With Ariel in this mood, I don’t blame them.
I’m standing near the central staircase with Elder Rowan droning about seating charts wh
Ariel’s voice slices straight through the hall. Sharp. Irritated. Already picking a fight with someone.
I don’t even have to turn to know it’s bad, but I do anyway.
Two young Omegas struggle to carry a stack of porcelain plates between them. Their hands are shaking. One girl’s lip trembles as she tries to keep the plates steady.
Ariel steps toward them, hand on her swollen belly like she’s showcasing it more than protecting it.
“Move faster,” she snaps. “Do you want to embarrass the pack? Do you want the Imperial delegation to think we’re incompetent p>
The girls flinch like she slapped them.
And then Ariel looks at me–just for a second. As though she expects me to echo her irritation. Back her up. Confirm her importance.
I say nothing.
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Her jaw ticks. The Omegas bow their heads and rush away, plates clattering dangerously with every panicked step. They don’t look at me, not directly, but one of them glances up through her lashes. Brief. Guarded. Enough for me to feel the hit.
They miss her.
I don’t need anyone to say it. The hall’s atmosphere says it for them.
Sorin would’ve walked over, taken half the plates from their hands, cracked some stupid joke to ease the tension, and ordered them to take a break. She always remembered their names. Their birthdays. Which ones were fasting for rituals. Which ones had sprained wrists. She ran this place like it was her own bloodstream.
And I… traded her for this.
Something tightens in my chest–not guilt, not exactly. I’m not ready to call it that. But something sharp. Something I keep pushing down because acknowledging it means accepting the whole fucked–up truth.
“Alpha,” Elder Rowan prompts, clearing his throat. “We should return to the chart p>
“Later,” I mutter.
I can’t stand still. Not when every corner of this hall is a reminder I don’t want.
A crash echoes from the banquet kitchen. Someone yelps. Someone else curses. The scent of smoke hits next.
Great.
I push through the swinging doors, and heat slams into my face instantly–ovens on full blast, steam rising off boiling pots, a
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tray of burnt food smoking on the prep table.
The chef is borderline panicking, waving a towel at the alarms as they start flashing.
“What the hell happened?” I ask, stepping in.
I barely get the words out before Ariel storms in behind me.
“What is this?!” she shrieks, pointing at the charred boar–the main ceremonial dish. “Are you out of your mind?! This was supposed to be perfect p>
The chef flinches so hard I swear his soul leaves his body for a second.
“It–it was the oven, Luna,” he stammers. “The timer malfunctioned-
“Then FIX IT,” she snaps. “Restart everything! I don’t care how long it takes. If we have to serve dinner at midnight, then we serve dinner at midnight. But I am not letting you sabotage this pack p>
Sabotage? Really?
The chef looks like he might cry. A younger assistant beside him physically shrinks behind a basket of vegetables.
Ariel paces, hand on her stomach again as if reminding everyone of her importance. Her voice gets louder. More frantic. More chaotic.
And all I can think about is another banquet. Years ago. Sorin in this same kitchen, her sleeves rolled, hair falling out of its clip while she took over an entire station herself. She was chopping vegetables faster than three omegas combined because someone accidentally burned the lamb roast. She didn’t yell. She didn’t make anyone cry. She just fixed it.
She burned her hand, too. I remember because she hissed under her breath and tried to hide it from me. And I dragged her to the sink anyway, holding her wrist under cold water while she called me dramatic.
This memory hits harder than it should.
I blink, refocusing on the mess in front of me. Stop thinking, Wade.
Ariel’s still yelling. Chef’s still shaking. The assistants look like they’re wondering which exit leads to a painless death.
Enough.
“Ariel,” I say quietly.
She ignores me.
“Ariel.” Stronger.
She finally snaps her head toward me, eyes wide, face flushed, breathing uneven. “What p>
“You’re spiraling,” I say, lowering my voice. “Let them work p>
Her nostrils flare. “Don’t tell me I’m spiraling. If they had done it right the first time p>
“They’re fixing it,” I cut in. “Let them p>
She stares at me for a long second. A long, simmering, defiant second–then storms out, muttering under her breath about incompetence.
The moment she’s gone, the room exhales. Literally. Multiple people breathe out at once.
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The chef looks at me, defeated. Ash smudges his forehead.
“I’m sorry, Alpha,” he whispers. “I don’t… I don’t know what’s happening today p>
on
“It’s not you,” I say, leaning the counter. “Just scrape the burnt layer, add broth, turn it into a stew. Season heavily, add root vegetables. It’ll pass as a traditional dish. Happens all the time p>
He blinks at me. “You… know how to cook boar stew p>
I swallow.
Sorin taught me.
“Just do it,” I say instead.
He nods, grateful, and scurries off to reorganize the station. The assistants follow, shoulders still tense but moving with purpose now.
I push a hand through my hair. The smoke, the heat, the shouting–it all churns inside me until I can’t tell whether the pressure in my chest is from irritation, anger, or something worse.
Regret.
No. Not that. Not again. I shove that thought down before it forms fully.
I exit the kitchen, and the hall hits me again–too bright, too polished, too hollow.
People rush by carrying linens, trays of glasses, stacked cutlery. Warriors direct guests and coordinate security posts. Elders whisper about the Imperial Pack’s arrival.
They’re terrified.
And under that fear, buried but present, is something heavier:
They miss her.
I don’t need to hear it out loud. I feel it in the way the omegas move around me without meeting my eyes. In the strained smiles of warriors who once trained under Sorin’s father. In the elders‘ awkward silences every time they mention “the former Luna” like saying her name is a landmine.
Every corridor I walk through feels as though a bruise someone keeps pressing on.
Every corner looks like a place she once stood.
And every time I shut my eyes–even for a heartbeat–I see the look she gave me the last day she was here. The betrayal. The disbelief. The heartbreak I pretended wasn’t mine to care about.
I grit my teeth and force my feet to keep moving.
This isn’t the time.
This isn’t the day.
I have a pack to prepare, a ball to host, and an Imperial delegation arriving any second.
I have Ariel to manage before she combusts publicly p>
And I sure as hell don’t have time to think about Sorin.
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Except… I do.
Because every single person here–no matter how loyal, how fearful, how obedient–they’re all looking at me like I built this mess brick by brick.
Maybe I did.
I rub my jaw, feeling the tension locked there. My wolf is pacing under my skin, restless, irritated, agitated by the chaos, by Ariel, by the memories, by everything.
“Alpha,” someone calls behind me.
I turn.
An omega stands there, clutching a basket of folded linens, voice timid.
“The… the front courtyard is filling up. The visiting packs are arriving early p>
Of course they are.
“Prepare the welcoming line,” I say. “I’ll be there in a minute p>
She nods and rushes off, not looking back once.
I watch her go.
Then I take a long breath, square my shoulders, and force the Alpha mask back onto my face–tight, controlled, impenetrable.
I walk toward the courtyard, steps heavy but steady.
My pack is falling apart quietly.
The Luna standing beside me is a storm with no direction. And the Luna who used to hold all of this together?
Ugh, fuck it, Wade. You’re gonna have a family now. Stop fucking thinking.
Yes, this has always been what I wanted.
The corridor is louder than it should be by this hour–boots hitting the floor, omegas rushing past with trays, warriors arguing about table placements like it’s a damn battlefield. The Imperial delegation isn’t even here yet and everyone’s already losing their minds.
I’m halfway to the dining hall when a warrior intercepts me, breathless.
“Alpha–sorry–there’s an issue with the seating chart p>
Of course there is.
“What now?” I ask, rubbing my jaw.
“The Silverpine pack… they lost eight wolves in that border conflict. Three are injured. Their Beta is asking if they can be seated near the stage–less walking, less noise p>
That’s reasonable. Painfully reasonable.
“Alright,” I say. “Where are they placed now p>
“Uh… back section. Near the kitchen doors p>
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That’s not a fucking seat. That’s a punishment.
I exhale sharply. “Fine. I’ll talk to Ariel p>
Which is already a headache.
I find her again in the main corridor, standing in front of draperies like she’s judging them for crimes. She’s wearing a robe that looks more like a costume, the fabric dragging when she turns.
She doesn’t look up when I approach.
“Ariel,” I say.
She holds up a crystal ornament she’s been fiddling with. “Does this look crooke incompetent p>
I swear the decorators are
“The Silverpine pack needs to be moved near the stage,” I say. “They have injured wolves p>
“Put them wherever,” she cuts in, dismissing it with a flick of her wrist. “They’re not the main guests p>
I freeze.
Not because she said it–she always says shit like that–but because something in my head snaps to a memory I didn’t ask
for.
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Sorin standing in this exact corridor years ago, hair tied messily, fingers smudged with ink from reorganizing seating charts by hand. She moved her own seat to stand closer to the warriors who’d come back from a raid. She argued with an elder for twenty minutes just so the Beta with the broken leg could have a chair with armrests.
She never once made anyone feel like a burden.
I blink and Ariel is still talking about drapes.
I study her for a second–the impatience, the obliviousness, the way she doesn’t even notice the warrior behind me waiting nervously for her answer.
A Luna who serves her people.
Versus a woman performing a role.
There’s a difference, and it’s becoming harder to ignore.
Finally, I say, “I’ll handle it myself.” Ariel waves a hand, already bored. “Do what you want p>
Like I’m some errand boy. Fuck.
I walk off before I say something stupid.
The dining hall is chaos–omegas carrying plates, warriors adjusting chairs, the scent of roasted meat clinging to the air. I ignore all of it and go straight toward the banquet planning alcove where the old charts should be.
Except the place looks nothing like it used to.
Because the person who handled those charts… isn’t here anymore.
Sorin always kept multiple versions of every seating layout, rolled into neat tubes and labeled by date. She color–coded things. She annotated which packs didn’t get along. Who needed distance. Who needed support.
If I can find even one of her old charts, it’ll save time.
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Chapter 64
Ihead for the Luna’s office.
My steps slow as the hallway narrows. A couple of omegas see me coming and press themselves to the wall, eyes down. They look exhausted. Barely holding on.
They used to smile.
They used to look relieved when Sorin walked these halls. It’s only been months.
I push that thought away before it becomes something.
When I reach her old office door, my hand hesitates
on the handle
I don’t know why. Maybe because I haven’t stepped inside since-
Never mind.
I push the door open.
And stop.
The air goes dead cold in my chest.
This isn’t Sorin’s office.
Or… it is. Just gutted.
Her desk–the one carved by my father’s Beta decades ago–is gone. Completely gone. In its place sits a vanity table cluttered with perfume bottles, makeup compacts, glittery shit scattered everywhere like a teenager’s dressing room.
Feathered robes drape over the back of the chair.
Jewelry boxes spill open on the floor.
A half–eaten pastry sits on what used to be the document table.
The shelves that once held pack records, treaties, training rosters?
Empty.
Replaced by decorative vases and some gaudy statue.
No paperwork. No schedules. No patrol logs. No Luna duties being handled.
Nothing that resembles leadership.
I stand there, fingers curling at my sides, jaw tightening as every detail punches a little deeper than I want to admit.
And then-
A memory hits me so sharply I swear I feel it in my ribs.
Sorin sitting at her old desk, hair falling over her shoulder as she reviewed warrior rotations at midnight. Her pen tapping against the edge of the page to keep herself awake. Her voice soft but steady when she’d look up at me and ask-
“Did you eat yet p>
Even when she was the one tired. Even when she was the one carrying everyone’s weight.
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Chapter 64
In the memory, she pushes back from the desk, walks toward me despite her exhaustion, and-
“Do you want me to cook you something?” Sorin asks. “Wade p>
The image snaps away as fast as it came.
I rub the back of my neck, irritated at myself for even remembering it. For letting it get this far under my skin.
For wondering–just for a second–if I really made the right choice.
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