CHAPTER 48: THEATRICS

Chapter 48 – Lenora

The sun has set. The moon hangs high above the square, full and bright like a silent witness. I stand before the old wolf statue, its weathered stone gaze cast toward the forest. The last time I stood here... I was drugged. Cornered. Left to fate by Frederick.

And yet... that moment brought Cameron into my life.

So whatever happens tonight, whatever nonsense Alric has arranged — it doesn’t matter. The outcome isn’t what I’m afraid of. I already have what matters most.

Still, my hands tremble as I clench them at my sides. Cameron told me to trust him, that he’s got this. He’d said it so calmly, with Simone smirking like she already had an evil plan loaded into a PowerPoint. Whatever they schemed about in hushed tones, I hope it’s enough.

I scan the square. There’s a mix of curiosity and tension in the air. Some female wolves glance at me with soft, almost smug expressions — not all contemptuous. Satisfaction, maybe. I didn’t even want their wolves before I mated Cameron, they had nothing to worry about at all.

Others look genuinely worried. I can’t blame them. If I were watching someone I cared about be dragged into a trial by politics and ancient custom, I’d be worried too.

"Hey." A warm, familiar hand slips into mine.

"Aunt Linda," I say softly, turning to greet her. Her silver-streaked curls are pinned back, her eyes sharp with purpose. She’s been a staple of this community for decades — in charge of preschool education and known as the most feared enforcer of nap schedules in White Stone.

"We know Alric’s doing this to provoke your father," she mutters under her breath. "This whole thing is a stunt. I can’t believe he’d go this far."

"It’s okay," I start, but she cuts me off with a sharp glance.

"No, it’s not. We won’t let anything happen to you. Not without a fight. Unless that bastard wants a civil war on his hands."

"Auntie—please, don’t."

Her jaw tightens. "What happened to your father... that was bad enough. We won’t let it happen to you too."

I don’t reply. Because I know she’s right.

My father isn’t here yet. He rarely comes into town anymore. He hates crowds, hates the way people look at him others with sadness, others with hope.

He said he’d come, but there’s a pit in my stomach that wonders if he won’t.

More wolves begin to gather around the statue. Dozens turn into hundreds, from every family recorded into the pack there must be a representative.Elders. Warriors. Even some of the teenagers, drawn to the drama of it all. The space around me tightens, but I don’t move.

Family after family approaches. Most give quiet reassurance. A hand on my shoulder. A nod. A whispered, "We’ve got your back." The support is overwhelming. Even wolves I haven’t spoken to in years stand beside me like pillars.

Then, cutting through the crowd like a rot, they arrive.

Frederick and Alric.

Alric wears ceremonial black, but he might as well be cloaked in blood. He walks like he owns the square, chin high, sneer barely hidden. Frederick trails behind him, face neutral, but eyes scanning the crowd like a hawk.

The hush that follows is not for them.

It happens all at once — the murmurs stop, and then the sea of bodies begins to part. Wolves move aside not because they’re commanded to, but because of instinct. Reverence. Respect.

My breath catches.

And there he is.

My father.

Eamon Maen walks slowly but with purpose, each step grounded like thunder. He’s dressed in simple clothes, no flashy symbols or rank badges, yet every wolf he passes lowers their gaze. Some bow. Some kneel.

He hasn’t been pack Alpha for years, but the bond never broke, which is funny because my father was never alpha truly more like alpha heir, by the time he stepped into power that’s when he met mother and everything happened.

The title was never stripped.

He is still White Stone’s true Alpha — not by decree, but by soul and birthright.

I glance to the side, catching Alric’s reaction. His jaw is locked tight, his hand clenched into a fist at his side. No amount of scheming has ever earned him the one thing he truly wants: this

. The people’s respect. Their instinctual deference. He has titles. Control. But not loyalty.

Never loyalty.

Eamon reaches me, places a warm hand on my shoulder, and stands beside me.

Just like that, I feel shielded.

Like I did when I was a little girl hiding behind his legs, peeking at the world.

"I’m here," he says quietly, just for me. "Let them try."

I nod, swallowing hard.

I’m not afraid anymore.

My father might be dying, but he is still my father.

And he’s standing beside me, not just in body, but in presence. Even if his steps are slower and his voice doesn’t thunder like it once did, he is still the Alpha that every wolf here feels in their bones.

Alric claps his hands once — loud, sharp, theatrical.

He doesn’t need to shout. With supernatural hearing, every ear in the square catches the sound. Silence falls instantly. Even the pups fidgeting by their parents go still.

"Brothers and sisters of White Stone," Alric calls, smiling like a man about to present a circus act he secretly hopes will fail.

"Tonight, we bear witness to an age-old tradition—one that has bound wolf to pack, outsider to home, for as long as the moon has watched over us," Alric says, his voice smooth, commanding. "It is this very tradition that has ensured White Stone’s survival through famine, through war, through the chaos of the world beyond."

He begins to pace slowly, deliberate and theatrical.

"We are not like humans," he continues, eyes scanning the crowd. "We are not fractured. Not individualistic. We are a collective

. A family. Each wolf bound to the next by blood, by oath, by duty."

The words hang heavy in the air, and I can feel the way some wolves nod, others bristle.

"And the Maen family," he says, placing a hand to his chest, "generation after generation, we have led White Stone. Not for glory. Not for power. But because you—our kin, our pack—have trusted us to lead. To serve. To shield. To protect."

He turns then, gesturing broadly toward the statue behind me.

"That is what it means to be a Maen. That is what it means to stand at the helm of White Stone."

He pauses, sighs like the burden is too heavy for one man to carry. I almost roll my eyes.

"My brother—your former Alpha—is a man I’ve respected all my life. He bled for White Stone. Led it through its darkest nights. But even he... even he knows that with leadership comes sacrifice. That not everything we want is what is right for the whole."

His eyes flick to me then, soft and mournful, as if he’s the one being wronged.

"Believe me when I say... I wish this weren’t necessary."

A soft murmur rolls through the square.

"I would have given anything for my niece to have an easy path. To have love without burden. But she is Maen. She is heir to a legacy. And her mate—whoever he is—must rise to meet that legacy. He must stand not just as her partner, but as one who can protect and provide for this pack... as one of us."

He presses a hand to his heart.

"This isn’t a test of worth. It’s a chance. A chance for an outsider to prove himself worthy of the name Maen. A name that stands for generations of service, protection, and honor."

The air turns heavy.

"And I understand the whispers," he continues, voice softer now, confessional. "They say I’m cruel. That I do this for pride. For power. But what they don’t see... what you don’t see... is that I am willing to be hated if it means keeping our family, our pack, safe."

He exhales, eyes briefly fluttering closed.

"I didn’t want this. But someone must be strong enough to do what needs to be done."

A beat.

"And so... tonight, we will see if Lenora’s mate is ready to walk beside her as a Maen. Not just in name, but in truth."

He finally looks at me, and his smile is thin and cold. Like a knife sharpened just for this.