The Unveiling

Nyra’s POV

The silence was not comfortable that any single word could ruin the current state of calm. I could hear my own heartbeat beating against my ribs, feeling every breath burning in my lungs as dozens of eyes stared at me from all sides.

Draven stands behind me, a statue carved from marble and memory. His broad shoulders are stiff under his ceremonial wear, his face looking like a carefully built mask that threatens to crack every second. But those eyes, those stormy gray eyes I once knew better than my own, they betrayed him, sparking disbelief, confusion, and something that looks dangerously close to hope.

The distance between us feels charged, sparked by seven years of unspoken words.

Auren moves uneasily beside me, his small fingers moving into the worn fabric of my coat. His presence reminds me why I am here and why I have returned to a place that once broke my heart into a thousand irreplaceable pieces. He could not understand what was happening. How could he? He is just a child caught in a storm plotted long before his birth.

Draven's voice breaks through the silence, softer this time but no less destruction.

"Nyra... is he my son?"

The question hangs between us, a thread connecting our separate worlds. I could snap it now and deny everything, grab Auren, and disappear into the shadows before Draven can defend his claim. It would be easier. Safer, perhaps.

But lies have sharp edges. I have spent many years cutting myself on them.

I straightened my back and lifted my chin, meeting his gaze without fear. "Yes. He is your son."

The words fall like stones into still water, breaking through the gathered team. A collective intake of breath spreads through the crowd, followed by the quiet movement of bodies leaning on one another, whispering behind shaped hands.

Draven did not move and did not speak. But his hands grip at his sides, his knuckles bleach white, and something raw and unrestricted flashes behind his eyes, guilt perhaps or regret. His stare moves from me to Auren, bringing in every detail of the boy's face, as if he was trying to recover the years that slipped through his fingers like sand.

I see the moment recognition appears, when he finds pieces of himself reflected in our son's features.

The spell breaks with the sound of breaking glass.

"That is a LIE!"

Selene's voice cuts through the night, sharp and fragile. She moves forward, her silk dress shining like scales in the torchlight as she moves. She is still breathtaking, golden hair falling in perfect waves, jewels beautifying her neck and wrists, her beauty a weapon sharpened to accuracy. But hatred ruins her features now, discarding the carefully crafted elegance.

"This is manipulation," she says, feeling drops from every syllable as her eyes looked between me and Draven. "She is trying to turn you against me! Look at her, Draven. Look at her timing! Seven years she had been gone, and now she had just moved in with a child and claimed he is yours?" A laugh tears from her throat, cold and insincere. "How convenient."

I stand my ground, unmoved. Selene has always been a performer, developing complex shows of emotion to get what she wants. But I did not come here for her approval or belief. I came for Auren's safety and nothing more.

Draven avoids being noticeable. His jaw works below his skin, the muscles there jumping with tension, but his eyes never leave Auren.

"He has my eyes," he whispers, the words apparently pulled from some deep private place.

Selene stiffens beside him, her perfectly manicured hand gripping at his arm. "Draven, you can not seriously believe it"

"She has no reason to lie." His voice is quiet but firm, tolerating no argument.

The crowd breaks in reaction, some wolves exchange knowing glances while others shift uneasily. The Elders assembled closer, their lean faces amused with concern as they whispered within one themselves. Warriors make uncertain glances at Auren, their expressions cycling through shock, curiosity, and something darker. I know what they see when they look at him.

The son of a forsaken mate.

The son of an Alpha who refused fate itself. A living testament to broken vows.

Children like that change things. Upset balances and challenges traditions.

Auren moves closer to my leg, his small body warm against mine. He was too young to understand the meaning of what was happening, but he noticed the tension in the atmosphere. His instincts are more intense than most children his age, another inheritance from his father. I rest my hand protectively on his shoulder, my thumb tracing small reassuring circles.

A commotion breaks out in the gathering. The crowd parts like a river around stone as a warrior trips into the clearing, his armor hanging broken from his broad frame. Blood darkens the fabric below, spreading in red blooms across his chest. His face is pale, eyes wide with something bordering on panic.

Draven straightens instantly, all traces of weakness vanishing below the mantle of leadership.

"What happened?" he demands, his voice sounding with authority.

The warrior's chest heaves with fast breath as he looks at the gathering, then freezes when it lands on me and Auren. Something dark and knowing sparks came across his face, there and gone in an instant. Wordlessly, he extends a shaking hand.

In his palm holding folded paper, its edges stained dark with blood.

The moment Draven tears it open, a cold certainty settles in my gut. Kael.

Draven's face transforms as he reads, emotions chasing one another across his features like storm clouds, disbelief, realization, and finally, a cold, terrible anger. When he looks up, his expression has hardened into something carved from winter stone.

"Kael Nightbane has declared war," he announces, his voice tight but controlled, each word precise and heavy with implication. "He demands we hand over the boy." His eyes settle on Auren, something fierce and protective lighting behind his eyes. "Or the Crescent Moon will burn."

The crowd released pressure, an entanglement of outrage mixed with gasps of fear. Some wolves bare their teeth in challenge, while others pale, shrinking back. A few cast sidelong stares at Auren, their expressions making it clear they see him not as a child but as the encourager for this threat, a curse wrapped in innocent flesh.

Draven's body seems to vibrate with the way he moves. He squeezes the letter in his hand, his knuckles white with the force of his grip.

"Over my dead body," he said, the words sounding deep in his chest.

The declaration falls like armor, silencing everything. For a heartbeat, the entire gathering is frozen, suspended in the weight of what has been said, what has been promised.

Then his eyes found mine again, and something shifted in their stormy depths. The anger did not disappear, but it softens at the edges, making room for something else, something that dangerously looks like a plea.

"We need to talk," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that carries through the tensed silence. "Now."