The chamber smelled of cedar and power.
Not magic—power. The kind measured in favors traded, lives broken, secrets buried under silk and gold.
Aria stood in the center of Greenwood’s court, her wrists still bound in ceremonial cuffs. Edrik lounged on a high-backed chair carved from blackwood, his wolf sigil inlaid in lapis. Around him, twelve advisors whispered like crows on a corpse.
“You should kneel,” one of them said. “You’re in the presence of—”
“I kneel to no one,” Aria snapped.
The silence that followed was thick, disbelieving. A girl alone, outnumbered, unarmed. And yet none of them moved closer.
Edrik chuckled. “The fire’s real, I’ll grant you that.”
Aria stepped forward. “I’m here to offer a choice. Confess what you did. Publicly. Denounce Evelyn. Acknowledge the council breach. Or I release every letter, every account, every death warrant you signed through your puppet.”
Edrik smiled wider. “You think threats will work here?”
“I don’t think. I know. Because your wolves may follow your orders, but they don’t trust you. Not anymore. Not after Evelyn.”
“And who do you think they’ll trust?” he asked. “You? The rejected Luna?”
Aria’s voice dropped to a whisper—but it carried.
“The Luna who lived. Who bled. Who came back from exile with a child in her arms and proof in her hands. The Luna who unseated her own council.”
A ripple of discomfort moved through the court.
One of the advisors shifted. Another lowered her eyes.
Edrik’s jaw tightened.
“You want a treaty?” he asked. “Fine. But I want concessions.”
Aria raised a brow. “You’re in no position to want anything.”
“I want neutrality from SilverCrest. For five years.”
“No raids, no spies, no assassins,” she said. “And in return?”
“I’ll sign the confession. I’ll banish the remaining sympathizers. I’ll strip Greenwood of its council voting privileges for the next full moon cycle.”
“That’s not enough,” Aria said.
“What more do you want?”
She stepped closer, her voice deadly calm.
“An apology. In blood or in ink.”
The room froze.
Edrik stared at her.
And then, slowly, he laughed.
But it wasn’t mockery.
It was exhaustion.
“You’re your mother’s daughter,” he said. “Vale would’ve burned us to ash.”
Aria’s jaw clenched. “Then be grateful I’m giving you ink instead of fire.”
The treaty was drawn that night.
Edrik signed it beneath the watch of Greenwood’s oldest spirits, bound by oathstone and moonlight. Aria etched her name second.
When it was done, she turned to the court.
“The Alpha Treaty of Night’s Accord,” she read. “Effective immediately. Greenwood stands down. SilverCrest watches.”
A pause.
“And should this be broken—know that I will return. And I won’t be alone next time.”
No one dared respond.
Edrik watched her leave like a man who had sold his soul to stop a flood.
And maybe he had.
Outside the keep, Zara and Rannoch waited in the trees.
“Well?” Zara asked.
Aria held up the treaty scroll.
“We have peace,” she said. “For now.”
Rannoch studied her face. “But not victory.”
“Not yet.”
They made camp beyond the river that night, and Aria didn’t sleep. She stared at the stars, the treaty in her hands.
It felt too easy.
Something in the way Edrik had yielded.
Something in the way he hadn’t fought harder.
At dawn, she burned the original draft and kept the signed copy close to her skin.
Just in case.
Back in SilverCrest, the mood was shifting.
The packs were rebuilding.
Children played without fear.
And Kael—Kael had changed.
He carried Elara everywhere now, even to council gatherings. Not as a political move, but as a father who had once nearly lost everything and now refused to let go.
When Aria arrived at the gates, dust on her boots and blood in her smile, he met her with Elara bundled in his arms.
“She missed you,” he said.
Aria reached for her daughter.
But Elara reached first.
And when her tiny hand touched Aria’s chest, the warmth of the treaty beneath her tunic surged like a second heartbeat.
“I brought peace,” Aria whispered.
Kael looked down at them.
“For how long?”
“As long as we hold the truth,” she said. “And our wolves know it.”
They stood there, the three of them, framed by the rising sun.
Not a family.
Not yet.
But something close.
