A Warrior Luna's Awakening (Freya and Caelum) novel Chapter 409

Chapter 409

Third Person’s POV

Freya froze.

For a split second, even the fire and collapsing ruin seemed to fall silent around her.

Her eyes widened, disbelief flickering across her smoke-streaked face.

“How do you know that?” she demanded, her voice hoarse from heat and ash.

Silas looked at her and smiled.

It was a strange sight.

His face was bloodless, sweat soaking his hairline, his breath uneven. His back was still pressed beneath the weight of shattered concrete and twisted metal, every muscle trembling under the strain. He looked battered, half-crushed, barely holding himself together.

And yet he was smiling.

A real smile.

As if something long lost had finally returned to him.

“So it was you,” he murmured, the words barely audible beneath the roar of flames and sirens. “All along… it was you.”

The truth struck him with the force of a blood oath snapping into place.

The wolf inside him howled.

It had been her.

The girl who had dragged him from death, who had refused to abandon him when the world already had. The one he had searched for across territories, across years and shifting alliances. The one whose absence had left a hollow ache in his chest long before he even understood what longing was.

The wolf he loved.

The wolf who had carved herself into his life long before fate named them enemies, strangers, or allies.

Every mark left upon his life-every scar, every choice-had somehow led back to her.

Fire crackled above them.

The ceiling groaned again.

Freya snapped back into motion, hauling another slab of broken stone from Silas’s back, teeth clenched so hard her jaw ached. She did not see the full storm of emotion burning in his eyes. She only knew one thing.

He was alive.

And he was not allowed to die.

Outside the banquet hall, chaos reigned beneath a smoke-darkened sky.

Fire engines from multiple packs had converged, their sigils blazing under emergency lights. Wolves in turnout gear rushed in and out of the burning structure, carrying the injured, barking orders, coordinating with precision born of long conflict and training.

Everett stood just beyond the cordon.

His posture was rigid, his face grim, eyes locked on the exit of the hall.

One by one, survivors were carried out.

But not Parker.

Time dragged like claws across bone.

Everett’s fingers curled slowly into fists.

That boy… better not be dead.

The thought made his chest tighten in a way he did not welcome.

If Parker died, how would he explain it to his mother?

The old matriarch’s mind had been slipping for years now, drifting between clarity and confusion. Parker had become her anchor, her comfort, the one presence that kept her grounded when memory failed.

And there was more.

Much more.

Everett’s thoughts strayed to Parker’s last words before running back into the inferno. The memory twisted something uncomfortable inside him.

People always said Parker resembled him when he was young. Not just in appearance, but in temperament. Decisive. Sharp-minded. Able to grasp complex matters with only a hint of explanation. Yet unlike Everett, the boy had boundaries. Lines he would not cross.

Everett had noticed that.

Admired it, even.

At first, Parker had been nothing more than a necessary arrangement. A child given a carefully constructed identity, one that satisfied the elders and soothed Velda’s expectations. A role.

But over time, Everett had begun to invest more than obligation.

He trained Parker. Pushed him. Gave him access to the Williams inner circle. Let him climb.

And sometimes, watching Parker move through the world with calm confidence, Everett found himself thinking—

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify