Luna Forsaken (Arya and James) novel Chapter 151

151 Ashes Under Oath

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Lev’s POV

Maxwell did not answer me immediately.

He just sat there in his study, broad shoulders settled deep into the leather chair, one

hand braced on the armrest, the other holding a glass he had forgotten to drink from. The room smelled of wood, old paper, and the low-burning fire near the far wall. Night had already settled outside. Dragonclaw was quieter at this hour, but not asleep. I could still hear distant movement through the stone, guards changing positions, boots across

the outer corridor, the muted life of a pack that knew danger never really left.

I stood by the window at first, then turned back to face him.

“What happened?” I asked again, slower this time. “I don’t want the short version.”

Maxwell’s eyes lifted to me. He looked tired in the way only powerful men looked when

they were carrying too much and pretending they were not.

“You won’t like the full version either,” he said.

“I already don’t like any of it.”

That pulled a grim sound from him that might have been a laugh on a better night.

He tipped the glass once, set it down without drinking, and leaned back. “Fine. Sit, then,

because if I start talking about that mess, I’m not stopping halfway.”

I sat opposite him, elbows on my knees, hands clasped loosely enough to look calm. I

was not calm. I had not been calm since Arya came into Dragonclaw bleeding fury and

grief and pride and that scar on her throat that made my wolf go cold with murder.

Maxwell watched my face for a moment, as if measuring how much truth I could hear

without immediately leaving his study to start a war.

Then he exhaled.

“James was an ambitious fool,” he said bluntly, “but not a monster when this began.”

My jaw tightened.

Maxwell lifted a hand before I spoke. “Listen first.”

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I held his gaze and gave him one nod.

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He continued. “He loved Arya. I’ll say that much clearly. He truly did. But he was scared.

Scared of losing what he had just built. Scared of going rogue again. Scared of watching

his pack get wiped out while he stood there pretending pride could stop claws.”

The words landed hard because they sounded too close to plausible. I hated plausible. Plausible made men feel forgivable.

Maxwell’s eyes narrowed slightly, reading my expression.

“I’m not excusing him,” he said. “I’m telling you what drove him.”

I leaned back, forcing stillness into my shoulders. “Go on.”

He nodded. “Nightwind sat on land everyone wanted. Good routes. Valuable ground.

Strategic position. Prime enough that bigger packs noticed, and smaller packs kept

probing. They’d only held it for two years. Two.” He tapped two fingers against the chair

arm. “Under Union law, that wasn’t enough to qualify properly. You know the rule.”

“I know it.”

Five years. Stability before recognition. Proof that a new Alpha could hold territory, feed

people, maintain order, and not turn every border dispute into bloodshed. In theory, it

kept chaos out. In practice, it left young packs exposed exactly when they were most

vulnerable.

Maxwell looked toward the fire, then back at me. “James wanted Union protection fast.

Not just for status. For survival. Every time they fought off one attack, another came.

Every time they buried people, he got more desperate. He wanted legitimacy. He wanted

backup. He wanted to stop bleeding.”

“And Arya?” I asked, though I already knew part of that answer.

Maxwell’s expression shifted.

“He wanted it for her too,” he said. “That’s the damned tragedy of it. In his head, securing

the pack meant securing Arya. He wanted to make sure she’d never be vulnerable if he

fell, if he was away, if the next attack came bigger than the last.” His mouth flattened.

“Fear can dress itself up as protection and still ruin everything it touches.”

My fingers tightened once around each other.

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In the quiet that followed, I saw Arya again as she had been earlier in the yard, chin up,

eyes burning, body shaking only when she thought no one would notice. I saw the rage

she wore like armour. I saw the grief underneath it, still wet, still open. And I saw

James’s shape in the wound whether I wanted to or not.

Maxwell kept talking.

“I felt sorry for them,” he said. “James and Arya. They weren’t polished. They weren’t

political. But they were decent. Honest. They fought together. They were trying to build

something real.” He looked at me meaningfully. “I told them to wait.”

My gaze sharpened. “For me.”

“Yes.” The answer came without hesitation. “You were away. The law said five years, but

I knew if you returned and saw the situation for yourself, you’d at least hear them out.

Maybe find a lawful way to move things faster. Maybe shield them under a stronger

alliance until their time was up.”

I breathed out through my nose, slow.

A memory tugged at me, Maxwell mentioning a young Alpha with grit, with a smart

Luna, saying they had potential, saying they needed patience. At the time, I had half

listened while handling other fires. Blackbirth politics. Council rot. Radimir’s balancing

acts. My own obligations. I had told him we would look at it when I returned properly.

When I returned properly.

Too late.

Maxwell watched something darken in my face and gave me a hard look. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Start carrying guilt for choices James made.”

I looked at him and said nothing.

He grunted. “I know that face.”

I let the silence sit, then said, “What changed? When did he turn to Marcel?”

Maxwell’s jaw shifted with irritation. “After more attacks. After more losses. After fear

had enough time to sink its teeth in. James got impatient. Worse, he got isolated in his

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