Luna Forsaken (Arya and James) novel Chapter 203

203 What Was Left 2

James’s POVO

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Nothing about Leah had been easy from the start, and now that I no longer even

pretended warmth toward her, she had become stubborn in the way entitled people do

when life refuses to honour the version they were promised. She would fight. Marcel

would rage. The Union would hear. Questions would rise. But there was no hesitation in

me when I answered.

“Alright.”

Maxwell didn’t blink.

“Second, you give Arya land.”

That one hit differently. Not because I disagreed. Because it went straight back to the

cell and the things I had said there. I saw her at once in my head. Rage in her eyes. Grief

under it. Chains. Blood. The look on her face when my words landed and I kept going

anyway because once I started being cruel I was too far gone to stop.

Land. Compensation. Recognition. Justice maybe, in the only shape still possible for

some things.

I didn’t think long.

“Done.”

My voice came out rougher than before. I swallowed and said it again more clearly.

“Even if you didn’t ask, I owe her that much.”

It was too small a sentence for what I owed her. I knew it. Maxwell knew it. But some

debts cannot be paid properly. They can only be named through whatever remains

possible. Land was possible. Respect was possible. Stepping back from what I had once

assumed was only mine was possible. Returning the child was not. Undoing the betrayal

was not. Taking back the words I threw at her in that cell was not. But land, yes. That at

least I could give without bargaining and without dressing it up as generosity when it

should only be restitution.

Maxwell nodded once. He looked almost relieved by how quickly I agreed, though the

feeling disappeared before it fully settled. I sat there for a few seconds after that staring

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at nothing. The room had gone quiet again. Nixon still had not interrupted. He was smart

enough to know this part was not for him even if he was witness to it.

I do not know exactly what broke in me then. Maybe nothing new. Maybe just the last

piece of pride that had still been trying to stand through this whole conversation.

Whatever it was, it let the next words come out before I could stop them.

“Will you tell her I’m sorry?”

Maxwell’s face changed only slightly. I kept going because now that I had started,

stopping would have been cowardice again.

“If you see her before I do, if I ever do, just…” I rubbed my thumb hard against my palm because my hands needed something to do. “Tell her if I could do it over again, I

wouldn’t go to Marcel. I wouldn’t even start the pack.”

That confession hit harder than I expected once it was in the air. Because I had wanted Nightwind so badly once. Wanted it with all the hunger of a man who had lost too much of his place in the world and thought building one from the ground up would finally quiet that ache. And maybe it had, for a while. When Arya was there. When she stood beside me and argued with me and fought for the pack and made that land feel like something built by four hands instead of two. When she was laughing in the kitchen or walking patrol lines like she owned the moonlight. When I came back bruised and tired and found her waiting and thought, without saying it, that maybe all of it had been worth

it because it had led me there.

Without her, the pack still existed. Without her, Nightwind was just land, houses, men,

pressure, enemies, and ghosts.

I looked at Maxwell and forced the rest out with as much composure as I could gather.

“I’ve lost more than I ever imagined I could. And my life feels empty right now.”

There. No strategy in that. No Alpha posture. No attempt to make it sound noble. Just the truth in the plainest way I could survive saying it.

Maxwell was quiet for a long moment. Something in his face shifted. Not forgiveness. Not even softness exactly. Just something touched. Maybe because he knew I meant it. Maybe because even furious fathers can still recognise when a man has finally looked properly at the wreckage he made and understood some of it will never be rebuilt.

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When he spoke, his voice was calmer.

“You should make wiser decisions henceforth.”

It was almost dry enough to be cruel. Almost. I nodded.

“I know.”

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He held my gaze one more beat, then moved the conversation back to the place where

men like us lived best, plans, structure, salvage.

“For now, you will hand Nightwind to me.”

I went still. Not because I was offended. Because I wanted to be sure I had heard him

properly. Maxwell saw that and continued before I could ask.

“I’ll hold it under Dragonclaw.”

The shape of the idea started to form. He stepped to the table and tapped two fingers

lightly against the edge of the map spread there, like the territories and routes could

explain it cleaner than words alone.

“That way, my Union membership extends over the land. As if I acquired territory. With

you remaining the Alpha I put in charge.”

I stared at him. It was bold. Clean. Dangerous in all the right ways. Nightwind would not

disappear. I would not lose command in practice. But on paper, in politics, at the level

that mattered to circling wolves and Union rules, Dragonclaw would cover us. Protection

through acquisition. Shelter through rank. Legitimacy by association until time and

process caught up.

Maxwell kept going, his voice steady.

“When Lev takes over properly, I will have him certify Nightwind as a pack and hand it

back to you.”

Lev. That name hit in its own way, not painfully exactly, more like another reminder of

how much the world had shifted while I was drowning in my own mistakes. Blackbirth.

Lev. Union succession. Dragonclaw’s reach. Arya somewhere under that same protection.

Maxwell’s plan was the first thing I had heard in months that did not smell like panic

wearing strategy’s clothes.

“That is the best way to go about it,” he finished.

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He was right. Obviously right. It protected Nightwind now. Denied wolves like Boris easy

reason. Put me under a Union Alpha’s visible protection without forcing some fake

rushed process through rotten hands. Bought time. Bought legitimacy. Bought survival.

And it was coming from Maxwell of all people. Arya’s adopted father.

I did not think long. There was no reason to.

“I agree.”

It felt strange how easy that was. Not because handing Nightwind over, even

temporarily, even structurally, was small. Because I was too tired of drowning to reject

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