The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 107

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 107**

**Aysel’s POV**

For as long as I could remember, a singular truth had settled deep in my bones—my understanding of what truly mattered to a wolf granted me an unnerving clarity when it came to Celestine. It was as if I could peel back the layers of her facade and see her for who she truly was, and that was both painful and liberating.

In the grand tapestry of our lives, the Moonvale Pack and Damon were mere threads, easily overlooked.

Celestine’s battles had never revolved around the warmth of family or the sweetness of love.

No, her true war had always been fought on the stage, under the harsh glare of lights and the watchful eyes of the audience.

I grasped this fundamental truth.

Celestine, too, was acutely aware of it.

To truly dismantle a wolf, to plunge her into the depths of despair, one need not strip away her love or her connections.

Not at all.

The real devastation comes when you seize the one thing she holds dear—the very essence of her being: her dignity, her pride, the innate talent that allows her to rise from the ashes time and time again.

Affection can be pilfered.

Love can be twisted and turned, a puppet on strings.

Pack politics can be navigated with cunning.

But a wolf’s inherent gift—her skill—remains untouched, unyielding.

Years ago, when I found myself crumbling beneath the weight of my own burdens, the stage became my sanctuary. It was the only place where I could draw in a breath that felt free and untainted. I poured every fragment of my wounded self into the art of dance, blossoming like a flower defying the frost of winter—so vibrant that even Celestine, who had already been blessed with so much, was consumed by envy.

Outside the stifling confines of the Moonvale Pack, I was reborn.

I was no longer the fragile girl they had kept shackled, suffocated under the weight of guilt and expectation.

I was no longer the child drowning in the sins that had been handed down through generations.

Before the eyes of audiences and the discerning gaze of master choreographers, I transformed into something untouchable.

With my claws sheathed and my head held high, I dazzled every soul brave enough to witness my ascent.

In those fleeting moments, the favoritism of my kin, the betrayals woven into the fabric of my childhood—none of it mattered.

And Celestine recognized something deeply unsettling.

The girl she had ensnared—like a delicate butterfly trapped beneath the crushing weight of blood debts and gratitude—was on the verge of breaking free.

The final blow to her fragile ego came when Giovanna, the idol Celestine had revered for years yet had scarcely dared to approach, extended a hand of friendship—

not to her,

but to me.

Celestine had pleaded with her parents, twisting their arms, pulling every string she could find, and even then, the only reason she secured an audition was because of her connection to “Aysel Vale’s sister.”

She fought fiercely for that chance, pouring her heart and soul into every moment.

Yet she never found the courage to seize it.

To stand on that same stage as me—

me, the once-in-a-lifetime marvel—

was akin to entering a race where I was the eternal 0.01 seconds she could never hope to surpass.

A waking nightmare.

So Celestine struck first, a preemptive blow.

Unlike me, she had no chains binding her down.

Not even when the elders of Moonvale confined me for nights on end in the dark isolation chamber, a punishment meant to crush my spirit.

That very night, she stood outside my door, listening.

Inside, my sobs were muffled, strangled sounds clawing their way from the depths of my heart. They mingled, she later told me, with echoes of her own childhood:

the helpless cries of a little girl ensnared beneath her father’s fists.

Together, those memories formed the most hauntingly beautiful music she had ever encountered.

In the stillness of the corridor, she had smiled—gentle, serene.

She pirouetted lightly, a fleeting moment of grace in the face of darkness.

Then she returned to her room, sinking into the best sleep of her life.

Now, years later, I found myself in the private rest chamber that Julia had arranged for the performers, my gaze locked onto the screen displaying Celestine Ward—her exquisite turns, her graceful arches, the full breadth of what she had become.

I understood what it meant to fall from grace.

To be severed from the stage that had once been my lifeblood.

To bleed my heart dry for a dream, only to watch it wither and die before my eyes.

Time had moved on, but Celestine had poured even more of herself into her craft than before.

She had morphed into precisely what the packs whispered about—

the perfect villainess.

I inhaled slowly, the air heavy with unspoken words.

Celestine Ward… this time, can you still find the strength to rise again?