The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 109

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 109**

In the thick of the night, a second wave of reporters descended upon Celestine like a pack of wolves, their questions snapping through the air with a ferocity that made her heart race. The tension was palpable, clinging to her skin like a heavy fog.

“Miss Ward, can you confirm that your final dance was indeed your own creation? Where and when did you compose it? Do you have proof that this is your work?” one reporter barked, his microphone thrust forward as if it were a weapon.

“Miss Ward, we have not heard of any previous choreography from you—was this a sudden burst of inspiration, or does the credit belong to someone else?” another chimed in, eyes glinting with the thrill of the chase.

“Miss Ward,” a third voice interjected, “some masters have noted clear stylistic differences tonight, yet you are credited with choreography across the board. How much of this is genuinely your hand? Seventy percent, eighty percent, or are you merely a name on the roster?”

The microphones and cameras swarmed around her, a relentless swarm of questions and flashing lights. Celestine felt the air grow thick in her lungs, each breath a struggle against the mounting pressure. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, a wild drum echoing her rising anxiety.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Fenrir rise from his seat, his powerful form moving with purpose to intercept the relentless inquisitors. A heavy paw landed on his shoulder, and a low voice, imbued with calm authority, broke through the chaos.

“I’ll handle this. You go secure the perimeter,” Damon instructed, his presence a steadying force amidst the storm.

Damon had come to the theater during intermission, despite his initial reluctance to attend. The news of the skirmish at the entrance—Aysel and Magnus confronting the intruders—had piqued his curiosity and ignited a faint hope of seeing Aysel again.

As Celestine danced flawlessly on stage, Damon’s mind wandered back to the memory of that radiant young wolf he had seen on a distant stage years ago. It felt like an eternity since he had witnessed her grace.

Realizing that Aysel would not make an appearance tonight, he had planned to slip away quietly, but fate had other plans, presenting an unexpected spectacle before him.

Alpha Remus and Luna were ill-suited for a confrontation under the glaring lights of the cameras, and Lykos was too young to navigate the chaos that ensued. Damon stepped forward, aligning himself with Fenrir to tame the wild surge of reporters. After all, Celestine still carried the weight of the Blackwood name, her betrothal marking her as a ward of the Eastern Alpha.

Meanwhile, Magnus’s hand rested lightly on Aysel’s shoulder. His grin was inscrutable, eyes glinting as he watched Damon step into the camera frame.

“Your former companion shows quite the devotion to your adoptive sister,” he murmured, a teasing lilt in his voice.

Yet the pack’s predators were not so easily deterred.

The first reporter snapped back, teeth bared in the form of accusation. “But videos online show another wolf performing ‘Chasing the Wind’ earlier than you!”

Celestine felt the tension spike in her chest, a familiar anxiety creeping in. She remembered the girl, lying in a hospital bed, awaiting surgery before the performance. But she relaxed her stance, confidence surging back like a tide.

“To clarify,” she said, her gaze sharp and unwavering, “‘Chasing the Wind’ was the product of long, meticulous effort—not a fleeting inspiration. The secrecy was imperfect, so perhaps someone glimpsed fragments and misappropriated them. But no one has seen the final form until tonight. My premiere remains unrivaled.”

Though irritation flickered within her—her carefully orchestrated triumph interrupted—her posture remained regal, a queen amidst the chaos. Both predator and prey were acutely aware that the hunt was far from over.

The murmurs of the pack buzzed around her, a cacophony of doubt and speculation, but Celestine stood unmoved, the sovereign of her own stage, the hunt still firmly in her grasp.