The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 230

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 230**

**Finished**

Aysel emerged from the guest chamber of the Shadowbane Estate, a faint yet satisfied smile gracing her lips. There was a lightness to her step, almost as if she were gliding through the corridor adorned with ancestral totems representing the illustrious Sanchez lineage. The air was thick with the weight of history, and she felt a connection to those who had walked these halls before her.

Ahead, she spotted two house attendants—both low-ranking omegas of the Shadowbane Pack—who froze in their tracks upon catching sight of her. The panic was palpable, their wolf-like ears twitching nervously, betraying their fear.

With a casual wave of her hand, Aysel greeted them as if they were merely startled pups. “Ulric Sanchez and his consort Ivy just injured each other in a fight,” she declared, her tone sweet and melodic. “They don’t want to see anyone right now. Give them a little time before you go in to clean up. I’ll take care of informing the others.”

The attendants’ eyes widened in disbelief, their expressions reflecting a mixture of shock and confusion, the scent of their surprise wafting through the air like a chilling mist. Aysel merely hummed to herself, her steps light and carefree as she made her way toward the banquet hall, her movements almost musical in their grace.

**The Birthday Feast of Bastien Sanchez**

Inside the grand hall, Bastien Sanchez—Alpha-Emeritus of the Shadowbane Pack—stood before a towering ceremonial mooncake, surrounded by a throng of children, grandchildren, and dignitaries from allied clans. The atmosphere was festive, filled with laughter and chatter, as he prepared to make the first cut into the lavish dessert.

As he raised the ceremonial blade, he surveyed the crowd, his eyes narrowing as he searched for a familiar face. “Where’s that one?” he muttered, squinting toward Magnus’s usual spot, a mixture of irritation and concern crossing his features.

Magnus, the strongest Alpha on the continent, allowed a small, indulgent smile to grace his lips, the warmth in his eyes softening his otherwise intimidating presence. “She went to play,” he replied, amusement dancing in his voice.

Bastien clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Hmph. No sense of restraint,” he grumbled under his breath, recalling how she had insisted earlier that she needed to stay and witness him cut the cake. The girl was nowhere to be seen, yet an unsettling feeling prickled along the old wolf’s spine, a sense of foreboding that something was amiss.

As if summoned by his thoughts, a bright, ringing voice echoed from the entrance, bursting forth with uncontainable excitement. “Grandfather!”

Every head in the hall turned in unison, the festive atmosphere momentarily shattered. Bastien’s heart plummeted, sinking a full octave. His hand trembled as the blade he held descended, landing squarely on the decorative calligraphy that read “Blessed Birth.” A perfect stroke, yet it severed the character for “Bless” cleanly in half.

Before anyone could react, Aysel strode in, her presence vibrant and electric, like an ecstatic nightingale bursting into song. “Something big just happened!” she announced, her enthusiasm echoing across the hall like a herald proclaiming a festival.

“Magnus’s father and his stepmother just started fighting!” she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

A stunned silence erupted into a cacophony of disbelief. Magnus’s father and his stepmother? Surely, that referred to Ulric Sanchez and his wife. Wait—no, his second wife. Aysel’s choice of the term “stepmother” served as a stark reminder: Ivy had risen to her position by clinging to her lineage, replacing the previous Luna. She had, in fact, been notoriously labeled as the “second mate.”

But Ulric and Ivy? One was a frail, refined noblewoman, while the other was a crippled wolf struggling with a ruined leg. How could they possibly engage in a fight?

The entire hall fell silent, the gravity of his words sinking in. Though everyone was eager to witness the scene firsthand, etiquette forbade a crowd from invading the inner residence of Shadowbane. The banquet was only halfway through, so Ulva, Magnus, Aysel, Derek Sanchez, and three representatives from the Darkmoon Pack followed proper protocol and proceeded to handle the matter.

Ulva and Rollo’s mate exchanged glances before slipping out as well under flimsy excuses, eager to escape the unfolding drama. Meanwhile, Bastien plastered on a diplomatic smile for the guests, masking his inner turmoil. “Old Ulric has no steadiness even at his age. I apologize that you all had to witness this farce.”

The crowd, well-versed in the art of noble hypocrisy, responded quickly with practiced words. “Every pack has its troubles. But your grandson—now he’s impressive, Elder Bastien.”

With polite lies exchanged, the hall gradually returned to its festivities. Yet beneath the surface, the gossip shifted sharply, like a tide turning. Many couldn’t help but recall the days when Ivy and Ulric had caused a sensation throughout the clans—when Ulric still walked proudly and Ivy flaunted their “perfect union,” mocking other families for their illegitimate children and loveless marriages.

And now? What perfect marriage had ended in torn hair and claw marks? Did they love each other so fiercely that they clawed each other to pieces?

Guests exchanged gleeful looks, careful to avoid Bastien’s piercing gaze. With one cheerful announcement, Aysel had ripped open the glamorous façade that Ivy had so carefully crafted.

After enduring enough small talk, Bastien excused himself to “rest.” The moment he was out of sight, his expression darkened, and he jabbed his cane into the ground in pure exasperation. These unfilial wolves! And Magnus—why did he have to fall for that little moon-born menace from the Moonvale Pack?

She wasn’t even officially mated into the family yet, and he could already feel his lifespan shortening with each passing moment. The old Alpha clutched his forehead, reliving the catastrophic scene in his mind, nearly pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.