The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 71

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 71**

The question lingered in the atmosphere, curling and twisting like swirling smoke—were they genuinely what the crowd perceived them to be?

An uneasy silence enveloped the ballroom, thick with tension. No one dared to voice their thoughts, yet every pair of eyes was aflame with a mix of curiosity and trepidation.

Across the vast expanse of the ballroom, two Alphas stood in stark opposition—one, Damon, radiated pride, while the other, Magnus, exuded raw power. An invisible electricity sparked between them, crackling with unspoken animosity. Beneath the surface, Damon’s fury simmered, a molten core ready to erupt, while Magnus regarded him with the icy detachment of a predator who had already claimed victory.

Magnus’s eyes glimmered like silver under the flickering torchlight, devoid of any warmth, brimming instead with contempt.

He had no desire to acknowledge Damon, his former rival. The very essence of Damon’s existence—his relentless struggle for supremacy, his desperate attempts to assert his status and titles—was trivial in Magnus’s eyes. Let the Eastern Alpha cling to his delusions of control; Magnus had obliterated those illusions the moment he set foot in Moonvale’s territory, a fact he relished.

“Let go,” Magnus finally commanded, his voice low and menacing, resonating through the very bones of those who heard it.

In response, Damon’s grip on Aysel’s wrist tightened, his fingers digging in as if to anchor himself amidst the chaos. The bond scars on his arm flared to life, a vivid reminder of his primal rage. Deep within the recesses of his mind, he recognized that the turmoil of this night traced back to the Shadowbane family—no tangible proof, only an unwavering certainty that gnawed at him.

Yet, despite this awareness, he found himself unable to rein in his emotions. His anger, jealousy, and the desperate need to reclaim what he had already lost consumed him like an uncontrollable wildfire, leaving nothing but devastation in its wake.

Aysel winced under the pressure of his grip, a flicker of pain crossing her features.

Before Magnus could react, Aysel took matters into her own hands. With a swift twist of her knee, she unleashed a precise, brutal kick that connected sharply with Damon’s leg.

The sound of the impact echoed through the hall, a sharp crack that silenced the murmurs of the crowd.

If not for his Alpha reflexes, Damon would have crumbled to one knee before her. Instead, pain shot up his thigh, and humiliation burned within him, hotter than any flame. He turned to Aysel, disbelief etched across his face.

“Aysel…” His voice trembled, raw and wounded. The shock of being struck by the very woman who once stood steadfastly by his side was almost too much to bear, especially in front of the entire Pack Court.

The Blackwood elders surged forward, their expressions a mixture of panic and disbelief. They caught their son before he could retaliate, while Aysel, now liberated from his grasp, strode confidently toward Magnus.

Her steps were deliberate and unhurried, each one radiating defiance, grace, and a quiet, simmering vengeance.

Aysel shook her head, her honesty shining through as always.

Disregarding the shocked murmurs that rippled through the crowd, Magnus guided her to a long table adorned with a cascade of flowers, their scent mingling with the night air. The aroma of honey, ripe berries, and freshly baked bread enveloped them, creating a sensory tapestry that heightened the moment. He gently ushered her into a seat, his hand never leaving hers, a silent declaration of unity.

The onlookers watched, caught in a whirlwind of disbelief and awe. What they witnessed was dominance of the highest order—not through violence, but through an overwhelming presence. Magnus was an Alpha who could bend the world to his will without raising his voice, commanding respect and admiration effortlessly.

He selected an array of delicate pastries, placing them before her with care, before lifting a glass of rich, crimson fruit wine from a nearby tray. “Eat,” he instructed softly, his tone both gentle and firm.

Aysel complied, graceful and serene, as the entire hall bore witness to the Shadowbane Rafe tending to her with a gentleness that radiated an unmistakable sense of dangerous possession.

Silence reigned. No one dared to speak, the weight of the moment pressing down on them like a thick fog.

The Moonvale feast had transformed into a coronation, and every wolf present understood that from this night forward, the name Aysel Vale would resonate through the packs like an ancient prophecy, echoing in their hearts and minds for generations to come.