Chapter 5

(Sebastian POV)

Tomorrow marks exactly six years since the light was brutally ripped from my life.

Six years of stagnant air, hollow obligations, and suffocating grief.

I stare deeply into the amber liquid resting at the bottom of my heavy crystal tumbler, watching a single square of ice slowly lose its sharp edges. I am twenty-six years old. I should be the seated Alpha of the Obsidian Crest Pack by now. Most Alpha heirs naturally transition power from their fathers between the ages of twenty-five and thirty, a timing explicitly designed to ensure they have already located and bonded with their fated mate.

But my father, Alpha Maximilian, had flatly refused to hand over his title. It wasn't because I lacked the ruthlessness, the strategic brilliance, or the physical prowess to command our vast territory of ten thousand wolves. It was because I lacked a Luna.

A Luna is not just a figurehead. She is the vital anchor to an Alpha's inherent volatility. She brings heart, absolute balance, and is the rare counterweight authorized to question an Alpha’s judgment without facing lethal retribution. Six years ago, my parents had eagerly mapped out their retirement plans, fully anticipating Gwendolyn stepping seamlessly into her rightful place at my side. We were meant to be the golden couple—happily married, likely wrangling two or three rambunctious pups by now, elevating the pack to unprecedented heights of prosperity.

Instead, we buried a box of bloody rags, and my parents watched their son hollow out from the inside until nothing but an engine of cold, cynical fury remained. My father sees my chronic state of mourning as mental fragility. He sees me as broken.

And he's probably right. It’s impossible not to feel entirely shattered when the reminders of her absence are suffocatingly omnipresent. The packhouse has slowly mutated into a macabre museum dedicated to her memory. Every local business flaunts some Gwendolyn-inspired menu item or framed dedication.

Worse still, twice a year, I am forced to stand on a wretched stage in front of twenty thousand judging eyes. I despise these mandatory memorial ceremonies. What I desperately crave on these dark anniversaries is the comforting, absolute isolation of the hidden waterfall deep in the western woods—my personal, secret sanctuary. But instead, I am required to sit in a folding chair and meticulously calibrate my facial expressions. If I show too much unbridled agony, the pack whispers that I am far too weak and erratic to lead. If I remain stoic, they murmur that my reign will be devoid of compassion, that I am disrespecting the memory of the greatest Luna we never had.

Year after year, the speeches follow the exact same, agonizing script. Stories of her baking cookies for the border guards, packaging care baskets for the injured, dedicating hours to her Luna training with a saint’s patience. The only minor blessing is that, as the grieving mate, I am not required to speak.

I had attempted to push back against the pageantry exactly once. I calmly suggested to my father that bathing the pack in perpetual trauma was counterproductive to moving forward. He exploded, accusing me of immense selfishness, declaring that enduring the pressure is the bedrock of carrying the Alpha mantle. My mother had simply looked at me, her eyes overflowing, and asked if I truly wanted to be the monster to tell Beta Reginald and Cordelia that celebrating their dead child was no longer important.

So, I swallow the whiskey. I endure the torture.

The only fleeting, twisted reprieve I receive is when the Little Brat is forced back into the territory. Silas, my wolf, acts incredibly agitated and defensive whenever she is near, a deeply annoying soft spot we violently disagree upon. I ignore him. For me, Seraphina’s annual return serves a singular, necessary purpose: my favorite punching bag is finally back within arm's reach.