Lysandra’s POV

He studied me with penetrating gray eyes. “This is not a decision to make lightly.”

“It’s not hasty,” I replied. “I’ve had months to consider this path.”

A servant was dispatched to fetch Luna Isolde, returning moments later with the elegant matriarch of the Wolfbane family. Her silver-gray gown flowed around her like liquid moonlight as she entered, her presence immediately commanding the space.

“Lysandra wishes to undergo the severance ritual tonight,” Fenris explained before I could speak.

Isolde’s composed expression faltered. “What happened? What did Tristan do?”

I swallowed hard. How could I explain two years of systematic cruelty in a few sentences? The cutting remarks, the cold shoulders, the open disdain—a marriage that existed only on paper.

“The bond was never real,” I said simply. “He never accepted what you arranged.”

Although they had been nice to me, I couldn’t tell them about the twins. Tristan had been brutally clear—he would never allow his heir to be carried by a “defective specimen” like me.

Fenris moved toward the ancient fireplace, his gaze fixed on a mural depicting the pack’s history.

“Where will you go?” he asked.

“I’ll leave the pack.”

“Like a Rogue?” Fenris asked, his tone both serious and concerned. “Do you understand what that means?”

I nodded. I knew little about Rogues except that they belonged to no pack. But I had no one here who truly wanted me, and I had to protect my babies. What choice did I have?

Fenris shook his head, deep lines forming on his brow. “Please reconsider, Lysandra.”

My mind wandered back to when Tristan signed the scroll without hesitation. If he didn’t reconsider, why should I?

“I’m sorry, Alpha. I’ve made up my mind.”

The lines on his face deepened, and he let out a sigh of resignation. He had done everything in his power to make his son realize I was his best choice, and I appreciated his efforts. But Tristan had always been stubborn, and now it had come to this.

Something flickered in his eyes—a deeper knowledge, as if he was considering implications far beyond tonight’s ritual.

“Perhaps,” he said, his voice dropping, “this is precisely the path foretold in the prophecy… Separation is not the end, but a necessary trial.”

I frowned. What prophecy? Tristan had mentioned something similar during our worst arguments, accusing me of manipulating his father through some ancient prediction.

Before I could ask, Fenris sighed. “If this is truly your choice, I will respect it.”

Just then, the heavy oak doors crashed open and Tristan stormed in, his ritual robes billowing behind him like dark wings.

“Lysandra!” he growled, striding toward me.

All eyes turned as he approached and grabbed my wrist, pulling me toward him.

His expression was anything but pleasant. “What schemes have you been whispering to my father behind my back?” he sneered, accusation heavy in his voice. “Another prophecy perhaps?”