He Chose the Fake Luna, So I Destroyed His Pack

Chapter 1

The snow beneath Freya Vance’s boots wasn't white anymore. It was a vicious, steaming crimson, spreading outward like a macabre inkblot in the moonlight.

"You're a long way from home, little witch," the rogue snarled, wiping a streak of black blood from his jaw. He was a massive, scarred brute, his yellow eyes glowing with feral hunger. "Step aside. Ironcrest's borders fall tonight."

"The borders of Ironcrest fall when I am dead," Freya replied, her voice eerily calm despite the agonizing tearing sensation in her abdomen.

She raised her hands, and the shadows of the pine trees elongated, snapping to attention like trained soldiers. As a Shadow-Seer, her magic wasn't the flashy, elemental kind that garnered public awe. It was dark, silent, and lethal. It was the secret foundation upon which Alpha Julian Cross had built his untouchable empire.

The rogue lunged, his silver-laced claws aimed directly at her throat. Freya didn't flinch. She flicked her wrist, and the shadows rose from the snow, hardening into razor-sharp spikes. The rogue impaled himself before he could even register the movement, his body going limp with a wet gasp.

Silence fell over the northern ridge, save for the howling winter wind. Three rogues lay dead at her feet. The pack’s magical wards remained intact.

But as the adrenaline began to ebb, the true cost of the battle hit her.

Freya collapsed to her knees, clutching her side. The second rogue had gotten a lucky strike, his silver-coated claws tearing through her flesh and grazing her spirit-wolf’s core. Inside her mind, her wolf let out a pitiful, fading whimper, curling into a tight ball of agony. The silver was poisoning them both.

Her hands trembling, Freya reached into the pocket of her tactical jacket and pulled out her phone. The screen was cracked, but she managed to dial the one number that was supposed to be her safe harbor. Her Alpha. Her mate.

The line rang three times before it clicked open. Background noise instantly flooded the speaker—clinking glasses, sweeping classical music, and the low hum of a hundred laughing voices.

"Julian," Freya breathed, her teeth chattering as the cold began to seep into her bones.

"Freya? I specifically told you not to call me tonight," Julian’s voice snapped through the receiver, dripping with irritation. "I am in the middle of a very delicate event."

"The northern wards," she gasped, pressing her frozen palm against her bleeding side. "Three rogues. Silver-laced weapons. I stopped them, Julian, but I'm... I'm hit. My wolf is fading. I need a medical extraction team."

There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the line, the sound of a man profoundly inconvenienced. "Are the wards secure?"

Freya blinked, a single tear of pain freezing on her eyelashes. "Yes. But Julian, I am bleeding out."

"Then wrap it up and walk back to the infirmary," Julian ordered, his tone utterly devoid of warmth. "You always handle these things, Freya. You're the strongest wolf in the