The night of the Festival of Moons arrived faster than Aveloria expected. Her father had been restless all day, inspecting decorations, reviewing security, and rehearsing speeches with his advisors. The palace had never been this alive. Everywhere she turned, servants hurried through hallways carrying trays of gold goblets, baskets of moonflowers, or rolls of embroidered silk. Musicians tuned their instruments, the faint hum of strings filling the air.
It was her birthday, the night of her coming of age, and the night that, for the first time in her life, she dreaded more than she anticipated.
Aveloria stood by the mirror as two maids fastened the last clasp of her gown. It was made of silver fabric that somewhat shone, regal but straightforward. The color matched the royal crest of Lycanthria. Her hair was pulled back into a neat braid that cascaded down her back, pinned with tiny moonstone clips.
"You look beautiful, my lady," Seren said softly.
Aveloria forced a smile. "Thank you."
When they left, she exhaled slowly and looked at her reflection. Her face was calm, but her stomach felt tight. It had been days since she woke up in this second chance at life, and she still couldn't shake the feeling of walking through a story she already knew the ending to.
In those few days, she had paid close attention to everything, the glances, the whispers, the things she had missed.
Her stepsister Rowena had been kind, but it was the kind that made Aveloria's skin crawl now. The false concern, the too-sweet smiles, the quiet ways she made everything about her. Aveloria saw clearly this time, the early signs of manipulation she had once ignored, how Rowena charmed everyone subtly, and how she complimented others while planting little seeds of doubt about Aveloria's fragile state.
Aveloria didn't call her out. She watched. Waiting. This second chance at life would show her who her enemies really were.
The Royal Hall had been transformed for the Festival. When Aveloria entered with her family, a soft murmur rolled through the crowd. The hall was enormous, built from marble and ancient wood. The ceilings were made of enchanted crystal and were completely transparent, giving everyone a direct view of the glowing full moon above.
Hundreds of candles floated in the air, their flames steady despite the light breeze. Long tables filled with food and golden cups stretched across the room. Banners representing every noble house hung from the walls, each marked with its family sigil.
It was overwhelming. The entire werewolf world seemed to have gathered here, Alphas from distant packs, their heirs, lords, merchants, and diplomats. Everyone who mattered was here to witness the Heiress of Lycanthria come of age.
As Aveloria walked beside her father toward the raised royal dais, she heard snippets of conversations.
"She's twenty-one now, isn't she? Still hasn't shifted?"
"Maybe this is the year. The moon is bright tonight."
"She looks strong, at least. The King must be proud."
Her father, Alaric, held his head high, pretending not to hear the comments. But Aveloria could tell he did. He always did.
When they reached the high table, he gestured for her to sit beside him. On his other side sat Evander, already stealing pieces of roasted meat from the platter, while Seraphina and Serene whispered to each other, eyes sparkling with excitement.
"Breathe, daughter," her father murmured. "It's your night. Enjoy it."
She nodded, even though the air felt heavier than it should.
The first part of the night was full of entertainment. Jesters in colorful masks performed tricks, tossing flaming batons into the air. Dancers twirled with ribbons that shone like liquid light. A troupe of clowns from the Crescent Vale performed comical sketches that had the twins laughing so hard they cried.
For a while, Aveloria almost forgot to be anxious. Then came the presentation of gifts. One by one, noble families stepped forward, bowing deeply before her father and laying down their offerings, chests of coins, rare fabrics, hunting weapons, even magical herbs said to enhance wolf strength.
Aveloria thanked each of them politely, her smile measured and steady. She was good at this part, being the heiress everyone expected her to be.
Then, the music slowed. The herald at the door struck his staff on the marble three times.
"Presenting Lord Eldric Thaleborn of HighMoor Clan," he announced, "and his son, Marek Thaleborn."
The hall fell into a hum of interest. Aveloria's hand froze on her goblet. She hadn't seen him since her rebirth. She knew he'd be here, but part of her had hoped he'd stay away forever. The Thaleborns were one of the oldest and wealthiest houses in the kingdom and across other lands.
The crowd parted as they entered. Lord Eldric was as imposing as she remembered; tall, with a neatly trimmed beard and eyes sharp as a hawk's. His son walked beside him, and for a moment, Aveloria's breath caught.
Marek looked almost exactly as he had in her memories. He was broad-shouldered, confident, and dressed in expensive attire that made him look exceptional. His dark hair was neatly tied back, and his expression was calm but commanding.
She remembered those grey, cool, unreadable eyes. The whispers started immediately.
"That's him, Marek Thaleborn."
"The heir of HighMoor. Handsome as ever."
"They say his father's wealth rivals the royal treasury."
Even the women at the lower tables leaned in for a better look. Marek carried himself efficiently, which drew attention without needing to try.
When they reached the dais, both men bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty," Eldric said, "it is an honor to celebrate the moon's blessing upon your daughter."
"The honor is ours," Alaric replied warmly. "Your family's presence brings grace to this hall."
Eldric gestured to Marek. "My son has prepared a token worthy of the occasion."
Marek stepped forward and signaled to two attendants behind him. They carried a large chest that gleamed under the candlelight. When opened, it revealed an array of gifts, glittering jewelry crafted from moonstones and diamonds, rare fragrances sealed in glass bottles, and a portrait painting of a breathtaking landscape signed by the most famous artist of the age. Beneath it lay a pouch of rare, uncut gems that sparkled with unnatural brightness.
The hall murmured in admiration.
Alaric's eyes widened. "This is extraordinary," he said, examining the painting. "The Valley of Stars, painted by Edrien himself. This must have taken months."
Marek bowed slightly. "Only the best for the future queen."
Aveloria kept her expression composed, though her heart was racing. He was as charming as she remembered, confident, smooth, and carefully respectful.
"Thank you," she said, her tone cool.
Marek met her eyes briefly. For a second, it felt like the air around them thickened. Something inside her chest fluttered. A low, sharp pull spread through her body, one she recognized too well.
No. Not again.
She tried to suppress it, but the feeling grew stronger, spreading warmth and static beneath her skin. Marek's eyes widened as he felt it too.
The mate bond. It hit her like lightning.
He turned toward the crowd, his expression brightening. "The Moon has blessed me!" he said suddenly, his voice ringing across the hall. "The Heiress of Lycanthria is my mate!"
The room went silent. All eyes turned to her.
Aveloria felt everyone's gaze pressing on her, nobles, elders, servants. Her father's expression turned from confusion to astonished joy.
"Truly?" Alaric said, his voice breaking with emotion. "My daughter's wolf awakens at last?"
Eldric laughed heartily and clapped his son on the shoulder. "Fate smiles upon both our houses. This is a union the Moon herself must have planned."
The nobles erupted into applause. Some cheered, others whispered. The announcement was everything they hoped for; the Heiress finally found her mate, and the kingdom's most powerful families would be joined.
But Aveloria didn't smile. Her body trembled as the bond burned through her chest, tugging toward him, demanding connection. It was just like before, the heat, the confusion, the rush that clouded her thoughts.
She forced herself to remember what came after. The lies. The betrayal. The forest. The ropes. She wouldn't let this happen again.
Aveloria stood slowly. "Marek Thaleborn," she said, her voice steady but cold. "You claim me as your mate?"
"Yes," he said proudly, stepping closer. "And I will protect you for the rest of my life."
His confidence only fueled her anger.
She was ready to reject him, to humiliate him in front of everyone, to make sure history didn't repeat itself when a sudden wave of dizziness hit her.
It wasn't from the bond. It was something else.
The air in the hall changed. The temperature dropped. A hush fell again as the herald's staff struck the floor.
"Announcing Lord Theron Duskbane of Moonveil Pack," he called, "Alpha of Moonveil and Guardian of the Northern Border."
The great doors opened.
A group of tall figures entered, dressed in black and silver armor. At their center was a man with striking silver-blond hair and pale eyes. He carried an aura that commanded authority, not by force, but by presence.
Theron Duskbane.
Aveloria's head turned sharply toward him. And then she felt it, a second pulse, a second bond. Her breath caught.
Across the hall, Theron stopped walking. His eyes locked on hers. The crowd noticed. Gasps spread like ripples across the room.
Two bonds. Two mates. It was unheard of.
Aveloria's father rose from his seat, stunned. "By the Moon…" he whispered.
Theron's voice broke the silence. "Mate," he said, his tone low but sure.
Marek's face hardened instantly. "What did you say?"
Theron stepped forward, ignoring him. "She is mine."
Aveloria's heart pounded so loudly she thought everyone could hear it. The pull between both men was real, two distinct energies pulling her in opposite directions. One familiar and tainted by past betrayal, the other new and powerful, like a surge of something ancient.
Eldric moved quickly, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. "This must be a mistake," he said, forcing a strained laugh. "The Moon Spirit does not bind one soul to two mates."
But no one laughed with him. Everyone in the hall had seen the glow, the reaction, the truth.
Alaric turned to Aveloria, his expression torn between awe and confusion. "Daughter," he said softly. "What is happening?"
Aveloria could barely speak. "I…don't know."
The pull inside her chest burned stronger—two forces, familiar and warm, the other sharp and cold, tangled inside her.
Theron stepped closer until he was just a few feet away. He bowed his head. "I did not come here seeking this," he said. "But the bond doesn't lie."
The nobles began whispering again. Words like;
"Impossible,"
"Divine,"
"Curse" floated around.
Marek's eyes darkened. "She's my mate!" he snapped, his composure cracking.
Theron's gaze was steady. "Then perhaps the Moon has chosen her for more than one destiny."
Aveloria swallowed hard. This was the moment everything was changing again. The pattern of her past was breaking right before her eyes.
Her father called for calm, his voice rising over the noise. "Enough! The Moon Spirit's will is sacred. We will not question it tonight. The Festival continues. We will consult the Elders tomorrow."
Reluctantly, the hall settled, but the mood had changed completely. Every eye in the room followed Aveloria as she sat back down. Her hands trembled in her lap. The two men stood on opposite sides of the hall, one fuming, the other silent, and she could feel both.
The Festival of Moons, once meant to celebrate her coming of age, had turned into something else entirely. Perhaps a sign?
The Moon had given her another path, and she doesn't know if she should follow it, no matter where it led, or abandon it all.