Chapter 2

A deafening explosion was my only answer to the fake "thank you" crackling from the speakers.

Thirty-foot iron gates of the Packhouse, plus the walls on both sides, shredded into a rain of debris under the unleashed fury of star-forged power.

The celebration music died mid-note.

The blast wave hurled two dozen visiting Alphas and high-ranking Betas off the red carpet, their screams tearing through the manufactured gaiety.

I landed on a staircase of condensed starlight and descended step by step, my sleeping daughter cradled in my arms.

Through the drifting dust, my cold gaze locked onto the white marble dais, where Alpha Orlando's proud, imperious face had gone completely rigid.

Beside him stood a girl wearing a crown of starlit diamonds — with the Star-Moon Tear, the artifact I'd left behind all those years ago, draped openly around her neck.

The smug smile on her face hadn't even had time to fade.

"Who dares storm the Packhouse?!"

Orlando's twelve elite Warriors were the first to react, bursting into feral howls.

Their bodies swelled and contorted into massive black-and-gray wolf forms, lunging at me from the elevated steps.

I didn't even blink.

"Get out of my sight."

The single word carried invisible pressure that slammed down on them mid-leap.

A force of pure stellar might crushed down on their bones. The wolves' bodies twisted and cracked, the sound of splintering bone tearing through the silence.

The twelve mighty wolves hit the ground in a tangle before Orlando's feet, spraying blood, alive or dead I neither knew nor cared.

The hall fell into a silence so deep you could hear people swallowing their screams.

"M-Megan?"

Orlando finally recognized me. His eyes caught the star-mark burning between my brows, and he sucked in a sharp breath — something scraping his throat raw.

Pride and villainy drained from his face, replaced by shock, savage delight, and disbelief.

"You're back? You actually came back — now, of all times!" The affection in his voice didn't reach his eyes. "Megan, do you have any idea how much I've missed you these sixteen years?"

And then he spread his arms and took a step toward me, the stage-managed tenderness of a man about to hug me.

"You're just in time! Today's the Awakening Ceremony — our daughter Stella's First Shift! Come, come look at her, she looks just like you!"

I looked at the man who once swore he'd guard us with his life, and my stomach turned.

I hovered above him, and when I spoke, my voice came out low and flat as a grave in midwinter: "You still have the nerve to face me."

"Megan... what's wrong with you?" Orlando faltered, as if he could actually feel the murderous intent rolling off me.

Then his gaze dropped to the blood-smeared bundle in my arms and his brow wrinkled in open disgust.

"What is that filthy thing you're carrying? Today is Stella's big day. Why would you bring some corpse into the hall?"

A filthy corpse.

He called his own daughter a filthy corpse.

A laugh clawed its way out of me — bitter, humorless. The air around me turned to ice.

"Mother..." The false Stella came back to herself fast.

She scooped up her gilded skirts and hurried down the steps, composing her face into wide eyes and a trembling lip — the devoted daughter, right on cue.

"Mother, you're finally home! Stella has prayed for you every single day. That thing in your arms... oh! Isn't that the raving blood-slave from the underground black market? Mother, don't touch it — a dirty Rogue like that will stain your hands."

She looked at girl in my arms, and for an instant something venomous flickered in her eyes.

"Raving blood-slave?" I tilted my head, studying the impostor's face wearing my daughter's rightful place.

"Yes, Mother. She's a husk — drained dry. And before that, she had the nerve to claw her way into my blessing ceremony in a fit. Father had to order her thrown into the pit to feed the wolves..."

I didn't let her finish.

I raised my hand. Blue starlight burst at my fingertips. A single blow threw her forty feet across the plaza.

She hit the white marble statue in the center and shattered it on impact. Half her face caved in; a spray of blood and broken teeth painted the ground.

The crown rolled away, and with it, the Star-Moon Tear splashed into the pool of blood.

I gazed down at the wreckage — at the girl who had stolen my daughter's life and worn it like a costume.

When I spoke, my voice came out soft. Quiet. Colder for it.

"A daughter of mine can hate me. Curse me. Even wish me dead — that's her right."

A pause, then: "But whoever does the hating can't be a fake."