Chapter 8 – Blood‑Moon Ambush

“The festival is tradition,” Captain Varek said, voice hard. “The prince must preside, even if he can’t stand.”

Cyr scowled from his chair. “Let them burn their traditions.”

“It’s political,” Varek warned. “Show weakness, and the rival packs will sense blood.”

“Then I’ll bleed alone.”

Eileen placed a folded cloak over his lap.

Cyr glanced at her. “You think I should go?”

She didn’t nod—but she didn’t look away, either.

Something about her stillness made him sigh.

“Fine,” he growled. “But I’m not being paraded like a cripple.”

—

By twilight, the Blood‑Moon rose—huge and crimson above the forest ridge. Bonfires lit the glade. Nobles in fur-lined cloaks gathered to witness the ancient hunt.

Cyr remained unseen behind the ridge, hidden in shadows.

Eileen crouched beside his chair, adjusting the hood of his cloak.

“You remember the signal?” he murmured.

She tapped twice on the wheel rim. Yes.

He exhaled. “You’re not just a servant. You’re a strategist.”