The next morning, Freya woke to whispers outside her door. She cracked it open to see two warriors speaking in hushed tones, their expressions grim.
“She was found near the eastern border,” one of them said. “A rogue attack, apparently.”
“Rogue? Or something else?” the other replied, his tone heavy with suspicion.
Freya's stomach turned. She slipped out of her room and followed the warriors, her steps light and silent. They led her to a clearing where a crowd had gathered.
At the center of the commotion was a wolf, bloody and barely breathing. It was one of Gray’s scouts, and clutched in his paw was a torn scrap of fabric—a piece of Freya's cloak.
“What is this?” Gray demanded as he stepped into the clearing, his voice sharp.
Lyra stepped forward, her expression a mask of feigned concern. “It seems one of our scouts was ambushed. And look what they found.” She pointed to the fabric, her eyes gleaming with triumph.
Gray’s gaze shifted to Freya, who had just stepped into the clearing. “Explain.”
Freya stared at the fabric, her mind racing. “That’s... mine, but I didn’t—”
Lyra cut her off. “You didn’t what? Lead him into an ambush? Set him up to be attacked? How else would your cloak end up with him?”
“I don’t know!” Freya said, her voice rising. “I didn’t do this!”
“You expect us to believe that?” Lyra sneered. “You’ve been nothing but trouble since you arrived. Maybe it’s time we stopped trusting a girl with a gift for destruction.”
Gray held up a hand, silencing the murmurs around them. “Freya, is there any way your cloak could have been taken without your knowledge?”
Freya's mind raced. She remembered leaving her cloak by the river the day before, where she’d gone to clear her head. “I... I left it near the river. Anyone could have taken it.”
Lyra scoffed. “Convenient excuse.”
“I’m telling the truth!” Freya snapped, her voice trembling.
“Enough!” Gray’s voice boomed, silencing the argument. He turned to Finn, who stood nearby. “Take the scout to the healers. I’ll deal with this.”
As the crowd dispersed, Gray pulled Freya aside. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held a hint of doubt.
“You need to tell me everything, Freya. No more half-truths,” he said quietly.
Freya's throat tightened. “Gray, I didn’t do this. You have to believe me.”
“I want to,” he said, his voice softening. “But this pack is on edge, and Lyra isn’t wrong about one thing—your presence has stirred things up. I need to know if you’re hiding anything.”
Freya hesitated, the weight of her secrets threatening to crush her. “I’ve told you everything I know. I swear.”
Gray searched her face for a moment before nodding. “Fine. But if there’s more... you need to come to me first. Understand?”
Freya nodded, though a part of her wondered if she could trust him with the whole truth.
****
That night, as Freya lay in bed, her thoughts churned restlessly. Something about the attack didn’t sit right with her.
She couldn’t shake the feeling that it had been orchestrated—not by rogues, but by someone within the pack.
A soft creak outside her window snapped her out of her thoughts. She sat up, her heart pounding, and crept to the window. Peering through the darkness, she caught a glimpse of a figure disappearing into the forest.
Without thinking, she grabbed her cloak and slipped outside, following the figure.
She moved silently through the trees, her senses on high alert. The figure led her to a secluded clearing where two voices carried through the night.
“Did anyone see you?”
“No. The plan worked perfectly. The scout won’t survive, and Freya will take the blame.”
Freya's blood ran cold. Lyra’s voice was unmistakable, and the second voice—one of the warriors who had escorted her to the Nightclaw Pack.
Rage boiled in her veins, but she forced herself to stay hidden, listening as Lyra outlined her next move.
“Gray’s trust in her is already wavering. One more push, and she’ll be out of the picture for good.”
Freya backed away slowly, her mind racing. She had the proof she needed, but confronting Lyra would be dangerous.
As she slipped back toward the packhouse, one thought consumed her.
Lyra had made her move. Now it was Freya's turn.