Chapter 3: Full Moon Gathering · The Silver Eyes

That night of the full-moon gathering, the altar square was packed with people.

Torches were lit tier by tier along the stone steps. The moon had not yet climbed to its zenith, but its silver light already spilled over the altar’s railings. When Sera entered with the patrol medical team, Vivian Cross was already waiting at the entrance to the inner circle. Her champagne-gold dress blazed in the firelight, as if she were terrified someone might fail to notice her.

"Halt." Vivian raised a hand to block their path, her voice pitched so high that the entire assembly could hear it. "The inner circle of the altar is reserved for those with pure lineage. Sera Gray—you don't even have a wolf form. What gives you the right to step inside? Those without a wolf form are not permitted to enter the inner altar—it's a rule passed down from our ancestors. I'm not making this difficult for you."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. On the elders' dais, Jona Thorne leaned on his staff and said nothing. Damon Thorne stood at the front of the crowd, his gaze fixed on Sera, a crease between his brows, but he too remained silent.

Sera stopped at the boundary of the inner circle. She still wore her white physician's coat for the evening, vials of medicine neatly arranged on her wristband, the silver medal at her neck tucked away beneath her collar. Calmly, she asked, "Miss Vivian, rules are rigid, but people are not. The plague hasn't passed yet, and the first item on tonight's agenda is the arrangement for medical treatment. I'm the lead physician of the patrol team. If I don't enter the inner circle, how can I report to the council on the condition of the entire town?"

"Anyone can report on symptoms." Vivian let out a cold laugh, stepping forward so her hem brushed the stone steps. "I'd actually like to ask everyone present—just a few days ago, at the clinic, that dying cub prostrated itself before her in front of the whole crowd, acknowledging her as its sovereign. You all saw it, didn't you? How could a cub pay such homage to someone without a wolf form? Unless—"

She dragged out her words, enunciating each one: "Unless she used forbidden drugs. For a pharmacist to control a high-fever cub is easy enough. Administer the drug first, perform the ritual, and have the entire town believe she possesses some extraordinary lineage. Sera, do you dare to explain this matter before the Moon God?"

The entire audience's gaze snapped to Sera. Maeve O'Connor, behind her, muttered a curse and took half a step forward, only to be stopped by a raised hand from Sera.

"What do you want?" Sera asked.

"A blood test." Vivian lifted her chin, her voice crisp and loud. "A public blood test, one person at a time. Not just you—every single person in the inner circle tonight, one by one. Whether their bloodline is pure, whether they've been dosed with drugs, the blood will tell. If you're innocent, then stand in the center of the altar. If you're not brave enough, then crawl out of the inner circle, out of Frostpine Town."

"Fine." Sera offered only a single word.

She crossed the boundary, stepping onto the altar one step at a time until she stood beside the central stone platform. The torchlight flickered on her face; her shadow fell on the stone, slender and straight.

"The blood test is acceptable, but the rules must be clear." She surveyed the crowd, her voice carrying steadily. "The reagent used will be prepared by me on the spot, visible to everyone. The order will begin with the one who proposed it—Miss Vivian, you go first. Then the elders, then the Alphas, then the patrol team, and finally me. One by one, not a single person exempt. If anyone's blood shows issues, they must explain themselves in public tonight. Vivian, do you dare?"

Vivian had not expected her to agree so readily, nor had she anticipated the first blade would fall on her own neck; her expression stiffened for a fraction of a second. "What do I have to be afraid of? Test it if you want."

Maeve hauled the pharmacy chest up onto the platform. Sera produced the reagent bottles, silver needles, and a row of plain white porcelain bowls, arranging them with the rims facing up. She dripped three drops of moonwort reagent into each bowl; the liquid was clear, carrying a faint, grassy metallic scent.

"Ordinary wolf blood mixed with this reagent turns dark red, sinking without dispersing." She held up an empty bowl for the crowd to see. "If the blood contains components of forbidden drugs, black threads will rise at the bottom of the bowl. I keep a ledger of whose mouths my medicines have entered. Tonight, this bowl will first reflect the heart."

The first to be tested was Vivian. She extended her hand; the silver needle pricked her fingertip, and a bead of blood dripped into the bowl. It settled as a dark red pool, slowly sinking to the bottom, clean. She exhaled and raised her brows in defiance: "See? The blood of House Cross is pristine."

"Next one." Sera gave no comment, swapping to a fresh bowl.

Jona Thorne walked forward leaning on his staff, his speckled brows knitted together, his joints trembling slightly as he extended his hand. The blood dripped into the bowl, settling dark red, indistinguishable from Vivian's. He stared at the bowl for two seconds, huffed, and retreated to the elders' dais.

Next were the two elders from the dais, one elderly, the other in the prime of life. As the younger elder pricked his fingertip, he muttered, "What kind of spectacle is this?" The blood entered the bowl, and it was still the usual dark red. The elderly one's hands had prominent blue veins; his blood dripped more slowly, but the result was no different.

Damon was the fifth. He climbed the steps to the altar and stood before Sera, the two of them separated by a stone table, neither speaking first. He rolled up his sleeve and extended his hand. As the silver needle pierced his skin, his gaze never left her face. The drop of blood fell into the bowl—dark red, a shade deeper than the others', and it sank faster, too. That was the mark of strong Alpha blood. The bottom of the bowl remained clear, not a thread of black cloud in it.

"Alpha blood, and it's clean." Sera pushed the bowl aside, her voice flat. "Next."

Maeve strode up in long strides, grabbed the silver needle herself, and pricked the pad of her thumb. The drop of blood rolled into the bowl, brisk, just like the woman: "I'm with the patrol squad. Test me." The dark red sank to the bottom, clean and clear. She grinned, then stepped back.

Then came the two attendants Vivian had brought. The first was visibly nervous, needing two pricks before blood finally came; the drop that landed in the bowl showed nothing wrong. The second attendant flinched backward as he reached forward, and Vivian barked at him to stop, holding him in place. He trembled as he finally offered his hand—the drop fell into the bowl, dark red, settling to the bottom, no black cloud. He let out a long breath, his legs half-giving out.

By the time they reached the later testers, the crowd gathered around had gone quiet. All that remained was the crackle of the torches and the faint whisper of a silver needle breaking skin. A young werewolf standing in the front row couldn't help but murmur to the person beside him: "They've tested so many, and not a single one has a problem?" The other shook his head, eyes fixed on the stone table without blinking: "What's the rush? Isn't there still one left?"

Vivian stood to one side with her arms crossed. The smugness she'd carried at the start had faded; her gaze swept back and forth over the row of bowls, as though searching for something she couldn't find. She pressed: "What are you dawdling for? It's your turn. Or wait—are you *afraid*?"

"What I'm afraid of is someone refusing to honor the result afterward." Sera laid each used silver needle into the empty dish, one by one, then unwrapped a fresh one and held it up in front of everyone, giving it a small shake. "The needle is new, the bowl is empty, and the reagent is the same one every other person was tested with. Vivian, watch closely. Don't start claiming I swapped something later."

One by one, everyone in the inner circle who needed testing had been tested. Bowl after bowl sat on the stone table, dark red settled at the bottom, clean and clear. Not a single person's blood showed any trace of a banned substance.

"All done." Sera raised her eyes to Vivian. "Now there's only me left."

Vivian's expression had turned ugly, but she still forced a cold laugh: "Your blood is the real question. Sera, stop stalling—the Moon Goddess is watching."

Sera picked up the last silver needle and pricked her own fingertip.

The instant the drop of blood fell, the clouds above the altar were swept aside by a night wind, and a full moon rose to the exact center of the sky. Cold, clear moonlight poured straight down onto the center of the altar, onto her.

The blood in the bowl did not sink. It spread slowly through the reagent, shifting from red to pale, then, from that pale, a layer of silver-white bloomed—like a small piece of moonlight had fallen into the bowl.

At the same moment, Sera's eyes changed. The gray-blue irises were overtaken inch by inch by silver; a glacial blue light shimmered in her pupils. The moon-mark on her wrist flared to life, the complete silver pattern coiling up from her wrist and winding around her arm, and the silver pendant at her throat glowed through her collar.

In the moonlight behind her, the phantom of a white wolf rose its head into view.

Snow-white from head to toe, its fur thick and gleaming with silver, its body long and lithe, ice-blue eyes tilted slightly downward as it looked over the entire altar. The phantom did not snarl. It simply stood there, yet the pack around the altar was pressed down as if by an invisible hand against their spines—first the front rows, then the back rows, wave after wave unable to hold themselves upright, kneeling and prostrating, foreheads pressed to the ground, suppressed whimpers of submission rolling from their throats. Even the elders on the elder seats bent to one knee, staffs braced against the stone.

Vivian stumbled back two steps. Her dress caught on the stone step, and she went down hard onto the ground, a diamond earring clattering against the stone. She looked up at the white wolf's phantom, her lips trembling so violently she could barely form a word, until she finally screamed: "Impossible! That's *impossible*! She doesn't even have a wolf form, she has *nothing*—"

No one answered her. Among the prostrated crowd, Damon Thorne stood in place, bracing himself so hard he didn't kneel, but his face had gone completely white. The wolf-fang pendant at his neck rose and fell with his ragged breathing. He stared at Sera at the center of the altar, at her silver eyes, and something in his throat locked up. He lost his composure in front of everyone, and the name— a name he hadn't spoken aloud in three years—tumbled out of his mouth:

"Gray Sparrow!"

His voice was hoarse, nearly torn apart. The instant the name left his lips, he froze, as though unexpecting that it was still tucked behind his teeth, ready to roll out the moment anything brushed it.

Sera's gaze drifted slowly from beneath the white wolf's phantom down to his face. There was no triumph in her silver eyes, no forgiveness. She simply looked at him, still and unblinking, until he finally looked away.

On the far side of the altar, Jona Thorne did not kneel. The old Alpha stood before the elders' bench, braced on his cane, his milky deep-gray eyes unblinking, fixed on the complete silver moon-mark coiling around Sela's wrist—on the way the pattern wound and spiraled—and the color drained from his face inch by inch until his hand shook so violently he could barely hold the staff.

His lips quivered for a long while. At last, facing that moon-mark, he spoke a single name:

"Irene."