Every full moon for twelve years, Luna Maeryn bled for the Hollowmere Pack. Not in battle. Not for glory. In secret, inside a shrine no one else entered, she opened her palm and fed the ancient wards that kept the Varkoth — the rogue confederation that nearly destroyed them — sealed beyond the border. Her Alpha never knew. The pack never thanked her. And when Alpha Corvan Hale scented a second mate at the ridge memorial and crowned Ilsabet Renn — the golden war hero's daughter every young wolf already worshiped — he expected Maeryn to smile, step aside, and be grateful she wasn't rejected outright. So she smiled. She stepped aside. And she stopped bleeding. Now the ward-stones are cracking. The Varkoth are stirring for the first time in twelve years. And the only woman alive who can seal the border is the one Corvan just told the pack he didn't need anymore. He'll beg before moonfall. Whether she listens is another matter entirely. "You replaced me, Alpha. Now show me what your pack is worth without my blood in its walls."