AUTHOR'S POV 
The tension in the main house was getting thick enough to choke on, and Cynthia could feel her grip on everything slipping away with every passing hour. She had spent the last three days watching Garrick pace the hallways like a caged animal. His eyes were completely bloodshot, his jaw was permanently clenched, and he was radiating a wild, volatile energy that kept the entire pack on edge.
 Worse, her informants among the guards had just whispered some terrifying news to her: Garrick was secretly dragging the woodsmen down into the cells for questioning. The broken mate bond was driving him completely insane, making him deeply paranoid, and it was only a matter of time before he broke those guards and found out what really happened to Zaria after the rejection.
She couldn't just sit around and wait for the axe to fall. If Garrick found out the truth, her upcoming coronation would be ruined, her reputation would be destroyed, and she would lose everything she had worked so hard to steal.
In the dead of night, while the estate was dead silent and the heavy fog rolled over the grounds, Cynthia threw a dark, heavy woolen cloak over her shoulders and slipped out through the old servant tunnels beneath the kitchens. She didn't dare take a horse from the stables; the sound of hooves on the cobblestone would give her away instantly to the night patrol. Instead, she moved on foot, running through the shadows of the tree line, her heart hammering against her ribs until she finally crossed the Bloodmoon border and stepped into the lawless, neutral territory.
Her destination was a jagged, secluded cave hidden deep within a rocky ravine right along the borderline. The air inside the cavern was damp and freezing, smelling heavily of stale smoke, rot, and old blood.
As she stepped deeper into the gloom, a few dark figures emerged from the shadows, their eyes catching the dim light of a dying campfire. These weren't proud pack wolves; they were outcasts, cold-blooded killers, and mercenaries belonging to the most ruthless rogue faction in the south. They were men who had been banished from their own packs for unspeakable crimes, and they only answered to one person.
Sitting on a rough stone ledge at the back of the cave was Malakor, their leader. He was a massive, scarred man covered in mismatched leather armor, a nasty, cruel smirk playing on his lips as he watched the high-and-mighty Bloodmoon Alpha-select walk straight into his den.
"You're a long way from home, princess," Malakor chuckled, his voice rough, gravelly, and scraping against the stone walls. "What's the matter? Garrick finally figure out what a little snake he’s marrying?"
Cynthia didn't even blink. She pulled back her hood, letting her dark hair fall over her shoulders, her expression completely cold, calm, and businesslike. She had no fear of these men; she only had a burning desire to secure her throne.
"Garrick is losing his mind over a ghost. He’s becoming a complete liability to the pack, which means I need to move our timeline forward. I can't wait for the coronation to deal with our little problem."
She stepped aside, gesturing to the darkness of the tunnel behind her. Two rogue scouts she had bought off weeks ago stepped forward into the firelight, sweating and groaning under the weight of a heavy, iron-bound wooden chest between them. They dropped it onto the dirt floor right in front of Malakor with a heavy, metallic thud that echoed through the cavern.
Cynthia walked over, flipped the heavy iron latches open with her boot, and kicked the lid back.
The dim firelight caught the blinding reflection of hundreds of solid gold Bloodmoon coins, stacked neatly in heavy velvet bags alongside high-grade steel daggers and hunting weapons laced with lethal wolfsbane, taken straight from her pack's private hidden armory.
Malakor’s eyes widened, his lazy smirk instantly vanishing from his scarred face as he stood up and walked slowly toward the chest. He reached down, picking up a handful of the heavy gold coins and letting them clink greedily back into the box. He picked up one of the silver daggers, testing the edge against his thumb, a dark appreciation clearing the boredom from his features.
"This is a hell of a lot of coin, Cynthia. And high-grade pack steel, too. What exactly are we buying here? This isn't just a simple hit on a merchant caravan."
"An infiltration," Cynthia said, her voice dropping to a sharp, lethal whisper that made the scouts behind her shift uncomfortably. "The Shadowpelt pack up north. Zaria is alive, and she’s hiding under the Lycan King’s protection in the valley. As long as she breathes, as long as she has a place to run to, she is a permanent threat to my coronation, to my alliance, and to everything we’ve planned for the southern territories."
Malakor let out a low, dark laugh, turning the silver blade over in his rough hands.
"The Shadowpelt kingdom is a fortress, girl. King Cassian has his elite warriors patrolling every square inch of those mountains, and his guard sensors can smell a rogue from a mile away. Breaking into his territory is a straight-up suicide mission, even for my best men. Gold is good, but it's worthless if we're all dead."
"Not if you strike when they're vulnerable," Cynthia countered, a vicious, cruel smile stretching across her face as she leaned in. "The continental Peace Gathering is happening in two weeks. Every major Alpha, Alpha-select, and King from across the territories will be there, including Cassian and his inner circle. The borders will be wide open for the foreign diplomatic delegations. The royal guard shifts will be stretched incredibly thin across the valley, and everyone will be completely distracted by the political theater and the crowded streets."
She stepped right into Malakor’s personal space, her eyes burning with pure, unadulterated malice.
"I want a full-scale strike right in the middle of the gathering. Create enough chaos to blind the royal guard, separate the Lycan King from his defenses, find my sister in the crowd, and end her. Do not leave that valley until you know she is dead."
Malakor looked from the chest of gold back to Cynthia's beautiful, ruthless face. A greedy, sinister grin spread slowly across his face, his sharp teeth catching the red glow of the firelight. The thought of spilling royal blood and getting paid a fortune to do it was too good to pass up.
"Consider it done, princess," Malakor purred, slamming the heavy wooden chest lid shut with a loud bang that made the dust fall from the cave ceiling. "We'll hit them hard, and I’ll personally ensure you get your sister's head on a spike before that peace gathering is even over. Go back home and plan your wedding. Leave the human girl to me."