Chapter 200.
CELESTE’S POV
When Atasha told her the North had given her a gift, Celeste thought she meant some trinket, a fur cloak, a jewel, another symbol that she did not deserve. When Atasha sliced her own palm open and closed it in front of her eyes, Celeste decided the woman had simply lost her mind along with her sense of self.
But this…
This was something else.
Celeste paced her room in tight, sharp lines, the hem of her dress whispering around her ankles. Her reflection in the window looked wrong. Her face looked twisted, lips pressed flat, eyes a little too wide. She barely recognized herself, and she blamed Atasha for that as well.
“Why her?” she muttered, fingers digging into the fabric at her waist. “Of all people… why her?”
Her maid stood silently near the wall, pretending to fuss with the blankets, pretending she could not hear, because any answer she might give would only make things worse. Celeste barely remembered the girl’s name. It did not matter anyway. The only thing that mattered was the image burned into her mind.
Atasha, standing over a dying scout, hand pressed to his side. Atasha, drawing breath while the man’s wound knitted together beneath her fingers. Atasha, straightening with that calm expression on her face while the soldier’s color returned as if death had simply decided to walk away.
The same Atasha who used to trip over her own feet when she carried a tray. The same Atasha who used to smile and nod whenever Celeste spoke, the same older sister who never raised her voice, never argued, never claimed anything for herself.
“That girl,” Celeste hissed, stopping in the middle of the floor. “That wolfless mistake. That useless, quiet shadow. She is the one the North gives gifts to?”
Her chest rose and fell too fast. She forced herself to start walking again rather than tear the sheets apart just to feel something rip.
“All these years, she had nothing,” she muttered. “No wolf, no power, no proper standing. That was how it was supposed to stay. That was how the world made sense. She was… safe like that. Contained and manageable.”
She remembered Atasha in the greenhouse, cutting her own skin and closing it as easily as one might button a glove. She remembered Atasha in the infirmary, hand on that scout’s bloodied side, power rolling off her in waves that even Celeste could feel from several paces away.
It made her stomach twist.
“So that is why,” Celeste breathed. “That is why she speaks like that now. That is why she looks at me as if I am the one who does not understand.”
Pieces started clicking together whether she wanted them to or not.
Atasha’s calm when she mentioned the King’s representatives.Atasha’s new posture, shoulders straighter, gaze
steadier. Atasha saying she serves the North as if she really believed it.
“It is because of this,” Celeste said, more to herself than to the maid. “Because she can do something now.”
She stopped again and pressed her fingertips to her temples.
“How?” she demanded, though no one in the room could answer. “How did Cassian Valemont turn a wolfless girl into… that?”
The idea scraped at her thoughts.
Wolfless werewolves did not wake up one day with powers. They did not arrive in frozen fortresses and suddenly start healing soldiers as if blessed by the goddess herself. That was not how things worked.
So either everything she had been taught about wolfless wolves was wrong, or something had been done to Atasha. Something that involved witches.
She latched onto the second possibility immediately because it made more sense, and more importantly, it did not require her to accept that Atasha might have been special all along without anyone noticing.
“It has to be a witch,” she muttered. “Cassian must be working with witches and turned her into that!”
He was the common piece in every change.
“And now he has her healing his soldiers,” Celeste said, her lip curling. “Of course.”
She paced again, footsteps sharper now.
“To keep her obedient,” she went on. “To make her believe she owes him. He gives her this… ability, shows her what she can do, then tells her it belongs to the North. Tells her her duty is to him. Tells her she must put him before her own blood. She believes it because she always believed whatever anyone told her if they spoke gently enough.”
Atasha had always been naive.
That had been useful.
Celeste used to pull her into schemes without effort, used to tell her half–truths and watch her nod, used to hide behind her when things went wrong. Father blamed Atasha more often than not, because Atasha never defended herself. She simply accepted that things were her fault and moved on.
Cassian must have seen that same weakness.
He must have looked at Atasha and realized he had found someone easy to mold, someone whose head could be turned with a few sharp words and a handful of attention.
Celeste’s hands curled into fists.
“And now she says she chose them,” Celeste whispered. “She says she chose soldiers over me. She says she is a
northerner.”
The word tasted worse than “love” ever had.
She barely realized she had spoken aloud until her maid flinched slightly near the bed. Celeste inhaled and forced herself to walk to the window instead of putting that anger somewhere it would leave marks.
The courtyard below looked small from this height, the snow smoothing out the scars of the last attack. Somewhere in that maze of stone, Atasha was probably still walking through those halls, being bowed to, being thanked, being looked at with awe.
Wolfless Atasha!
The combination made Celeste’s vision blur for a moment.
“Why her?” she asked again, softer but no less vicious. “Why does she receive something like that?”
She had worked so hard to hold her place.
She had cultivated her looks, her charm, her timing. She had learned which words would soften a Beta’s mood, which tears would make a lord hesitate. She had balanced smiles and threats. She had made herself the shining daughter of the South, the one everyone expected to rise higher than the borders of their own territory.
Atasha had done nothing.
She had existed quietly on the edges of rooms, there but not important, useful only when someone needed a body to fill space or a name to attach to an arrangement no one else wanted.
And yet here they were.
Atasha with an ability that made hardened northerners stare at her as if she walked out of a legend. Atasha with a gift that could pull men away from death with a touch. Atasha being called “Your Highness” and “Consort” and “miracle” while Celeste sat in a guest room like an afterthought.
“She does not deserve it,” Celeste hissed. “She does not deserve that kind of power.”
Her pulse pounded in her ears. She pressed her palm flat against the cold glass and tried to steady herself, but the jealousy did not fade. It dug deeper, wrapping around something bitter that had always been there.
“She is a wolfless woman,” she went on. “She was supposed to stay weak. That was the point. That was why Father chose her instead of me. That was why she was offered. Because she was expendable. Because no one would miss her if things went wrong. Because she could not threaten anyone.”
But now…
Now she could threaten everyone.
At least, she could, if she understood what she carried in her hands.
Celeste’s breathing slowed as a different thought slid in, cold and sharp.
“What if that is why he is holding onto her?” she murmured. “What if this is not just about a consort or a
pretty southern wife?”
If Cassian had a healer like that in his bed, in his house, in his territory, the Alpha King would never ignore
him.
The King sent representatives already. If they confirmed what Celeste had seen, if they reported that the Lord of the North had tied himself to a woman who could heal wounds no other healer could touch, that would change things.
The King valued strength, power, rare gifts.
If Celeste had something like that at her side, he would look at her too.
Her eyes narrowed slightly as the path unfolded in front of her.
If she could use that ability, if she could direct where it went, who received it, who owed their life to it, then every pack lord who wanted his soldiers to survive would come to her.
She could stand before Demon Fang remnants and offer healing only if they bent knee. She could walk into southern councils with men who owed her their lives. She could make the Beta think twice. She could make the Alpha King listen.
She smiled slowly, the expression ugly and satisfied at the same time.
“Of course,” she whispered. “Of course he would not let her go.”
Cassian understood what he had.
He understood that a woman who can heal with a touch is worth more than any number of ordinary soldiers. He understood that if he keeps her loyal, he keeps that power rooted in his snow and stone instead of letting it drift south where others might claim it.
He saw her naivety and wrapped chains around it.
Celeste let out a small, humorless laugh. “He thinks he is clever,” she said. “He thinks he is the only one who can pull her strings.”
She turned away from the window and walked back toward the center of the room, each step slower now, more measured.
“What would happen,” she mused, “if I were the one she listened to instead?”
The maid looked up, startled, then quickly dropped her gaze again.
Celeste hardly noticed.
She pictured Atasha’s face the way it used to be, open and trusting. She pictured how easily that expression used to change whenever Celeste praised her or asked for a favor. She pictured Atasha at fifteen, taking the blame for something Celeste did, while Celeste squeezed her hand and thanked her for being such a good
sister.
That girl was still in there somewhere.
Cassian might have wrapped her in northern colors, but he had not erased the part that always wanted to be useful, the part that wanted to be loved, the part that would do anything if someone just told her it was the right thing.
“That part is mine,” Celeste whispered. “It always has been.”
“That ability…” Celeste said, savoring the word…. “is divine.”
It had to be. No ordinary blessing looked like that. No common trick could pull a man away from death in a matter of breaths.
“If it is divine,” she added slowly… “then it should not belong to a woman who does not know what to do with
it.”
Her lips curved.
“It should belong to someone who understands its value.”
Someone like her.
Someone who knew how to turn every debt into leverage, every favor into a chain, every act of kindness into something that could be cashed in later.
“That gift must become mine,” Celeste said quietly, almost gently, as if she were stating a simple fact instead of a plan that would tear whatever was left of her sister to pieces. “That gift is destined to be… mine.”
Happy 200 chapters. We are already at book 4, the last and final book of this novel. Questions will be answered, mysteries will be solved. Thank you so much for still being here. Please follow my fb page: Author Brey Mitchylle- with cat profile. Thank you!
