CHAPTER 79: DAWN SPRINGS

Camilla

The ride to the resort turned out to be far more exhausting than I had anticipated.Dawn Springs—a heavily guarded retreat nestled in the neutral southern territories of the continent—loomed ahead like a memory I’d long tried to forget. I had only been here once before, on my eighteenth birthday—the day I was supposed to find my mate. But I found nothing.

Strangely, I didn’t feel sadness that day. If anything, I felt relieved. I never bought into the romantic notion of fate choosing someone for me. I never believed I needed a mate to define my strength or complete me.

I was determined to choose a man on my own terms—purely for pleasure, not destiny. But my father had other ideas. That’s why he brought me to Dawn Springs when the bonding call never came.

And now, seven years later, I’m back.

For nearly the same reason—only this time, it’s not because I don’t have a mate.It’s because I want to no longer have one.

"Luna."

The driver’s raspy voice jolts me from my thoughts. I blink several times, the present rushing back into focus. The car is parked in front of the grand entrance, and the driver stands by the open door, patiently waiting for me to step out.

As soon as my foot touches the ground, a sudden gust of wind sweeps through the air—and with it, a shift in scent.

And then I see her.

Edwina Carter. The leader of the werecats.

I had only ever seen Edwina in the photographs attached to her intelligence file. In person, she’s smaller than I expected—petite, almost delicate, to the point where it’s hard to imagine her leading anyone, let alone an entire clan. Her skin is smooth and dark, her golden eyes sharp and appraising beneath short, jet-black hair styled upward with mousse into what seems to be her signature look.

She greets me with a reserved smile and a limp handshake, which she lets go far too quickly to be considered genuinely welcoming.

"Nice to meet you, Luna Windthorne," she says coolly. "It’s a pleasure to finally encounter a female werewolf representative for a change."

I match her tone, offering the same polite casualness in return as I fall in step beside her, already following her into the building. But the sting in her words lingers.

She’s not wrong, of course. No one ever says it out loud, but the truth is as old as our clans themselves: werewolves don’t like mingling with werecats—just as they don’t care to associate with foxes, bears, or any of the other shapeshifter factions they consider inferior.

And as always, it’s the men who handle the politics. The deals. The territory negotiations. That’s just how it’s always been.

But I’m here to change that. Or try, at least.

"Luna Windthorne," Edwina says again, snapping me from my thoughts just as we step into the VIP conference hall. I lift my gaze and find half a dozen women seated around a large round table, all of them observing me with varying degrees of interest.

"Camilla, please," I correct gently, offering her and the others a warm smile. I make sure it’s just the right amount of open—genuine but professional, hoping it’s enough to soften the mood and leave a favorable impression.

Edwina nods and smiles politely. "Luna Camilla, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to the Female Council of the Southern Alliance." She gestures gracefully toward the table, where half a dozen pairs of sharp eyes immediately fix on me.

"This is Teya and Lacie, the leaders of the werefox clan," she continues as we move toward our designated seats. "Over here are Sally and Mia, the leaders of the werebears. This is Naveen, the leading representative of the witches. And this," she pauses with a small smile, "is Leyla—my mate and my partner."

I offer a nod to Leyla, quietly noting how delicate and serene she looks compared to the others. Then I sit, suddenly acutely aware of the emptiness beside me. I’m the only one at the table without a partner, and not because I chose to be alone—but because I was born to be paired with a man.

The irony doesn’t escape me. Sometimes, being bonded to someone is the loneliest feeling in the world.

"So, Camilla," Edwina says, folding her hands neatly atop the table as she regards me with quiet scrutiny. "What exactly is it that you need our help with?"

I take a slow, deliberate breath, allowing myself a moment to meet the gaze of each woman in the room. They appear composed, almost casual—but their eyes betray the seriousness of the conversation that’s about to begin. There’s no softness here, no sympathy, and certainly no promise of alliance.

Still, I steady my voice, clear my throat, and begin—confident, unwavering.

"I want a divorce," I say, my words slicing through the silence like a blade. It feels like a declaration of war. And in many ways, it is. "And I need your support in pushing forward a petition—one that will help me reclaim control of my pack and everything my husband stripped from me when we got married."

"A petition, huh?" Teya scoffs under her breath, shifting in her seat with a theatrical ease, clearly aiming to show just how little this meeting means to her. "Sure, our votes might lend some weight to the process—especially if other Lunas follow your lead—but what do we get out of it? Challenging centuries of tradition and law is costly, and frankly, we have more pressing matters to occupy ourselves with."

I steel myself, forcing calm into my voice and posture. I expected resistance—anticipated their reluctance to embrace what I’m offering—but I didn’t come here without a plan.

"Our world," I begin, my voice steady and clear, "has been ruled by male wolves for as long as any of us can remember. Even the King of this land is a Lycan. For centuries, werewolves have dominated this continent—prosecuting and suppressing other clans, not because they are stronger or wiser, but simply because they outnumber the rest of you."

I pause, letting the weight of my words settle in the room.

"But I don’t believe that numbers should determine supremacy."

The shift in the atmosphere is subtle, but undeniable. A sliver of tension sparks behind narrowed eyes, a flicker of disdain briefly passing over a few faces. Good. I chose my words to provoke—and I’ve struck the nerve I was aiming for.