~Savannah's POV~
They don't believe it.
The mark is still raw on my skin, but the shouting begins all over again. Louder. Closer. Warriors argue with elders. The Wolfcrown men step forward with faces like stone.
"Repeat it," someone cries. "Do it again."
"Prove it," another voice answers.
Hector lifts a hand. The courtyard quiets a fraction.
"We repeat the ritual," he says.
A hard breath moves through the crowd.
They know the rules. Twice only. The third time is forbidden. The sky will not forgive a third call.
New elders step into the center. Brynn is there. Anders is not. The ash is scraped and redrawn. The same circle. The same pattern. The cold stone presses under my bare feet.
Hector steps into the ring. He does not look at me. He speaks the words with the others. The drum thuds. The chant folds into the night.
For the first time since the shouting began, I can breathe at all. The ritual covers the fire in my chest for a moment.
What they must prove is not mine to carry.
If it shows I am the messenger, it does not change what wakes inside me. It will not quiet the thing that breaks me. I only want rest.
Brynn steps close. He cuts Hector's left leg near the ankle. The blade is quick and clean. Blood beads and darkens the ash.
The elders finish the words. The firmament hangs heavy above us. Then the silence.
All eyes turn to me.
They hold their breath because of me. Some faces go hard. Some are empty. A few smile like hunters.
Seven minutes.
They wait.
I keep my head low. My gaze is on the soil. I will not meet them.
The first minute drags. The second feels like a slow strike. My wrists burn where the sacred rope bites. The fifth minute, a hot line lances my left ankle.
Sharp. Bright. A brand of pain.
I scream.
The sound tears out of me before I can stop it. At the same instant Hector screams too. He drops to one knee, hands on the earth, and the blood on his ankle rings dark on the stone.
People surge forward. Hands grab the rope. Someone pulls my arm. I fall to my knees.
They stare at my left leg.
Blood soils the skin.
The same cut. The same cross of slashes near the ankle. Exactly like his.
Gasps run through the crowd.
The moonlight changes. It brightens over my ankle, a thin, cold beam. Silver skims the fresh wound and makes the blood shine. The light slides across the ash and touches Hector for a heartbeat. Then it eases back to normal.
The motion feels like an answer and a question both.
A low sound moves through the pack. It is not joy. It is not peace. It is the slow groan of people forced to see what they did not want to see.
Elder Thalia steps forward. Her voice shakes. "She is the messenger we have waited for," she says. "Savannah is chosen. We cannot reject her."
A few voices echo her. Only a few.
Messenger. The word lands heavy in my mouth. It tastes wrong.
Why me? Why a prophecy when my hands are stained? Why mark me now, when the pack already holds the rope?
Questions gather behind my teeth. They have no answers.
Kora threads through me. Calm. "Do not panic," she says. "It is done. Accept it. Hector is our mate."
Accept, she says.
Accept what? I carry their faces in my head. The one I killed. The way his smile looked before he fell to sand. I see him when I close my eyes. One flash and the hunger hits again. I do not tell Kora this.
The courtyard bursts. Anders pushes to the front. His voice breaks on the words.
"This is impossible," he roars. "An abomination. The Moon Goddess would never choose a monster. She chooses the pure. Not someone like Savannah. This bond is a blasphemy."
He points at me like a spear.
"This bond is a blasphemy!" he repeats.
Others take up the cry. The phrase becomes a drum beat. Men shout it until it sounds like law.
Hector does not answer. He presses his palm to his mouth as if to keep words from spilling out. He shakes his head once, slow. The gesture reads like pain. It reads like refusal. I do not know which.
"Execute her," someone yells.
"Kill her," another says.
Elder Malachi from Wolfcrown slams his staff into the ground. The sound cracks. "You plan to save this monster," he says. "We will not accept it. She killed our kin. Spare her and we declare war."
Wolfcrown steps back as one. Some of my pack move with them. I see shoulders tighten near the banners. Hands inch toward hilts.
The courtyard splits. Voices clash. Fingers point. Old wounds reopen.
Elder Silas climbs a low stone and lifts his voice. "We know the pain," he says. "We know the loss. But the moon does not lie. If the Messenger is named, we cannot throw away our duty for revenge. Our Alpha must find his mate. This chance matters to every pack."
For a moment his words lay a palm on the noise. It does not stop the anger. It only keeps the crowd from tearing one another to pieces.
Anders cuts him off. "Do you remember your daughters?" he snaps. "Wolfcrown mourns. Justice must be served. The Messenger cannot be a monster like Savannah."
The pack trembles on the edge of violence.
Then Hector steps forward. He does not shout. He does not plead.
"Enough," he says.
The sound closes the noise like a door. The crowd drops into a stunned hush.
My ears ring. The cool night wind brushes my cheek. The pain in my ankle eases a breath.
Hector looks at the pack. He grips his cloak as if its weight sits in his fist. His voice comes low and steady.
"I know what you feel," he says. "But you saw what happened. It is clear Savannah is my fated mate. It is the Moon's will, not ours. It is painful and shameful for us."
He pauses. He searches faces.
"I cannot make this decision tonight," he says. "The council and I will speak at dawn. Tomorrow night the council will give the final sentence."
No one dares to speak. It is an order.
Anders opens his mouth and finds a wall. Hector lifts five fingers. "Enough. Tomorrow will decide."
Hector turns to me. He walks across the ash. He stops a breath away and studies my face like he reads a name written in ash and blood. He presses his mouth shut again. He shakes his head, small and private.
Then he speaks to the guardians. "Return her to the cells. And all the prisoners."
The five warriors free me from the tree but leave the sacred cords on my wrists. They led me through the crowd. Eyes follow with hate, with fear, with pity that I will not take.
My parents stand at the edge. My father's jaw is locked. My mother's face is closed. Amanda looks away. Lila does not look at me at all.
I do not look at them.
We go down the stone path. Torches throw long shadows that stretch and break.
At the cell the guards do not untie me. They leave the ropes like a verdict. I sit on a cold stone and press my forehead to my knees. The ankle throbs. The cut burns under the bandage.
Beyond the corridor someone calls a traitor. Someone answers sacred.
Words circle like carrion birds.
Tomorrow is a blade that waits.
Tomorrow will decide whether I live as the Messenger or die as the monster—and I would let it take me just to find a quiet that does not bite.