Emma sighs deeply. The she speaks.
'You're done pretending now.
I don't say it gently. I don't soften it. Im not waiting for you to be ready.
You don't get that luxury anymore.
You felt them kneel, didn't you?
Don't lie to me. I felt it too. You feel it right now in your chest. The way their submission poured into us like gravity itself finally remembering which way was down. The way the world bent—bent—because it recognized you.
The bonds are forming as we speak.
You think that was an accident?
You think the Moon Goddess misstepped?
No.
She waited.
She waited for you to stop bleeding long enough to survive what you were born to carry.
You're shaking because you think power is supposed to feel clean. Like victory. Like certainty. That's not how this works. That's never how it's worked. Power feels like loss first. Like terror. Like standing naked in front of a world that finally knows your name.
You think I hid because I was ashamed?
I hid because you weren't ready.
Because the first time you shifted, you burned. You watched your parents die while the world screamed and blamed and hunted. Because your heart learned too early that being seen meant being destroyed.
So I wrapped us in shadows.
I dulled the edges. I swallowed our light and let it sit heavy in my chest while you grew up believing you were ordinary, breakable, small.
You needed that lie to survive.
But don't you dare confuse survival with truth.
You are not small.
You are not a mistake.
You are not too much.
You are exactly what this world tried to erase.
Do you know what it felt like when they bowed?
Relief.
Not triumph. Not pride.
Relief.
Like a thousand wolves exhaled at once because something ancient finally came home.
They didn't submit because you forced them.
They submitted because their souls recognized you before their minds could catch up.
That reverence you felt? That wasn't fear.
That was memory.
And you—gods help me—you're sitting there blaming yourself for Kieran.
Stop.
Just—stop.
Valen pulled the trigger. The Elders sharpened the knives. Men who fear losing power always blame the crown instead of their own rot. Kieran didn't fall because you exist.
He fell because he chose to stand beside you.
And that choice?
That's not weakness.
That's the bravest thing a king can do.
You think he wouldn't choose you again? After today? After feeling what you are?
He'd crawl through silver and fire to kneel at your feet if that's where you stood.
And don't you dare feel guilty for protecting what's yours.
Seraphina wasn't punished because you're cruel.
She was punished because she forgot her place in a world that does not belong to her.
You didn't break her.
She broke herself when she thought power and rank mattered more than destiny.
You're afraid because you didn't ask for this crown.
Neither did the first White Wolf.
Neither did your Father and mother.
Neither did any queen worth remembering.
Crowns are not given to those who want them.
They are survived by those who don't.
And yes—you're terrified.
Good.
It means you still care.
It means you won't become like them.
But hear me now, Samantha—hear me clearly:
You cannot crawl back into the dark.
You cannot pretend to be just a girl with herbs and healing hands when the world has already named you sovereign.
You don't get to abandon yourself anymore.
Not for their comfort.
Not for your fear.
Not even for Kieran.
Because when he wakes—and he will—he won't need you to be smaller.
He'll need you to stand.
Beside him.
In front of him.
And for the sake of the wolves, above him.
And when that day comes, I will be there.
Not hiding.
Not whispering.
Not holding back.
I am the White Wolf.
I am the fire they tried to bury.
And you, Samantha—
You are my Queen.
Whether you're ready or not.'
And don't think I didn't feel it—the way you flinched when they bowed, like reverence was something sharp enough to cut you. You wanted to apologize. I felt it. That instinct to make yourself smaller, quieter, easier to swallow. As if power is something you should excuse instead of inhabit.
That's the last lie we're burning away.
You think queens are born knowing how to carry this? They aren't. They're born knowing how to endure. How to keep breathing when the weight presses so hard it feels like your ribs will crack. How to stand still while the world rearranges itself around them.
You're afraid you'll become something unrecognizable.
Good.
That fear is the line between ruler and tyrant. It means your heart is still yours.
But don't confuse mercy with self-erasure.
You don't owe them softness to earn your place. You don't owe the pack silence so they can feel comfortable with your power. And you certainly don't owe the ghosts of men like Valen and councils like the Elders anything but extinction.
You felt it today—the way your voice didn't shake when you told them to leave. The way your spine locked into place like it had always known how to hold a crown. That wasn't instinct learned overnight.
That was inheritance.
That was blood answering blood.
That was every White Wolf before you standing up inside your bones and saying enough.
You are not becoming something new.
You are remembering.
And I swear this to you—on fang and flame and everything we've survived—if the world thinks it can take what is yours again, it will learn what real loss feels like.
Because you are done bleeding quietly.
And I am done hiding.
Say it with me, Samantha.
Not out loud. Not yet.
Just feel it.
I am here.
I am staying.
I am not afraid of myself anymore.
Pull yourself out of your fucking pity party and put on your fucking crown.