My Sister Stole My Mate, And I Let Her Chapter 471 TOO YOUNG

AVA’S POV

Ever since the Alphas began arriving, Nightfang has transformed from a packhouse into what feels like a heavily fortified stronghold. Guards are posted in unusual areas, and the normally boisterous hallways have fallen into an unnerving silence, as if everyone has been instructed to keep their voices down to prevent secrets from traveling through the walls. Training schedules are in constant flux, with sessions being rescheduled or cut short. More than once, I’ve arrived at the training yard, fully prepared with my gloves on and hair tied back, only to be informed that the adults require the space and we must vacate immediately. The younger children detest these disruptions. I detest them too, though for different reasons. They are bored; I am consumed by anger. Most of us have been relocated to the opposite side of the packhouse during major assemblies—far from the council chamber, the visiting Alphas, the war maps, and the hushed, clipped voices discussing grown-up decisions they don’t want us to overhear. The adults refer to this as safety; I call it being deliberately sidelined. Daniel, naturally, calls it practical, which is precisely the sort of irritating remark that perfect Daniel would make. The other side of the packhouse does offer a lounge, a recreation room, study nooks, and an abundance of snacks, making it feel less like confinement. Yet, the underlying purpose of keeping us out of the way while significant events unfold beyond our interference is undeniable. This is how I found myself curled up on a window bench, idly scrolling through social media on a borrowed tablet. Training had been canceled yet again, and my restlessness made focusing on reading nearly impossible. Initially, the content was almost amusing. People seemed to argue about absolutely everything: rogues, Nightfang, Jack Draven, Alpha Kieran. Then, my thumb froze mid-scroll as I saw Sera’s name. The headline blared: SILVER WOLF OR CALAMITY WOLF? A frown creased my brow as I tapped the screen, which then flooded with comments so venomous and cruel they made my stomach churn. ‘Monster.’ ‘Bloodthirsty bitch.’ ‘Ancient curse.’ ‘No Luna should wield such power.’ ‘Perhaps Marcus has the right of it.’ ‘Maybe Nightfang is concealing her true nature.’ ‘I bet she charmed Alpha Kieran with dark magic.’ I remained perfectly still, the words blurring into a single, toxic smear as I read on. They were discussing Sera as if she were an abstract concept, not the woman who offered gentle smiles to children in the hallways, even when she appeared utterly exhausted. Not the person who once paused by the training yard because a young boy had scraped his knee and was valiantly suppressing tears. Not the Luna who spoke to individuals as if they held genuine importance, even when everyone else was preoccupied with their own significance. Not the one who rescued me and gave me refuge when anyone else would have simply cast me aside. My fingers clenched around the tablet, my knuckles turning white. A comment appeared beneath a video of some self-important man ranting about silver wolves: ‘Someone ought to put the silver bitch down before she destroys everyone.’ Heat rushed to my face, my breath catching as anger surged. “Oh, I’d love to put something down,” I whispered fiercely. Across the room, two younger girls glanced at me with concerned frowns. I forced myself to stand before I frightened them further. Regrettably, my adversaries were confined within the screen, and a screen offers no utility in a physical confrontation. I couldn't drag those cowards into the training yard, couldn't make them hold pads while I kicked some sense into them, couldn't punch a headline hard enough to elicit an apology. However, the sudden heat coursing through my veins demanded an outlet. Thus, I resorted to the only action available: I descended to the lower levels. The private gym situated beneath the west wing was more subdued than the main training hall, typically frequented by ranked members seeking solitude. I likely lacked permission to be there, but I disregarded such concerns. As I pushed the door open, the familiar scents of leather, sweat, and polished wood filled the air. Then, a rhythmic sound reached me: Thud. Thud. Thud. Someone was already present. I was about to withdraw; the last thing I needed was to become another burden on Sera’s already overloaded plate. But then my eyes fell upon the individual. Daniel Blackthorne stood near the far wall, relentlessly striking a heavy bag with such force that the overhead chain creaked in protest. His hand wraps were haphazardly applied, one strip of cloth dangling loosely around his wrist, yet he seemed oblivious. His face was flushed, dark hair slicked with sweat against his forehead, and each impact suggested he was visualizing a specific face with every blow. I hesitated in the doorway. “You’ll injure yourself hitting it like that,” I called out. He tensed at the sound of my voice but didn’t turn. “Leave, Ava,” he commanded. “I’m not in the mood for another argument.” I stepped fully into the room regardless. “Good. Neither am I.” His subsequent punch landed with increased ferocity. “Then get. Out.” My immediate instinct was to retort sharply. That was our usual dynamic: he’d say something irritating, I’d counter with something worse, and we’d inevitably end up bickering over a triviality. This time, however, the barbed words lodged in my throat.

I understood the source of his distress: he felt utterly frustrated.

It was the kind of anguish that gnawed at you because you couldn't directly confront the cause of suffering for someone you cared about.

Daniel wasn't merely experiencing anger; he was feeling powerless.

And that was something he despised.

Just as I did.

I advanced, coming to a halt a few paces before the punching bag.

“You’ve seen the comments,” I stated.

His fist, mid-swing, froze.

For a fleeting moment, only the pendulum motion of the bag separated us.

Then, he let his hand fall.

“Everyone has.”

His tone was unnervingly even. Good for him; he'd clearly perfected the art of emotional restraint.

Folding my arms, I declared, “They are fabricating the truth.”

He let out a dry chuckle. “No kidding, Einstein.”

I disregarded the sarcastic jab. “They are painting her as some sort of wicked creature.”

“I’m aware.”

“She rescued people. She saved Aaron. She offered aid to rogues when the rest of the world was quick to condemn them.”

“I know, Ava. Be quiet!” he snapped, his voice trembling slightly at the end.

My retort ceased.

Daniel turned away abruptly. He seized the bag, resting his forehead against the material for a brief instant before pulling back.

“My father cannot simply confront everyone who utters a derogatory remark,” he explained. “My mother cannot justify herself to every individual who perceives her as monstrous. And I… I can do nothing.”

The final words were spoken in a low, bitter tone.

Looking at him then, I remembered he wasn't solely Daniel Blackthorne, the heir to Nightfang, that boy who often acted like a reborn monarch.

He was Sera’s son.

He was forced to witness strangers malign his mother’s reputation while adults repeatedly told him to be patient, to train, to grow stronger.

Patience was something I loathed.

“So, there’s truly no avenue for retaliation?” I inquired.

Daniel emitted a mirthless laugh and began adjusting the worn wrap around his wrist.

“We are merely children.”

“And so?”

“Which means there is nothing we can accomplish that would carry any real weight.”

I frowned. “That sounds precisely like something an adult would claim.”

“It sounds like something that is factual.”

“My goodness, you are such a rigid traditionalist.”

Daniel’s lips quirked, but it did not evolve into a smile.

He appeared uncharacteristically mature beneath the harsh gymnasium lighting.

“We persist with our training,” he stated. “That is within our capacity. We strengthen ourselves. We become more astute. When our moment arrives, we will be prepared.”

That response filled me with disdain.

By the time we attained maturity and formidable power, this present moment would have long passed. The falsehoods would have irrevocably taken root. People would have already formed their judgments about Sera, and some might never look beyond the label 'silver wolf' to truly perceive her.

My gaze drifted to the tablet still tightly held in my hand.

The darkened screen mirrored my own face.

A visage far too young to be involved in strategic discussions.

Too youthful to warrant serious consideration.

Too insignificant to make a difference.

Then, I recalled Sera extending her hand to me in that dimly lit alley after I had pilfered from her.

‘Ava…you don’t have to face this by yourself.’

I remembered her steadfast presence as the physician attended to my grandmother. I recollected her vow to impart any knowledge I desired, a promise she had largely kept thus far.

That was the essence of who she was.

This was the truth people needed to witness.

Not the venomous slander spread by Marcus Draven.

My breath hitched.

Daniel’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized me.

“What is it?” he questioned, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

Shifting my gaze from the inert tablet to him, the fury churning within my chest suddenly felt potent, not futile.

“You contended that we are children,” I began deliberately.

“As far as I can ascertain.”

“That does not equate to us being without influence.”

Daniel exhaled, “Ava.”

For the first time in a considerable period, a smile graced my lips.

“The adults are attempting to counter Marcus using conventional adult methods,” I explained. “Official statements. Strategic planning sessions. Presenting evidence. Delivering public addresses.”

Daniel nodded. “That is typically how political maneuvering operates.”

“Precisely,” I affirmed. “However, the general populace distrusts political machinations. They gravitate towards what resonates as genuine.”

Daniel became unnervingly still. “What exactly are you proposing?”

I elevated the tablet.

“Marcus presented his fabricated narrative of Sera to the world,” I stated. “Therefore, let us reveal our own version of her.”