Fated by Moon and Sea

Chapter Three: Embracing the Shadows

Isaiah's POV:

The room feels cold. Empty. Like the life has been sucked out of it along with Alicia's last breath. Everything still smells like her—faint traces of her perfume, the warmth she always carried—but she's not here. And no matter how hard I try to convince myself this is all a bad dream, reality doesn't bend to my will.

Josiah and I stand side by side, trying to hold it together. Our bond is strong—it has always been strong—but this? This is something neither of us was prepared for. Losing her feels like losing a limb.—a part of us that we'll never get back.

A soft knock at the door breaks the silence. Natala peeks in first, her eyes red and swollen. She doesn't say anything at first, just walks straight over and wraps us both in a tight hug. It's not one of those light, careful hugs people give when they don't know what to say. No, this is raw. Heavy. A silent promise that we don't have to carry this weight alone.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers. "Alicia was more than just a Luna—she was family."

Aurora follows close behind, her face streaked with fresh tears. She hesitates for just a second before stepping forward and wrapping her arms around us. "She was everything," she chokes out. "I don't know how to do this without her."

Alicia had been her anchor when she first came into our world, the one who helped her find her place. And now, she's gone, just like that.

More people filter in one by one—our cousins, the Lycan Kings, our parents. Strong men who rarely show emotion are standing here, looking as wrecked as we feel. There's no need for words. They offer hugs, quiet nods, and firm grips on our shoulders that say more than words ever could.

"We're here for you," one of them says, voice thick with emotion. "Always."

Aurora wipes her tears, but the pain still lingers in her eyes. "Alicia was my best friend. She made everything brighter. I just... I don't know how to picture life without her."

The lump in my throat makes it hard to speak, but Josiah beats me to it. "We'll get through this," he says, voice firm. "Together."

And just like that, we hold onto those words. Because what else is there? We can't crumble. Alicia wouldn't want that.

As the family starts to leave, each takes a moment to say their final goodbyes to Alicia, Josiah, and I remain behind. The room is empty now, and the warmth has faded. But I swear I can still feel her here like she's just out of reach.

Josiah stands next to me, silent, but I know he's thinking the same thing.

She's gone.

But we are not alone.

Josiah's POV:

A knock at the door again. The nurse this time. She looks hesitant, almost like she doesn't want to say what she's about to say.

"Alphas, we need your permission to take Luna Alicia to the morgue."

That single sentence is like a punch to the gut. A brutal reminder that she isn't coming back. There's no saving her now. No miracle waiting around the corner.

Isaiah nods slowly. "Yeah. You have our permission."

Before the nurse can leave, another one rushes in, looking worried. "Alphas, your babies… they won't stop crying. We've tried everything, but nothing works."

A shift happens in me instantly.

Our kids.

Isaiah and I move, heading straight to the NICU without a word. The moment we step inside, the cries are deafening. And there they are—our son and daughter, separated in their incubators, wailing like the world is ending.

The second we get closer, they stop, just like that. Their tiny little heads turn toward us, sensing us, feeling us. And damn, if that doesn't break something inside me.

Our boy is strong, already bigger than most newborns, and his dark hair is a mirror of ours. Our little girl, smaller and more delicate, has a hint of auburn in her hair—Alicia's hair. It makes my chest tighten.

"We need to name them," Isaiah says, quiet but sure.

I look at our son first. "Alexander," I decide. "It means 'defender of the people.' He'll be strong, like us. A leader. A supreme alpha when the time comes."

Isaiah nods, approval flashing in his eyes. "Alexander," he repeats. "A strong name for our son."

Then, we both turn to our daughter.

"Elara," Isaiah says with no hesitation. "It means 'shining light.' She'll carry a piece of Alicia with her. Always."

I swallow hard. "Elara," I repeat.

The names settled over us, final and perfect. As if they understood, our twins finally relaxed. No more cries, no more restlessness—just quiet, steady breathing as they lay there, content.

Isaiah and I exchange a look. This is it. Our new reality. We may have lost the love of our lives, but we still have them. And that means we have a reason to keep going.

"We'll be the best fathers we can be," Isaiah says, voice thick with emotion. "For Alicia. For them. For our pack."

I nod. "Damn right, we will."

Alicia may be gone, but she lives on. In Alexander. In Elara. In us.

And as long as we breathe, we will ensure her legacy never fades.