A Luna bears not only the crown, but the silence of those who no longer speak her name."
—LadyHedti
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The duties of a Luna were often more shadow than ceremony. Quiet oversight. A careful presence. The invisible tether that bound a pack's soul together. Selene moved among the training fields with silent poise, her cloak brushing the earth like dusk trailing the sun. Warriors paused their sparring to bow their heads. Children halted their games. Even the elders, seated in stoic silence beneath the old pines, raised their gaze to watch her pass.
None spoke her name aloud, yet all felt it.
Luna.
She found Gregor Cormac Ronan father, near the archery range, where the cold wind snapped against the targets. His arms were folded across his chest, his weathered face unreadable, his greying hair tied at the nape. He did not look at her when she approached, though the subtle tightening of his stance betrayed his awareness.
"Morning finds you early," she said, her voice calm.
"As it always does," he answered, the tone clipped and distant.
Selene studied him with quiet sorrow. Gregor had once walked beside her father like a shadow, loyal and fierce, the kind of man who would fight a dozen wolves bare-handed for honor's sake. He used to call her little moon and sneak sweetbread from the kitchens when she was too small to reach the counter. He had once lifted her onto his shoulders to watch the mountain fires blaze during festival nights.
That man had vanished the day her father fell.
"You look well," she offered, her words more for memory than for meaning.
"I keep myself useful," he replied.
Still, he would not look at her. There was no warmth in his words, but no scorn either. Simply absence. And that, she found, stung worse than any anger. He had treated her like blood when her father lived. Now that she wore the crown, he looked upon her not as kin but as a duty to endure. Perhaps this coldness was what came with power. Or perhaps her presence reminded him of her father-and everything they'd lost.
"I hope you'll attend the council later. Your voice carries weight."
He gave a short nod. "If it is needed."
Then he turned and walked past her, leaving no bow, no parting words, no trace of what once had been. She remained where she stood, watching the place he had occupied as though his spirit still lingered. The ache of his coldness pressed deep into her chest, heavier than steel.
She turned away.
Beyond the training fields, past the sculpted gardens and rose-hedged walks, sat a stone cottage nearly swallowed by time. It was her mother's dwelling now, tucked beneath the boughs of an old willow tree. Once a woman of great poise and sharper wit, her mother had not been the same since the Great War. Since her husband, Alpha Eryon, had fallen upon the battlefield of Nightshade Pack, cut down not in weakness but in glory. He had died fighting to lift the White Claws Pack among the strongest, and the earth had mourned his blood.
Selene approached the cottage with a heaviness that came from memory, not from fear. The air around the home was thick with stillness, like even the wind dared not disturb its sadness. She was nearly at the door when a figure lurched into her path, startling her.
"Theron," she breathed.
The old seer stood crooked and disheveled, robes muddied, beard wild, eyes like shattered glass. Feathers clung to his hair, and a small crow's bone hung from a thread around his throat. Once a sage whose words could move courts, now he was more myth than man, seen only in glimpses and whispers.
"You should not be wandering, not in this cold," Selene said, unclasping her cloak and wrapping it around his shoulders.
He chuckled, a rasp of wind and ash. "The cold does not bother the dead."
"You are not dead."
He leaned closer, whispering as though trees might be listening. "Love. Hate. Betrayal. Hope. War."
She frowned. "What are you saying?"
He looked at her then, and in that moment his gaze sharpened, more lucid than madness should allow. Quick as a blade, he pulled a small vial from his robe and poured the contents over her boot. The liquid shimmered like oil in moonlight, vanishing into the leather before she could step away.
"Theron!" she gasped, more shocked than angry. "What was that?"
He stared at her, as if seeing through her soul. "Which do you think will win?"
She faltered. "Win? You speak as though they are enemies."
"They are," he said softly. "All five. Love. Hate. Betrayal. Hope. War. They are not feelings, they are paths. And one day you will walk them all."
Her breath caught. "I do not understand."
"You will," he murmured, voice almost kind. "One will save you. One will break you. And one will demand your choice."
He released her hand and stepped back. "Live long enough, and you will understand."
Then, with the silence of a passing storm, he turned and vanished into the trees. Selene stood motionless, her heart pounding. The scent of him lingered faintly—sage, smoke, and snow. She looked down at her boot, now dry, as though nothing had touched it. But something had. Of that, she was certain.
She turned toward her mother's door again, only to hear the sound of children's laughter in the distance. She glanced back to the edge of the forest, where a group of younglings played with a leather-bound ball. One of them, a small boy, missed the catch, and the ball rolled into the underbrush.
The boy's eyes filled with tears.
"I'll fetch it," Selene called gently, stepping into the trees. The woods were quiet. Bare branches arched above her like cathedral spires, and the air was sharp with frost. She found the ball resting beneath a gnarled root. As she bent to retrieve it, a scent struck her senses.
Smoke. Leather. Steel.
Ronan.
Her fingers tightened around the ball. He had been gone when she woke, just as he had been so many mornings. No message. No explanation. She assumed he had gone to the border, perhaps to inspect the sentries.
But this scent was not hours old.
It was fresh.
Selene rose slowly, her breath misting in the air. The ache in her chest was not new, but it pressed deeper now. He was here. And if his scent led away from the sentry posts, it could only mean one thing.
Ronan was near.
And he was not where he claimed to be.
Still breathing? Good. You'll need that air for the next chapter. —>>>>>🌓