11. The Trial of the Luna

The transition from the blood-soaked stone of the North Tower to the sterile, white sheets of the infirmary felt like a descent from one circle of hell to another.

    Girard had been unconscious for thirty-six hours. I hadn’t left his side once. I sat in a hard wooden chair, my own hand bandaged where the silver harpoon had scorched my palms. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the Apex—the raw, beautiful terror of Girard’s true nature.

    The link between us was quiet, a dull ache that felt like a severed limb.

    “You should eat, Madame.”

    I looked up to see Bastien, Girard’s Beta. He was usually a man of stone, but today his eyes held a flicker of something I hadn’t seen before: respect.

    “I’m not hungry, Bastien,” I said, my voice raspy. “How is he?”

    “The silver is gone, but the Primal State takes a toll on the soul,” Bastien said, sitting across from me. “He gave up his humanity to save you. In our world, that is the ultimate sacrifice. But it has created a vacuum.”

    “What does that mean?”

    “The pack is restless,” Bastien explained, lowering his voice. “Soline has been whispering in the shadows. She tells the elders that Girard is unstable—that he has become a ‘feral’ Alpha who cannot be trusted to lead. And she blames you. She says the Monet girl is a poison that forced his hand.”

    I felt a cold spike of fear. “What are they going to do?”

    “They’ve called for a Moot,” Bastien said. “A trial of leadership. Tonight, when the moon reaches its peak, the elders will decide if Girard stays Alpha—or if he is to be ‘retired’ for the safety of the pack.”

    “Retired?” I whispered. “You mean killed.”

    “Yes.” Bastien’s gaze intensified. “And according to the ancient laws, if the Alpha is incapacitated, his mate must stand for him. You have to convince the pack that you are a Luna worthy of their loyalty. If you fail, they will kill Girard to end his suffering, and you… you will be returned to the Syndicate.”

    I looked at Girard’s pale, still face. The thought of being sent back to the remains of my father’s world—or worse, watching Girard die—made my blood boil. I stood up, the bandage on my hand tightening.

    “Tell the elders I will be there,” I said.

    The Moot took place in a natural amphitheater hidden in the cliffs. Hundreds of pack members were there, their eyes glowing like embers in the darkness. In the center stood a circle of five elders. Soline stood among them, looking triumphant.

    “Arielle Monet,” the oldest elder, Silas, spoke. “You stand before us as the mate of a fallen Alpha. He has touched the Primal and lost himself. Why should we not end his line tonight?”

    I stepped into the center of the circle. I wasn’t wearing silk or pearls tonight. I wore black, my hair flowing wild, my bandaged hand visible to everyone.

    “You call him fallen?” My voice rang out, clear and steady. “He didn’t lose himself. He sacrificed his peace to protect his people from a threat you were too blind to see. Girard Roux didn’t become a monster; he showed you the strength required to survive. He is more of a man than any of you, because he chose a mate not for power, but for balance.”

    I held up my bandaged hand. “I pulled the silver from his chest with my bare hands. I stood in the path of the Apex and didn’t flinch. If you want to kill your Alpha, you’ll have to go through the woman who survived him.”

    A low murmur went through the crowd. Silas looked at me, his eyes narrowed. “A bold speech, girl. But the bond is not just words. If you are his tether, prove it. Go to the infirmary. Bring him back to us by dawn. If he does not walk into this circle as a man, the execution will proceed.”

    I turned to run back to the house, but as I reached the doors of the infirmary, I found them hanging off their hinges. The room was empty. Girard was gone, and the scent of sulfuric acid and ozone hung in the air.

    He hadn’t been “retired.” He had been stolen.