Cursed Luna, Rejected Mate

Ayla

The sky is red.

Not sunset red, not the warm hue of dusk. It’s bleeding. A deep, oozing red that spills across the clouds like an open wound. The moon hangs too low, too big, glowing a heavy silver that thuds in the air with every pulse. I feel it in my ribs.

I’m walking barefoot on a carpet of thorns. Each step bites into my skin, but I don’t bleed. My dress is made of ash, shifting and crumbling with every movement, smoky threads trailing behind me like ghosts. Around me, the crowd stands silent; faceless and motionless. Their eyes shine like mirrors, blank and unblinking.

At the end of the hall, he waits.

Alpha Lugh.

He stands tall in the centre of the altar, surrounded by dying roses that grow from cracks in the stone floor. They wilt as I pass, petals dropping one by one like they’re bowing to him. He wears black, as always. But now, it’s not fabric: it’s smoke. His cloak moves like mist and shadows. His eyes burn gold, and they are colder than the moon.

I reach out to him. My fingers tremble.

He doesn’t move.

The silence stretches.

I whisper, “I’m here.”

His head tilts slightly, just enough for the gold of his eyes to sharpen. Then he steps back.

Something in me cracks. I feel it deep in my soul. Like a cord has been sliced through. My wolf howls inside me, loud and aching.

From the shadows, laughter rises. Low at first, then louder. The faceless crowd begins to move, their heads tilt back, their mouths open, too wide, too dark. They point at me and they mock. They chant something I can’t make out, the sound echoing like a drumbeat in my ears.

He still says nothing.

I drop my hand. My knees want to buckle. My heart beats too fast, too loud, like it wants to tear out of my chest and run away from this place.

And that’s when she steps forward.

Selene steps out of the crowd like she’s been waiting.

She wears white, blinding white, sharp as bone. Her hair flows behind her like river water, her feet silent on the thorn-strewn ground. The faceless crowd parts for her like she is holy, like she is the storm they’ve been praying for.

In her hands, she carries a sword.

It gleams, silver and cruel, runes etched along the blade that pulse with red light. It hums like it knows my name. I try to speak, to ask her what she’s doing but my voice is gone. It is stolen, stuck somewhere deep in my throat.

Selene doesn’t look at me.

She walks straight to Alpha Lugh and kneels, offering him the sword like it’s a gift. Like it’s my punishment wrapped in ribbons.

"Behead her," she says, her voice loud, unwavering. "Let the pack see what happens when the wrong mate is chosen."

I shake my head. No. No, this isn’t real. This can’t be real.

Lugh looks down at the sword, then at me. His expression is carved from stone. He takes the sword.

"No!" I scream but only a whisper escapes my lips. No one hears me.

The crowd begins to chant in one voice and one rhythm.

"Kill the false Luna. Kill the false Luna."

I fall to my knees. My hands reach for something, anything, but the floor beneath me melts into black water. I sink into it, cold swallowing my body inch by inch. My lungs burn. My magic sputters like a dying flame. My wolf howls, thrashes, cries but no one listens.

Selene stands beside Lugh, her face soft and serene. She smiles.

The sword rises.

I see it glitter above me like a falling star.

Then light explodes behind my eyes.

I jolt upright, gasping like I’ve been drowning. My fingers clutch at the bedsheets, damp with sweat. My heart rams against my ribs, wild and panicked like it’s trying to escape. I can still feel the blade hovering above my neck. Still hear their chants, their laughter, Selene’s voice, calm and cold as snow.

I press my palms to my chest, trying to ground myself. I’m in bed. Our little room. The wooden beams overhead. The soft, steady rhythm of Selene’s breathing from the other side of the room. The pale blue glow of moonlight slipping in through the shutters.

It was just a dream. A horrible, twisted dream.

But it felt too real.

My wolf stirs beneath my skin, restless. She doesn’t speak, but I feel her unease mirroring mine.

Selene murmurs something in her sleep and turns over, her long braid slipping over her shoulder. Her face is peaceful. She always looks so pure when she sleeps. Like someone fate wouldn’t dare hurt.

I turn away.

My throat aches with unshed tears. My magic hums under my skin, unsettled, like it's trying to tell me something I don’t want to hear. I close my eyes, but sleep doesn’t return.

Because in that dream Lugh looked me in the eye and lifted the sword without hesitation.

Because Selene handed it to him.

And somewhere deep inside, where fear tastes like prophecy,

I wonder if I’ve seen the truth of what’s to come.