Chapter 60

Mira’s POV

That castle was way too quiet. Like, creepy church-after-midnight quiet. Every footstep echoed weirdly, all the stone walls practically sweating with secrets. Servants slunk past, heads down, whispering just loud enough to make you wonder what you missed.

Perfect setup for me.

The rumor about Dominic being poisoned spread quickly. Turned that fortress into paranoia central. Honestly, you couldn’t drag a rumor into richer soil. Doubt just bloomed everywhere, and guess what, I’m the gardener.

He wasn't supposed to eat the food. That useless maid must have switched the food. I specifically told her to give the food to Elora. But anyhow, this isn't bad either.

So I strolled those corridors, arms full of useless herbs like some tragic little sister, playing the part. Sorrowful, duty-bound. Kept my eyes shiny with fake grief. Anyone watching would swear I was the portrait of devotion

Why would they? He ditches me for some outsider with a spine made of pudding, and I’m supposed to fret over healing him? Please. His collapse was a windfall. Elora’s sudden rise was just a candle flaring up before you snuff it out.

Whenever I made a big show of visiting Dominic’s chamber, it was just that, a show.

I’d loiter by his bed, smooth the sheets just enough for the healers and guards to take note. All for appearances. Oldest trick in the book.

One night I even put on a drama. “Poor Alpha,” all hushed and trembling so the maid could hear. “How he suffers. And Elora, bless her, is trying her best, but honestly? It’s too much.” The maid went stiff for half a heartbeat. Hook’s in.

That’s how you do it. Not daggers. Not tantrums.

Just whispers.

Over in the dining hall, I had to squeeze in with the baby-faced warriors, the ones who never learned to keep their big mouths shut.

“Elora tries,” I had sighed, dabbing at my lips, “but does she even get what it means to lead? She’s a healer, not a general.” I even managed a little shrug. None of them wanted to actually say I was right, but you could see the gears grinding.

Someone would grumble about rogues at the border. Another one would gripe about the defenses slipping. I just sipped my wine and let their brains stew in it.

Servants? All heart and nerves, so easy. In the laundry, I’d hang around, all anxious and wringing my hands, talking about Elora wasting away, asking how long before she drops and leaves us leaderless. Lots of sympathetic nodding. Fear mixes with pity, turns to resentment faster than you’d think.

The old folks need logic, or something like it. So I’d sit in council, face draped in mourning, barely speaking. Then I'd drop a gem: “Elora means well, sure, but is that enough for war? You all saw how she begged for Dante. Can you trust a Luna who can’t sniff out traitors?”

The word traitor is always good for a reaction. Gasps, side-eye, the works.

And honestly? The best gossip at night was always in the servants’ quarters. That was where the real game happened. Range around the kitchen, whisper a few carefully chosen jabs about Elora hovering over Dominic’s sickbed, letting slip that maybe she was the one who missed the poison in the first place. Firelight, wide eyes classic.

Another night, a stable boy got an earful, just a toe dipped into council unrest, hinting that maybe new leadership could be coming if things didn’t shape up. You should’ve seen that kid’s face. Gave the horse a better brushing than usual, too, probably out of sheer nerves.

The thing about rumors is, you feed them breadcrumbs and next thing you know, the whole damn place is burning.

But I’m not an idiot. Smiles and sweet talk for Elora whenever I ran into her. I couldn't let her see the mask slip.

“Luna, you must be so tired, but wow, still standing strong. The pack's lucky,” I'd say, just oozing sugar. She never called me out, but her eyes said she sensed something.

She didn’t see the cracks, though. Didn’t notice the hush that fell behind her, the worried looks, the elders’ deepening wrinkles.

The whole time, she thought the council was her real threat.

Joke’s on her.

It was always going to be me.

And Dominic...Dominic.

Every time I saw that pale ghost of a face, this weird tangle of longing and resentment flipped my stomach. Once upon a time, he could've picked me. Seen how sharp I was, how ruthless, how much I could've done for him. But nope. He went with Elora. Gentle Elora. Soft as spring rain, all Luna sweetness, about as suited to ruling as a dandelion is to steel.

Now she's parked in his chair.

If the universe has a shred of justice left, she won't keep it warm for long.

So there I was, a late-night ritual at the mirror. Hairbrush in hand, dragging it slowly, letting the golden candlelight blur out my face, made me look like someone else, honestly. The window behind me sat open a crack, and the night air twined around me, chilly and nosy.

Dominic? He wasn’t coming back anytime soon. Healers rattled on about stubborn poison. Buried deep, clinging hard. And Elora? She was doing what she does best, overplaying angels. Gripping his lifeless hand like she could love the venom out of his veins.

I caught my own eye, grinned.

Let her wear herself down to nothing. Let her drown in all that pure-hearted effort. The pack would notice eventually; they'd see how fragile she is. They'd start wanting someone unbreakable.

And I'd be right here.

Patient.

The next morning, time to stir things up a bit. I drifted out to the training yard where two guards were talking low, sweat-slicked and half-worried about the last rogue attack. I leaned in, faking this delicate concern.

“I heard the healers,” I murmured, bringing my voice just above secretive. “They’re saying Dominic might not make it back. Not all the way.” I trailed off, letting the silence sit heavy. “Maybe the council will need someone else. Someone who doesn’t break.”

They shot glances at each other, uncertain, kinda scared. You could almost taste the questions brimming on their tongues.

“Who?” one managed.

I just smiled, tucked my hair behind my ear like a girl with nothing to hide. “Guess we’ll see.”

Left them there swimming in questions.

Rumors? They’re contagious. Like black mold.

By the weekend, everyone and their mother was whispering in the halls:

Elora can’t handle it.

She’s clinging to Dante now.

She let Dominic down.

She’s out of her depth.

Didn’t need to do a thing after that, the words multiplied on their own, warped into bigger tales, planted themselves in every ear.

And poor Elora, clueless as always, never saw the avalanche rumbling beneath her feet.

That night, I found myself standing at Dominic’s bedside again, watching his lungs fight for every breath. My hand brushed close to his arm, stopped short, no need to get sappy.

“Sleep tight, Alpha,” I breathed, voice sweet but fake as cheap honey. “When you wake up, maybe you’ll find your kingdom’s changed. Maybe your precious Luna hit the ground. Maybe you’ll finally notice the only person who never left your side.”

I leaned closer, smiled small and dangerous.

“Should’ve picked me, Dominic.”