From Slave to Queen, Yet Never His Luna

The cold wind carried snow across the northern borders of Silver Ridge Pack.

I had just finished scrubbing the last blood-soaked battle robe of the day. My fingertips were purple and numb because of the cold. Before I could straighten, the female warden of the Blood Wash Grounds shouted at me:

“Nina! Hurry—Silver Ridge Pack sent someone for you!”

I froze.

I thought I would never go back. It felt like a dream.

Three years ago, I was Silver Ridge’s pride—the one Alpha Marcus and Luna Evelyn raised to become a future Luna.

I was the heir apparent, the fusion of glory, power, and destiny.

Until the bloodline awakening ritual.

The dying Pack Healer confessed with his final breath: I was not the true princess of the Silver Ridge Pack. I was a switched child, an imposter fated for the wrong life.

The real daughter of Silver Ridge was Lily—a girl brought back from the Wildlands.

I remember that day.

The moment the verdict fell, Alpha and Luna threw themselves toward Lily, holding her like a long-lost treasure.

I stood on the stage below.

No one looked at me.

No one called my name.

Alpha Marcus said, “You are still the daughter I raised.”

Luna Evelyn smiled as she took my hand, “You and Lily are sisters.”

They spoke with softness and dignity.

But only a few days later, Lily shattered the Moon Crystal Chalice—the one used in sacred rituals. When the warrior blamed me, Lily said nothing. The omega maid beside her even shifted the blame onto me.

I saw Lily bow her head in silence.

I saw Alpha and Luna standing still, watching.

No one defended me.

So, I was stripped of my title as “future Luna of the wolf king” and sent to the Blood Wash Grounds— that was the punishment zone at the bottom of the Pack, specifically for rebels and those who made mistakes.

No moonlight.

No name.

No future.

Only freezing water, blood-stained clothes, and endless cycles of labor.

Three years.

No one visited.

No one spoke my name.

I learned to close my mouth, to feel nothing. I learned to sit in silence and watch Sirius climb the night sky, imagining I had never existed at all.

“What are you still standing there for? Don’t make Prince Liam wait!”

The warden’s bark dragged me back.

At the entrance stood a tall figure, exactly as I remembered him.

His black military coat snapped in the wind, silver buckles glinting like shards of ice. In the pale winter light, he seemed carved from frost.

Liam.

Crown Prince of Silver Ridge. Heir to Alpha blood.

And the “brother” who had pushed me into the Punishment Tower three years ago.

A stabbing ache tore through my chest—an old wound, suddenly raw again.

I forced myself upright, meeting his gaze as I walked toward him.

Liam—the brother I had called for fifteen years. The one who once crossed the whole western territories just to find me a moonstone to ease my first transformation.

The one who, later, pushed me from the balcony of the Grand Hall to protect “true-blood” Lily.

Three years without seeing him.

The pain of betrayal and abandonment should have died already.

Yet here it was again, boiling up, unstoppable.

I swallowed hard, crushed it down.

Expressionless, I stopped before him, dropped to one knee, and bowed my head.

“Cleaner Nina, greets Prince Liam.”

I did not call him brother.

He froze.

Before today, I had imagined this reunion countless times.

In my dreams, I cried and ran into his arms, pouring out the suffering of three years.

Or perhaps, in fury, I turned my back and refused him forever.

But reality?

I was calm.

As calm as if I were facing a superior Alpha, unrelated to me.

That brother who spoiled me for fifteen years, who taught me pride and playfulness—

I now knelt before him, silent, obedient, unwilling to call him “Liam.”

His throat bobbed. Like something had stolen his breath.

He forced composure and said softly, “Grandmother dreamed of you before the Moon Festival. She petitioned the Elders. They granted permission for you to leave the Grounds, temporarily.”

He paused, then tried again—gentler, almost pleading.

He bent down, reached to lift me.

“Come home with me… please?”

My lashes trembled.

In the Grounds, I had dreamed of this—countless nights. That he would come. That he would protect me. That he would regret.

But a thousand nights had passed.

He hadn’t come.

Not a word.

Not a thought.

And now he stood here.

I stepped back, slipped free of his hand.

Bowed again.

“My gratitude to the Elders’ mercy, and the blessings of the Moon.”

My voice was clean. Without anger. But colder than a wall of ice.

Not one word about him.

Liam stood there, staring. Same face. Same sister.

But my eyes no longer belonged to him.

He pulled back his hand, knuckles white, brows furrowed. His voice hardened:

“Father never stripped you of your name. Though you spent three years in the Blood Wash Grounds, your name remains on the bloodline scroll. You are still Silver Ridge. Not some omega cleaner.”

He spoke like he was convincing himself. That the sister he raised could never be a slave.

But all I heard was absurdity.

Three years—

Every day before dawn, I got up to wash the blood-stained battle armor and the fur of prey, spending my days in putrid and icy water. My hands bled, broken, frozen, and then cracked. Enduring endless blows from guards and servants, and no one ever stopped them.

I remembered it all.

My “identity” there was lower than a hybrid pup.

The bloodline scroll? Titles? Heritage?

A cruel joke.

I stayed silent.

Liam swallowed, voice low, restrained:

“The Grand Hall is ready. You don’t need to pack. Come. Don’t let Grandmother wait.”

He turned, cloak sweeping, snow curling at his boots.

He thought I would follow quickly.

But when he glanced back, he found me still at a distance—

walking quietly, limping through the snow, my eyes fixed straight ahead.

Never once looking at him.

No complaints.

No tears.

Not a word about him.

He remembered the sister who once tugged at his cloak, giggling, calling “Brother.”

The memory stabbed like ice. Rage surged in his chest, impossible to smother.

He lengthened his stride, as if speed could outrun the past.

But I slowed.

Three years ago, that fall broke my ankle. The bone still ached in winter’s frost. In deep snow, I could barely keep up.

By the time I dragged myself to the Grand Hall, Liam was already seated in Silver Ridge’s convoy.

The elder driver blinked at me, uncertain.

“…Princess Nina?”

He sounded unsure, like he couldn’t match this scarred, frost-bitten figure to the girl once crowned before thousands of wolves.

I only dipped my head, steady, my gaze cutting past him to the snow-dark forest.

He hurriedly bowed. “Your Highness.”

I returned the gesture, then walked past him—not to the carriage doors, but to the driver’s bench outside.

He looked at me in surprise. “Princess… won’t you go into the cabin?”

I shook my head. “Not proper.”

The word had barely left my lips before a boot lashed out from inside.

It slammed into me.

I crashed into the snow. A sharp pain pierced my ankle, and the old wound felt as if it had been torn apart by sharp claws.

Then the carriage curtain lifted. Liam’s face appeared, cold as ice, eyes blazing with fury.

“First time seeing me and already filled with resentment? Don’t want to return to the Hall? Then crawl back to the Grounds and keep scrubbing blood like the lowly cleaner you are!”

Sweat froze across my brow, my face pale as ash. My ankle throbbed—I feared it was broken again.

But his words cut sharper than pain.

“Or do you feel wronged? Playing the victim? Don’t forget, Nina—

You stole Lily’s life for fifteen years. You lived in her place, basking in glory. Now you suffer three years of punishment in hers. That’s balance.”

He sneered.

“You even climb onto the driver’s bench to play pitiful? Want Grandmother to think you’ve suffered, to earn her sympathy? If you can’t face us without that sour face, then walk. Walk the whole way back and think hard—what are you now?”

He dropped the curtain. His voice cracked like a whip:

“Drive.”

The old driver hesitated—then obeyed.

The convoy rolled forward, leaving me kneeling in the snow, wind stabbing through my clothes, freezing into my bones.

But inside, I was calm.

Three years ago, I had already been abandoned by the one I trusted most.

The night I fell from the tower, I lost my name, my pride, my future.

I had suffered already.

Today was only repetition.

I dragged in a breath, staggered to my feet, limped toward the Hall.

But I had barely gone a dozen steps when a dark-silver carriage glided silently across the snow.

Its curtain stirred.

A strong, elegant hand lifted the fabric.

A voice spoke—low, controlled, with a strange chill, and something that sounded almost like recognition:

“Miss Nina Silver?”