Chapter 1 - The Luna’s Reflection

The bond snapped sharp beneath my skin - like a struck chord, discordant and wrong. I staggered, one hand pressing against my chest as if I could hold the tether in place. It used to be a symphony, my mate’s soul braided into mine, music threading through every vein. Now it was unraveling - thin, fragile, a song fading into silence. Dying.

And if the pack ever realized the truth? My reign as Luna would shatter with it.

So I straightened, forced my mask into place, and prayed no one could see the fracture bleeding beneath my ribs.

Time to perform.

The packhouse was alive, as it always was at dusk.

I walked the halls with measured steps, my heels clinking against polished marble floors, my skirts whispering across stone that had been laid by ancestors centuries before me. The walls were hung with woven tapestries: wolves running under full moons, battles fought and won, generations of Alphas immortalized in thread. Our history wasn’t just told - it was displayed on every wall, in every hallway, a reminder of the legacy we carried.

Outside, the sound of sparring echoed faintly. Warriors clashed with blades in the courtyard, grunts of exertion mixing with the clang of steel. Children’s laughter rang like bells as they darted between pillars, their small bodies bursting with the kind of energy only young wolves possessed. Omegas carried baskets from the kitchens, steam rising from fresh bread. The yeasty, earthy smell curling around me like a comfort I hadn’t realized I needed.

And everywhere I walked, wolves paused. Bowed their heads. Murmured, “Luna.”

I returned each greeting with a smile, a nod, a brush of my hand on their shoulder if they lingered. That was part of the role. The Alpha might be their weapon, but I was their warmth.

Even when I felt cold inside.

“Luna!” A voice broke through my thoughts.

Maren, the Beta’s mate, hurried down the corridor toward me. She was flushed from rushing, a scroll clutched tightly in her hands. Her braid had come loose, wisps framing her face, but her brown eyes shone with determination.

“The council is waiting,” she said breathlessly, bowing her head. “They need your approval for the festival plans.”

I offered her a soft smile. “Then let’s not keep them waiting.”

We walked together, her pace quick, mine measured. She chatted about the preparations - the number of lambs being slaughtered for the feast, the problem with importing enough honey mead from the southern valley, the endless debate over whether to host the hunt before or after the games.

I listened. I always did. Every detail mattered.

The council chamber doors opened, and the hum of conversation halted. Elders and betas rose to their feet as I entered, their expressions softening with respect.

But my eyes went immediately to the Alpha’s chair beside mine.

Empty.

Again.

One of the younger betas muttered under his breath as I passed. “The Alpha dishonors us.”

“Luna,” the eldest elder greeted, bowing low. “We are honored by your presence.”

I inclined my head gracefully, slipping into the role like a second skin. “Shall we begin?”

The meeting stretched long into the evening. Voices rose and fell, arguments sparked and fizzled. We debated the games, the rituals, the sacrifices. The younger warriors wanted the hunt before the feast, believing bloodlust made the wine taste sweeter. The elders worried about omens - about offending the Moon Goddess with excess before gratitude.

I listened. I soothed. I redirected.

When tempers flared, I spoke gently, and they quieted. When pride clashed, I offered compromise. When silence threatened to suffocate the room, I filled it with purpose.

By the end, laughter had replaced tension, agreements sealed with nods and clasped hands.

An elder leaned toward me as the council adjourned. “Without you, Luna, this pack would be lost. The Alpha may be our sword, but you are our compass.”

The words should have warmed me. Should have filled me with pride. I thought bitterly, but I kept quiet. Instead, my gaze drifted once more to the empty chair. And something inside me tightened, hard and aching.

“My role is to serve the pack,” I said smoothly, masking the storm in my chest.

Later, I escaped into the gardens.

The air was heavy with the perfume of roses, so thick it nearly suffocated. They bloomed wild along the stone walls, crimson petals spilling like blood over gray rock. I reached out, brushing my fingers along one, careful of the thorns. The softness was almost unbearable, too fragile, too easy to destroy.

“Luna.”

I turned. Alric, a pack head warrior, stood a few paces away. His dark hair was tied back, his leather armor still dusted from training. His loyalty had always been… complicated. Fierce. Direct. 

His gaze lingered too long. Too hungry. Fierce in a way that made me wonder if his loyalty was mine or if he wanted me to himself.

He bowed, but his gaze held mine, sharp and unyielding. “The Alpha will not return tonight.”

A chill ran down my spine. “Where is he?”

“He claimed to be on patrol.” Alric’s jaw tightened, his mouth curving around the words like they tasted foul. “But…”

He stopped. The silence stretched. Wolves were bound by loyalty, and even he couldn’t break the code. But the hesitation screamed louder than any words.

I nodded slowly, schooling my features. “Thank you, Alric.”

He lingered, as though wanting to say more. But in the end, he bowed again and left me among the roses.

I stood in the garden until the moon rose high, silver light spilling over me like judgment. The tether between myself and my mate pulsed weakly, faint as a dying flame.

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

That night, my chamber was a tomb. The bed was half-made, his side untouched, the sheets cold and smooth. His scent, once strong enough to cling to every breath I took, was faint. Fading even more with each hour.

I sat before the mirror again. The candles had burned low, their flames shivering in the draft.

The woman stared back at me, fierce and fragile all at once. A Luna in black leather, with fire in her hair and glass in her veins.

To the world - flawless. To herself - embroiled.

I pressed my palm against the glass.

“I deserve more,” I whispered. 

The mirror woman did not argue. And soon, neither would anyone else.