The Moon Remembers

My name was Mira Thorne—once a healer, once Rowan’s mate,

now nothing but a shade chained to regret.

I floated above the den’s ceiling beams, unseen, unheard.

When Rowan opened the door, the air stirred; dust rose like mist around him.

“Where are you, Mira?” he shouted into the shadows.

“Voss is about to lose her license, and you’re still hiding?”

I smiled bitterly from the rafters.

Three years ago, after that cursed healing ritual, Rowan had cut me out of his life completely.

And now, when he finally came back, it wasn’t to mourn, or remember—

it was to make me take the blame for Voss Voss again.

He strode through the ruin of what used to be our home—the cracked table, the broken chair, the window webbed with cobwebs and frost.

“Where could you go?” he muttered.

“No one banished from the healer’s guild could hide this long.”

He kicked open the bedroom door, splintering the frame.

The empty room stared back at him.

“Voss just texted that the Elders have started investigating. Do you want her to go to prison? I’m counting to ten—get out here now!”

His voice rose, harsh and commanding. “One. Two. Three. Mira, do not test me!”

Watching his impatient face, I thought:

three Winter Solstices had passed, and he still spoke like a man who believed the world owed him obedience.

But no matter how high he counted, I would never step out again.

Because I was already dead.

Rowan shouted again, his voice echoing through the hollow space.

“Mira! I’m just asking for one favor—why are you being so petty?”

Silence answered him.

He slammed his fist against the wall, then turned and left.

Downstairs, the tavern door burst open.

Rowan grabbed Dorian, the innkeeper, by the collar.

“Have you seen Mira Thorne? The woman who lived upstairs?”

Dorian froze mid-motion, wiping grease from his hands.

“Mira?” he repeated softly. “She died three Winter Solstices ago.”

“You’re lying.” Rowan’s face twisted, disbelief flickering into anger.

“I can smell her scent in that room.”

“I’m not lying.” Dorian pointed toward the alley beyond the tavern.

“three Winter Solstices ago, the family from that malpractice case cornered her there—under the blood moon.

They used silver-forged blades, cut deep until her wolf couldn’t heal.

When the bond broke, she screamed once, and then… she was gone before the healers could even reach her.”

He paused, voice lowering.

“The Elders said her spirit howled for one year before the moon claimed her. Her scent lingers because she died there.”

Rowan’s brows furrowed, his jaw tightening with a pain he refused to name.

“Don’t insult me,” he snapped. “She always had a flair for drama.”

He pulled out his phone, the blue glow illuminating the hollows beneath his eyes.

A message flashed on the screen—from Voss:

Forget it. Mira’s still angry about the past. If she won’t help, I’ll take the punishment. If I end up in the Elders’ cells, please take care of yourself.

That one message was enough.

Rowan’s breath shook.

It convinced him that my death was just another excuse.

He typed back, his fingers trembling:

What right does she have to refuse? I paid her more than enough back then. If she’s alive, she owes me.

He looked up, eyes hard, fury burning behind them.

“Stop acting, Dorian! She’s hiding somewhere, isn’t she? Did she pay you off?”

Dorian sighed quietly. “Would I joke about something like this? It was even on the pack’s moon-broadcast.”

But Rowan wasn’t listening anymore. He shoved his phone into his coat and growled,

“Tell her—if she doesn’t show up within three days, her brother’s treatment ends!”

Dorian’s eyes widened. “Rowan, wait—”

“Don’t waste my time!” Rowan snapped, already turning toward the door.

“Either make him come out, or get ready to collect her brother’s body.”

The door slammed shut behind him, the echo rattling through the tavern.

Dorian stood there for a long time, then whispered to the empty air,

“What brother? Her brother died… because there was no money for treatment.”

I lingered beside him, my soul weighted with cold.

That “payment” Rowan mentioned—he had never sent it.

While my brother, Gavin Thorne, lay dying in the healer’s ward,

Rowan and Voss used that gold to buy rare silver instruments for their private lab.

And while I was bleeding out beneath the blood moon,

Rowan was across the valley—

raising a glass to celebrate Voss’s new appointment.

Now, three years later,

he was still using the name of a dead wolf to threaten another who’d long since turned to dust.