Semua Bab Forsaken Luna's Second Chance: Bab 91 - Bab 100

MAXWELLIt’s not the sound of her name that makes my heart stop—it’s the silence that follows after.I arrive at the banquet expecting routine: a few empty toasts, too-sweet wine, and nobles pretending they care about tradition more than power. What I don’t expect is the scent of panic. It hits me before I cross the threshold.People are whispering near the dessert table. Eyes darting. I hear a crash being described in hushed tones. Something about the kitchen. A fall.Then I catch her name.Beatrice.My wolf snaps to attention.I push through the crowd, ignoring the startled glances. A healer crouches near the side of the banquet table, half-hidden by linen drapes. Beatrice is slumped against the leg of a chair, her face too pale, her eyes fluttering open and closed. There’s a tray beside her on the floor, cracked pastries spilled like broken promises.Time slows.I don’t remember moving, but I’m there in seconds. Her arm trembles as she tries to sit up. The healer touches her wrist,

BEATRICEThe walls of the packhouse are too clean, too quiet—too kind for someone like me.I wake up in a room I’ve never slept in before.It smells like sage and soap. The sheets are soft, the mattress cradles my body like it was made to hold weight. Real weight. Soul weight. I stare at the ceiling for a moment, unsure if I’m still dreaming. My body aches like I’ve been trampled, but not from battle—this is the slow ache of too much endurance, too much pretending.There’s no sound of the bakery. No flour in the air. No tray clatter. Just the faint hum of someone humming outside the door.Then it hits me—I’m not home.I sit up too fast. Pain flares up my spine and down my arm where the burn still hasn’t fully healed. My throat is dry and my limbs heavy. But I force myself upright anyway, because the idea of staying here, in this... this sanctuary, makes my skin itch.Gamma Aria opens the door before I can even swing my legs off the bed. “You’re awake,” she says calmly. Like she’s been

BEATRICEPain doesn’t scare me anymore—what terrifies me is being seen as weak and pitied, like a ghost in my own skin.I throw the first punch before the boy even finishes his sentence.He’s taller than me by at least a foot, lean and cocky with a smirk that makes my wolf stir. Something about him—the rolled sleeves, the swagger, the way he whispered “washed-up Luna” just loud enough for me to hear—lights a fuse I didn’t even know was still in me.I hear Gamma Aria shout something from the side, but it’s too late.My knuckles connect with his jaw. He stumbles back, and everyone goes quiet.They think I’ve lost control.They’re wrong.I’m just getting started.It starts three mornings ago.I walk onto the training field without being asked. Without permission. Just me, my aching joints, and a fire in my chest I’m finally done trying to put out.Gamma Aria raises a brow but doesn’t stop me. She calls over one of the assistant trainers and hands me a blunted blade without a word.By the

BEATRICEIt always starts the same: teeth, trees, and the feeling that something ancient is just beneath my skin, trying to claw its way out.I dream in fragments. Nothing clear. Nothing whole. Just the shiver of wind through dark branches and the low rumble of something alive—pacing, watching, waiting.Sometimes I catch flashes of fur between the trees. Sometimes I feel claws digging into soil that isn’t real. I can’t tell if I’m running through the forest or if I am the forest—every root, every shadow.But the worst part?It’s not fear I feel in the dream.It’s hunger.And then the name comes.Not in a voice, not spoken aloud, but felt—like blood memory. Like instinct cracking through old wounds.Nyx.She used to be mine.Or maybe I used to be hers.I wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, my lungs dragging in air like I’ve been drowning. My fists are clenched so tight, I can feel warm blood where my nails have broken skin. I sit up slowly and open my hands under the

BEATRICEIt starts with a silence that doesn’t belong to me.The first time I notice it, I’m walking into the training grounds. Gamma Aria’s already barking commands at the recruits, and the usual clang of weapons and footwork rhythms fill the air. But the moment I step into the clearing, the noise falters.Not stops—shifts.The low hum of conversation hushes. The kind of silence that’s not natural. Not respectful.Suspicious.A few of the younger trainees glance at each other. One nudges the other with an elbow and mutters something. He doesn’t even try to keep his voice down.I don’t catch the words. I don’t have to.I’ve heard enough whispers to know what they sound like.I keep walking. Chin high. Eyes forward.Pretend.That’s how you survive this kind of silence. You pretend you don’t hear it.The next time it happens, I’m leading a basic defensive drill. The instructions are clear—pair off and rotate stances. I call it out with the same tone Aria uses. Steady. Controlled.Three o