Semua Bab Forsaken Luna's Second Chance: Bab 111 - Bab 117

MAXWELLIt starts with a whisper—one council member questioning my judgment behind closed doors—and now I’m standing in front of them like a mutinous dog waiting to be leashed.I should’ve seen it coming.The moment I placed the Luna crest in Beatrice’s hand in front of the pack, without their permission, without their ceremony, the balance shifted. The council hates losing control more than they hate me. Now they want blood for it—mine or hers.The council chamber is packed. Advisors, old warriors, even a few Elders from the southern peaks. Dorian sits stiff-backed in the high chair like a god ready to pass sentence. His eyes flick to the others before addressing me.“You’ve taken liberties that threaten the very foundation of our pack structure.”I say nothing.“You’ve shown favoritism, compromised our alliances, and drawn battle lines we may not be ready to hold.”Still nothing.“You’ve crowned a Luna without a vote, without counsel, and—may I remind you—without full trust from the

BAILEYThey said I was too valuable to be on the front lines—but no one warned me how helpless it feels to hear screaming and not be allowed to run toward it.I’ve been running messages between the healer tents and the command post for hours. My legs are sore, my lungs burn, and every corner of the battlefield feels colder than the last. Blood cakes the edges of my sleeves from helping move the wounded. I tell myself it’s not mine. I don’t look too closely.The war has turned our camp into a maze of stretcher cloth, howls, and commands shouted over roaring fire.I push through the chaos with a salve bag pressed to my chest like it’s sacred. It’s all I can do—run, deliver, run again. I asked to fight. I begged. But Gamma Aria said I was more valuable alive. I think what she really meant was, you’re too young to die today.But I feel older than everyone here.A scout calls out my name and thrusts another bundle into my hands. “Eastern stables,” he pants. “They’re prepping backup mounts.”

BEATRICESome wounds bleed in silence. Others scream through the bond.Maxwell lies still beneath me. Too still.His chest rises in shallow, stuttering gasps. His skin—normally so warm it grounds me—feels like ice. The blood beneath my hands is thick, already cooling in the air. His wolf, once this roaring, iron-hearted presence beside mine, is slipping. I can barely feel him now.“No,” I whisper, cupping his face. “No, no, no…”I shake him gently. His head lolls. His eyes remain shut. The mark on his neck—the one only I know by heart—flickers faintly with magic, then dims.The mate bond is breaking.And not in the way it did before.This isn’t rejection.This is death.Nyx snarls in my chest, pacing wildly, slamming her fury into every rib. She knows what’s happening. She knows what it means to lose your mate. To feel the other half of your soul tear away.The battlefield rages behind me, but I don’t hear any of it. All I can hear is Maxwell’s heartbeat slowing.Fainter.Fainter.Fain