All Chapters of The Slave Who Owned The Moon: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

LucianThe night won’t let me sleep.I lean against the balcony railing outside my room, watching moonlight paint silver patterns on the courtyard stones. Down there, servants pass like shadows, hurrying to and from their late tasks. But I’m not really watching them.I’m watching her.Amaya moves like someone who wants to disappear and somehow makes herself impossible to miss. A ghost, yet alive enough to stir every instinct I have.I’ve been digging quietly for days, trying to figure out who she really is. A servant’s file should be easy to find. Where she came from, why she was taken in, and who she belongs to. But there’s nothing. No records, no family ties, nothing but a name and the vague excuse that she was “taken in as a rogue.”A rogue… with eyes like that? With hands that look more suited for a blade than a broom? It doesn’t add up.I tried pressing the head steward, but he clammed up like a stone. I even asked one of the council scribes who keeps track of every newcomer to

DARIANThe corridors hum with quiet conversation as the evening winds down. Servants move like shadows, clearing dishes from the council dinner, their eyes lowered whenever I pass. It’s the way they always are with me these days. Cautious, giving me space, afraid of the weight of my temper, and I’ve made no effort to soften it.Ahead, near the main stairwell, Lucian stands leaning casually against the wall, that easy grin on his face. And opposite him is Amaya. She’s carrying a folded stack of linens, her head slightly bowed as if she’s only half-listening.I slow my steps instinctively, staying just far enough away to hear without being obvious. Lucian speaks low, something teasing, and Amaya actually glances up at him. Her expression doesn’t fully soften, but the corners of her mouth twitch, betraying a reluctant response.I don’t like it.Lucian tilts his head, amused, eyes locked on her like she’s the only thing in the hall worth looking at. He says something else... I can’t catch

DARIAN The message comes just before dawn, sharp and cold as the wind outside my window. A runner kneels at my door, chest heaving. Unrest in the northern sector. Refusal to pay tribute. Hostility spreading.The pack doesn’t sleep while I’m awake. By the time I stride into the council chamber, warriors and advisors are already gathering. The heavy doors close behind me with a hollow thud. I don’t sit. I stand at the head of the long table, hands flat against the wide map stretched across it, breathing in the silence that falls when an Alpha is about to speak.Lucian arrives next, slipping in without ceremony. He takes the seat at my right, his steady presence a reminder that someone here still has my back. Theron comes last, of course, gliding in like the room belongs to him. He greets no one, just lowers himself into a chair with that calm arrogance that makes my teeth ache.“The northern sector is restless,” I say, my voice cutting through the room like a blade. “The tribute shipm

AMAYADarian is gone.The estate feels different without him, the air less sharp, the walls less oppressive. Servants move with lighter steps when he’s not prowling the corridors like a storm waiting to break. For me, his absence is an opportunity, one I cannot waste.I slip into the ancient archives just after sunset. The massive oak door groans softly as I push it open, and the familiar scent of parchment, dust, and candle wax hits me like a comforting cloak. Shelves tower around me, lined with records older than my grandmother’s stories. Somewhere in here lies what I need, a crack in the Grayhide Pack’s walls, a weakness I can exploit when the time is right.I light a single candle, shielding the flame with my hand. The golden glow barely touches the endless rows of leather-bound books and crumbling scrolls. My fingers trace the spines, reading faded lettering. Territorial Disputes, 3rd Era… Pack Genealogies… Alpha Succession Rites…Nothing useful. Nothing sharp enough to cut the

AMAYAI can hear them more clearly now.The whispers follow me like shadows.At first, I think I'm imagining them, the glances from the other servants, the way conversations falter when I enter a room, and they always seem to change the subject. But by midday, I can feel the hostility pressing in, subtle but sharp, like thorns hidden beneath silk. Evelara's handiwork, no doubt.Yes, it doesn't take a genius to figure that out.“Move faster, rogue,” a scullery maid mutters as I pass. She doesn’t meet my eyes, but the curl of her lip says enough.I bite my tongue and keep walking, balancing the tray in my hands. It isn’t worth reacting. Not here. Not now.Trish finds me in the laundry room, folding linens alone. She slips through the door with her usual quick, light steps and closes it firmly behind her.“You’re not imagining it,” she says without preamble, as if she could read my mind. “They’re talking.”I keep my hands busy, smoothing a sheet that doesn’t need smoothing. “About what?”