Semua Bab The Stray Moon: Bab 21 - Bab 30

The words that end a bond are ancient. I learned them before I could write my own name.I take my place at the center of the dais, hands clasped tight behind my back so the pack won’t see them shake. The moon is rising now, full and intrusive, painting every face in the courtyard a shade paler. The banners overhead are snapping so hard they might tear off the poles. The sound is loud, then gone, then loud again, like the place itself is warning me not to finish what I started.I look at Wren, still flanked by guards at the base of the stairs, her feet bare and her hair tangled, eyes fixed and hollow as a shot wolf. She’s biting the inside of her cheek so hard I can see the blood, her body stiff with the refusal to bend. The bond is a wire strung between us, vibrating in the wind, every pulse a threat and a promise.I raise my voice. It echoes, just like my father’s did. “By right of Alpha, I address the pack. We are gathered to set the line, to witness judgment, to bear the law.”I he

The corridors of Vale Manor are colder than the courtyard, if that’s possible—like the air has learned shame and sealed itself inside the stones for good measure. My feet drag along uneven flagstones, each one worn into a shallow divot by generations of boots, claws, and the unlucky who came before me. The betas on either side—musclebound and bored—move me by the elbows, not stopping to check if my feet keep up.The silver cuffs grind into my wrists. The nerve endings there have gone from burning to numb, but every step jars the joint and sends a new spike of pain through my arms. I want to cradle them to my chest, but the betas’ grip makes me stretch forward, hands locked in front like a penitentiary mugshot.We take the main hall, the ceiling lost in darkness above, the walls hung with banners in the same blue and silver I saw outside. Every ten paces, a portrait of some dead Alpha stares down, eyes following us with predatory glee. It’s a parade of the self-righteous, and I’m the g

The Nightwind council chamber is a perfect circle, but tonight the geometry is all jagged lines—fear, ambition, the old blood feuds that turn every gathering into a game of knives. I stand with my back to the high windows, letting the moon’s glare bisect the room and paint half the council in white, the other in shadow. They like to think the effect is dramatic, but really it’s just for show. Wolves are pack animals, but in these meetings, every one is out for its own throat.Wren sits chained to the stone bench at the center, a focal point designed to amplify shame. They left her wrists raw with the old silver, the kind that bites and lingers even after the cuffs come off. She’s hunched, head down, the mop of her hair hiding most of her face. I tell myself I’m glad I can’t see her eyes, that it makes this easier.The rest of the room is an amphitheater of enemies. Tiered stone, ringed with benches wide enough for a wolf’s bulk and flanked at every cardinal point by a flag—Nightwind,

They reconvene the council at dusk, as if waiting for the last drop of light will lend authority to what comes next. The wolves are already half-shifted, the masks of civilization slipping as tempers climb. The noise is thicker, less words than snarl, and the stink of adrenalized sweat rises even above the pitch of old blood on stone.Soren is first out of his seat. His face is a ruin—three scars run from brow to lip, proof that tradition is enforced here with more than memory. He slaps his palm to the railing, pointing directly at Wren. “We’ve never let a turned wolf live,” he spits. “Not in my grandfather’s time, nor his, nor the Alpha before you, Lucian. They’re a vector. They rot the pack from inside—turn every pup soft and every bitch into a traitor.” He glares at Mira, who gives him nothing in return.“You forget the seer’s warning,” Mira says, voice calm but sharp as a scalpel. “We break prophecy at our peril. Nightwind’s strength is not in blood, but in survival. Only fools in

It takes less than an hour for the verdict to mutate, as all verdicts do in Nightwind.We haven’t even made it to the foyer before a second councilor corners me, face shiny with anticipation and breath close enough to count the nights he skipped brushing his teeth. “Alpha,” he says, “did you really mean it—containment? Are we to keep her locked away forever, or—” He looks at Tessa, then at Luka, then back at me. “Or is there a plan?”Tessa shows her teeth, no humor in it. “The plan is what you heard in session,” she says. “Try listening, next time.”Luka steps forward, shouldering the councilor aside with a grunt. “I’ll see to the post,” he mutters. Tessa and I exchange a look, and he’s gone before either of us can second-guess the move. That’s Luka: not just the blade, but the shadow the blade casts.The corridor is a cold tunnel, every word from the council chamber bouncing back at us in strange new forms—questions, accusations, the first echoes of future coups. Wren’s been escorted