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The Stray Moon のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 31 - チャプター 37

37 チャプター

Thirty-One: Lucian

The wolves in Nightwind know how to end a meeting. Clean, efficient, and if you’re lucky, with only the minimum amount of blood on the floor.As soon as the last word falls, the guards move in. The detail is handpicked—my insurance against Soren’s goons, but even so, I watch for hesitation, a sideways glance that might betray a hidden allegiance. None. The men I chose lift Wren by the elbows, quick but not rough, and unlock the chain from the bench with a click that echoes more than it should.She stands. She does it like a woman who’s forgotten what it means to kneel.For a heartbeat, the whole room freezes. The elders, the juniors, even the runners in the gallery—all eyes are on her, waiting to see if she’ll collapse, cry, try to make a scene. Wren does none of it. She just squares her shoulders, lets the guard adjust the cuffs so her hands are in front now, and meets every gaze in turn. She even smirks at the baby-faced councilor who flinched before, and he looks away like he’s see

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Thirty-Two: Wren

The doors to Nightwind pack house are not doors so much as jaws—two slabs of blackened oak, studded with enough iron to anchor a ship, parted just wide enough to admit the condemned. They swing open on silent hinges, sucking in a coil of frigid air that raises the hair on my arms and scours the sweat from my collarbone. I step through, the silver cuffs already burning fissures into my skin, and the borrowed coat—three sizes too large, because nothing here is meant to fit—sags off my right shoulder, advertising the bones underneath.Jace stands at my left, hands clasped behind his back, posture so correct it could be a warning label for spinal injuries. His eyes—too pale, too quick—flick over me and away. The professional mask is flawless, but underneath it there’s a seam of something else, a hairline crack of regret that he covers by blinking more than he needs to. He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t even stand close enough for our arms to brush. He just waits for the guards to take up posit

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Thirty-Three: Wren

Time is subjective in the guts of Nightwind Manor—elastic, ugly, wound so tight it could snap at any moment. The cell’s nothing but a holding pattern, a way to kill the first hour of my new half-life, so when the door creaks open again I’m not surprised to see Jace’s silhouette backlit by a flicker of torchlight and a shadow that doesn’t belong to him.He doesn’t speak right away. Just stands there, holding the knob with one hand, eyes roving over my posture on the cot: knees up, arms wrapped tight, hands ghosting the silver cuffs as if I could somehow warm them into surrender. The coat’s balled up beneath my skull, a bad pillow, and I’ve used the time to memorize every crack in the wall, every odd echo of sound that makes it through the stone.He clears his throat. “You’re not sleeping,” he says, and it’s not a question.“Didn’t think I was allowed.” My voice rasps, the words burning on the way out. The air in here tastes of dust and slow death, laced with the sweat of every prisoner

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Thirty-Four: Wren

I step into the final cell with my face as blank as I can make it. The instinct is to bare my teeth and glare, to let the whole world know it can’t rattle me, but my jaw’s so tight it feels wired shut and there’s no way I’m giving Nightwind the show it wants. The air is heavy, seasoned with a thousand years of old secrets and fresh sweat, and the dimensions are so mean that even standing up straight, my elbows brush stone on either side.The cot’s less a bed than a threat—thin wool over hard wooden slats, one of which is snapped at the edge so it juts up like a splinter with ambitions. The blanket is exactly what you’d expect: threadbare, stained in places, and so rich with the scent of former occupants that I wonder how many ghosts I’ll be sleeping with. I run my fingers along the underside, find a crust of something that could be blood or mildew, and make a mental note to never, ever get desperate enough to use it as a pillow.Jace stands in the doorway, half-shadowed. He’s watching

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Thirty-Five: Wren

The morning routine is a slaughterhouse parade: open the cell, drag out the stray, march her down the hall like a side of beef for display. The guards arrive right at dawn, boots silent but their intent loud as a gunshot. They don’t speak, don’t meet my eyes, just unlock the door in three practiced moves and jerk their chins to let me know it’s time. The silver cuffs go back on—today a newer set, thinner, polished so bright the reflection burns. I give them my wrists with a little extra flair, flexing my hands so they don’t have to fight me for it. They want a scene, or maybe just a hint of desperation. I give them neither.The escort is two deep: the first, a woman built like a fencepost, her buzz-cut scalp catching every scrap of torchlight; the second, a man so wide he has to angle his shoulders to clear the stairwell. They flank me, one step ahead and one behind, so close I can feel the heat of their skin and the faint, contemptuous thrum of their pulse. I try to walk loose, casua

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Thirty-Six: Wren

For three full minutes, no one comes near me. The dining hall resets, benches scraping, bowls being refilled, conversations rising and falling in wavelets that skirt the edges of real violence. My isolation is so complete it’s almost a physical thing—a moat of open air, a buffer of untouchability. I imagine the boundary as a circle of salt poured around my bench, every grain a warning: Here lies the Stray Moon. Do not approach.Then the kitchen girl breaks the circle.She carries a tray loaded with bowls—some destined for the warriors, some for the children, but one unmistakably for me. She threads her way through the crowd with the same self-erasing gait as before: shoulders rounded, gaze cast slightly down, movements careful and soft, the opposite of the brash, elbow-throwing betas who muscle their way to the food line. Even so, I see the way she scans the room, the way she counts threats, the way her hand drifts unconsciously to the scar on her wrist whenever a raised voice pierces

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Thirty-Seven: Wren

The stew and the eyes and the tension still coil in my gut when the guards ease up their watch. The dining hall’s emptied of everyone but the cleanup crews—omegas sweeping up crusts, kitchen staff stacking the benches, warriors trickling out in pairs to the next ritual or shift or petty violence of the day. I make myself count to five after the last clatter of bowl, then rise to clear my place.The act is automatic, muscle memory from a dozen dead-end jobs, but here it’s loaded. I pick up my bowl and spoon, move to the tray station by the kitchen door, and sense the sudden shift in air pressure as every remaining body in the hall turns my way. At first, I think I’ve misread the code. Then a shape blocks my path: Scarface, flanked by the same two betas from before, all three grinning as if they’ve caught a fox in the henhouse.“Strays don’t serve themselves here,” Scarface says, loud enough to echo. The silence that falls is dense as concrete. I pause, bowl in hand, and look up at him.

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