All Chapters of The Luna He Threw Away : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

King Lysander came to the Northern Hollow on Friday. He arrived the same way the Lycan King of the Five Free Cities always did no notice, no guards, no spectacle. Just… appearing. As if the world adjusted itself around him instead of the other way around. At exactly 4 PM, a plain black car rolled up the Voss estate drive. Nothing flashy. No crest. No escort vehicles. Just quiet power wrapped in simplicity. He stepped out wearing a dark coat, unremarkable at first glance. Tall. Composed. Grey eyes that didn’t draw attention unless you truly looked. To anyone else, he was just a man. But no one who knew him would ever make that mistake. Helga opened the door. She didn’t look surprised. Not even a little. If anything, she looked like she’d been waiting. “Your Majesty,” she greeted, dipping into the small, precise bow she had perfected over forty-three years of serving the Voss family. “Helga,” he replied, his voice calm, familiar. “It’s good to see you again.” A brief silence s

It took me three weeks to give Lysander my answer. During those three weeks, I slipped back into the steady rhythm of Voss Capital. Meetings filled my mornings. Clients took my afternoons. Evenings disappeared into reports, projections, and the quiet weight of decisions that shaped fortunes. I sat high above the main financial avenue of the Second Free City, in my four-story office, doing the slow, deliberate, often thankless work of running an investment firm. Nothing about it looked dramatic from the outside. No one saw the precision behind it. The discipline. The restraint. But it was mine. The Sterling Pack situation settled into the background like a low, constant hum. Controlled. Contained. I had installed a Voss Capital administrator to oversee things Bertrand Aldermoor, a careful man in his fifties, steady, fair, and painfully thorough. Exactly what the situation needed. Under him, daily operations continued without disruption. The wolves kept their homes. The businesses k

Lysander and I married in the spring of my sixth year in the Free Cities. Not in the Northern Hollow. Not in a grand marble courtyard filled with six hundred guests, rows of white roses climbing the eastern wall, and hundreds of candles burning into the night. Instead, it happened in the small, private garden behind the Aldris Lane townhouse. Beneath the old plum tree my grandmother, Eleanor Voss, had planted back in 1981. Eleven guests. A quiet morning. Soft spring air drifting through the city. Helga stood nearby. Mikhal too. Bertrand Aldermoor, the Sterling Pack’s administrator, came as well. The three partners of Aldren & Partners were present. Margarethe Lindholm traveled down from Halversford. And Tobias Hallow aged, grey-furred, leaning heavily on his Northern walking stick made the journey from the Northern Hollow just to witness it. He had said, in that dry, worn Northern tone of his, that he had once ruled at the Council that I owned a pack. And a man, in his view, ough

What Lysander knew about the Moon Court didn’t take long to explain. He admitted it himself it was barely anything. And what little he did know, he had once thought was nothing more than old pack myth. The Moon Court, he said, existed long before the Lycan throne was ever formed. Before there was a Lycan King. Before there was even a single surviving Lycan in the world as it is now. In the ancient age, when their kind still walked in numbers, there had been many. And above them all, there was the Court. Nine judges. The eldest, most dominant Lycans of their time. They had risen above pack disputes and territorial wars, choosing to rule only one thing: the purity of the Lycan bloodline, and whether it would survive. But as centuries passed, everything changed. Wars. Time. Attrition. The slow, brutal math of extinction. One by one, they fell away until only one Lycan remained in existence. And when that happened, the Moon Court fell silent. There was nothing left to judge. A bl

The full moon came up on a Thursday night. I went to the Moon Court by myself. The summons had been precise about the place: an ancient stone amphitheatre buried deep in the forest north of the Free Cities. It didn’t exist on any map the Free Cities acknowledged. Even Lysander had never laid eyes on it. A place suspended like the Court itself between memory and reality. Mikhal dropped me at the forest’s edge. He couldn’t go any farther. The order had been clear: alone. So I stepped into the trees wearing a charcoal power suit, Voss family pearls resting at my throat, and the silver crescent mark from Lysander hidden under the silk cuff of my left sleeve. In my hand was a slim briefcase holding the Voss ledger threads three and a half centuries of carefully preserved records. The closest thing I had to leverage against a Court that never left traces. I walked for an hour. Then the forest finally broke open, and the amphitheatre revealed itself under the full moon. Old stone seat