All Chapters of The Luna He Threw Away : Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

I didn’t go straight home from the forest. Mikhal was exactly where he had left me, waiting at the edge of the trees. The Bentley sat like a shadow against the silvered road, moonlight gliding over its surface. When I slid into the back seat, he glanced at me through the rearview mirror. He said nothing. “The townhouse, Mikhal,” I told him. “Yes, Lady Voss.” The drive was silent. Completely. I barely moved, sitting stiffly as the car cut through the night, the scent of damp earth and pine still clinging to my clothes. Seraphina Dane’s words kept circling in my mind, turning over and over like a document I couldn’t yet decode. Eleanor Voss wrote to this Court the year you were born. She wrote to us about you. Ask the King what he is not telling you. There were only two explanations. Either Seraphina Dane had lied lost the vote and thrown out one last venomous claim to shake me. A desperate move. The kind people make when they’re cornered and have nothing left to prove. Or she

The attack arrived nine days later. It didn’t come from the Moon Court. There was no silver glow, no Old Tongue curling through the air, no brittle, bone-pale summons delivered with ritual weight. It came the way my real enemies always came. Through numbers. Through ink. Through a ledger. Bertrand Aldermoor placed it in front of me on a Wednesday morning, the Voss Capital office still carrying the faint scent of parchment, candle wax, and the city beyond our windows. His usually composed Free Cities expression was tight, more unsettled than I had seen in three years. “Lady Voss,” he said carefully, “there’s an issue with the Northern Packs Restructuring Fund.” He set the figures down. I looked. And in less than five seconds, the truth landed clean and cold in my chest. Seraphina Dane had found my ledger. The Northern Packs Restructuring Fund carried the reworked debts of eleven Northern packs. Its capital came from twenty-three Northern pack families my clients. The ones who

The second summons arrived on a Tuesday. It always did. Same pale, bone-white envelope. Same seal pressed in silver wax a full moon slashed through with two thin lines. Same unseen courier, leaving it at my door without disturbing even a single bead of dew on the grass. But the message inside had changed. The Moon Court will reconvene at the next full moon. The matter of the King’s mate remains unresolved. It is reopened under petition by Seraphina Dane. You will attend alone. You will not be permitted to bring papers. I read that final line again. Then once more. You will not be permitted to bring papers. She’d learned. She had stood in that amphitheatre and watched me tear her arguments apart with three and a half centuries of Voss ledgers. Then she’d seen me stop her run on the fund using nothing but a board and cold, simple numbers. And she’d understood exactly what that meant. My weapon was the ledger. So she took it away. “She’s forcing you onto her ground,” Lysander

I stepped back into the center of the amphitheatre. Nine judges sat above me on their high stone chairs, watching. Seraphina Dane had returned to her place at the far right. She looked composed again, that cold silver calm back in place but there was something behind it now, something altered in a way that would never fully return to what it had been. Old Toller stood. The movement felt rare, almost unnatural. The other judges shifted as he rose, the way a room quiets when the oldest person finally gets to their feet to speak. “For four hundred and eleven years,” old Toller began, his voice steady but carrying easily through the open air, “this Court has not gathered, because there was nothing left to decide. A single surviving line does not require a court to preserve its purity. Those of us who still remembered this place believed the Moon Court had simply… faded. Quietly. The same way the Lycan people have been fading for centuries one silence after another.” His pale gaze swe

I reached the Free Cities at first light. The trees thinned, giving way to the worn northern road, and there he was exactly where he had left me. The Bentley sat in the dim grey dawn, sleek and patient, and when I slipped into the back seat, Mikhal’s gaze met mine in the mirror. It was the same look he’d given me for five years. Quiet. Measuring. The Northern habit of understanding before asking. Forty-eight years serving the Voss line had taught him that much. “It’s finished, Mikhal,” I said. “Yes, Lady Voss.” A brief silence stretched between us. “The Court won’t trouble us again.” Mikhal Korven turned the key. The engine came to life with a low hum. He didn’t ask what had happened in that amphitheatre. He never did. But in the mirror, I caught the slightest softening at the edges of his eyes. For Mikhal, that was everything. Relief, plain as tears in another man. “Home, then,” he said. “Home.” The Free Cities unfolded around us as we drove in stone bridges slick with dew