All Chapters of THE TRUE LUNA IS A FATSO! : Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

Zane's POVThe scout's message was five words.Garrett is at the gate.Not the eastern gate where he'd disappeared from eleven days ago. The main gate. The front entrance, facing the pack square, where visitors presented themselves formally and guards processed arrivals in full view of anyone standing in the courtyard.He'd walked up to the front door.I stood in Darian's secondary chamber holding the message parchment and felt the specific cold clarity of a situation revealing its own shape. Men who ran because they were afraid didn't come back to the front gate. Men who ran because they'd been given instructions and completed them did.Garrett hadn't fled. He'd been sent somewhere and now he'd returned, which meant whatever he'd gone to do was finished, and whoever had sent him either wanted him back inside our walls or had discarded him in a way that pointed him back here.Neither option was comfortable."Bring him in," I told the scout. "Hold him in the eastern receiving room. Nob

Elder Crest's POVI had not expected to live long enough to say Selene's name out loud in a council context.That sounds dramatic. I am aware it sounds dramatic. But I have been on this council for thirty years and in those thirty years I have read the restricted texts twice, once when I first accessed them as a newly appointed elder trying to understand the full scope of what this council was responsible for knowing, and once ten years later when a rogue witch operating near our southern border produced work that bore superficial similarities to documented Selene craft and sent me back to the archive in a cold sweat that turned out to be unnecessary.Both times I read those texts I came away with the same feeling. The feeling of having looked at something so large and so patient and so entirely indifferent to the normal rhythms of pack life that the appropriate response was not fear exactly but a kind of profound recalibration of what the word threat actually meant.Most threats were

Zane's POVI didn't sleep.I tried. I lay in the dark of my room for an hour and a half listening to the pack settle into its nighttime rhythm and running the same calculations over and over in the particular exhausting loop of a mind that understood it needed rest and had decided rest was less urgent than the problem currently occupying every available corner of it.Selene.Centuries old. Patient beyond anything pack military training had concepts for. Already inside our walls in ways we were still discovering. Targeting Bella specifically with the kind of sustained deliberate attention that made every tactical response I knew feel like bringing a sword to something that had already mapped every sword in the room and planned around all of them.I got up at four in the morning and went to my desk.The visitor records went back forty years, my father's meticulous habit of documenting every formal and informal contact with outside parties producing exactly the kind of detailed archive

Bella's POVI moved before the echo of Tyla's voice finished traveling down the corridor.Not running. Controlled. Fast but deliberate, the way Darian had been teaching me to move when something required urgency without the specific kind of blind speed that got people killed in enclosed spaces where threats could come from angles you hadn't assessed yet.Zane was a half step behind me and Wren a step behind him and by the time we reached the kitchen corridor there were four warriors flanking us from positions I hadn't seen them take because they'd taken them correctly.The kitchens were empty.Not empty like abandoned. Empty like cleared, the difference between a room nobody was in and a room everybody had just left. A pot was still steaming on the hearth. A half-chopped vegetable sat on the preparation block with the knife beside it. The morning's breakfast prep interrupted mid-motion, staff scattered by whatever had happened in here sixty seconds ago.The crash had been a serving tr

Joss's POVI had been a healer for nineteen years.I had treated battlefield wounds and difficult births and illnesses that didn't have names in any text I'd ever read and one memorable occasion involving a warrior who had somehow managed to get three separate types of venom in his bloodstream simultaneously and had survived purely because his body had apparently decided that dying was less interesting than confusing me.I had never treated a Royal Wolf before.The mark on Bella's wrist was the most medically fascinating and most immediately terrifying thing I had encountered in nineteen years of practice, and those two qualities were in direct and constant conflict with each other every time I examined it.It was recovering.Slowly, unevenly, in the specific pattern of something that had been depleted past its natural recovery threshold and was rebuilding from reserves that had themselves been drawn down. The blackening was retreating from the outer edges of the symbol inward, which