All Chapters of Too Skinny To Be Luna : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

Lyra's POV The courtyard erupts. "No!" "It has to be a mistake!" "The Moon Goddess wouldn't choose that girl!" Voices crash over each other, rising into a roar that presses against my skull like a physical weight. Somewhere to my left, a woman actually screams — an honest-to-goddess scream, like I've just been announced as a death sentence instead of a mate. Maybe to her, I am. I can't breathe. My lungs have forgotten how the motion works. The silver dress suddenly feels too tight, too thin, too see-through, like everyone can look straight through the fabric and confirm exactly what they already believe — that there's nothing to me. Nothing worth choosing. The Moon Priestess doesn't lower her staff. Her eyes stay fixed on me, calm in a way that makes the chaos around us feel even louder. "Silence!" she calls, and the crowd quiets by degrees, reluctant, still muttering under their breath. Draven hasn't moved. He's still standing at the front, and for one long moment, he jus

Lyra's POV They move me to the pack hospital before dawn. I don't remember much of the walk there — just fragments. The Priestess's hand gripping mine the entire way, refusing to let go even when the healers tried to pry her off. Guards flanking me on every side, more than I've ever seen assigned to one person, their eyes darting to every shadow like something might leap out of the dark and take me before we reached the doors. By the time they lay me down in a narrow hospital bed, my whole body feels hollowed out, scraped clean, like whatever woke inside me during the ceremony borrowed every ounce of strength I had and hasn't decided whether to give it back. I sleep. I don't mean to. It just happens — my eyes close somewhere between the healer pressing a cool cloth to my forehead and the low murmur of voices arguing outside my door, and the next thing I know, hours have passed and the window shows the gray edge of morning. News, apparently, doesn't sleep.(WRITER’S POV)

Lyra's POVThe room is too big.That's the first thing I notice when I wake — not the softness of the mattress, though it's softer than anything I've slept on in my life, and not the morning light spilling gold across a floor of polished wood instead of the hospital wing's cold stone. It's the size of it. An entire wing, apparently, cleared and given to me, as if three days ago I wasn't the girl nobody wanted and now I need enough space for a small army.Nobody explains the change. A maid simply appeared yesterday evening with an armful of clean linens, informed me my things had already been moved, and left before I could ask why.I don't need to ask, not really. I know exactly why.I sit up slowly, testing the ache still lingering behind my ribs, and catch sight of my own reflection in the standing mirror across the room. The mark on my arm has faded almost to nothing in daylight — you'd have to know exactly where to look to find it now. I still look like me. Thin. Tired. Not like

Lyra's POVHe kneels, and something happens that I don't have words for.A shudder runs through him — visible, physical, starting at his shoulders and rolling downward like a wave breaking against rock. The half-shifted form he wore across the field cracks apart at the seams, fur and shadow peeling away in a single motion too fast to fully track, and what's left kneeling in front of me is simply... a man.Not simply. Nothing about him is simple.The crowd's silence deepens into something almost reverent. I hear it — a collective breath drawn in and held, three hundred wolves forgetting how to exhale at once.He's beautiful in a way that doesn't feel real. Dark hair falls loose across a brow no longer creased with the effort of holding a half-shift; his jaw, softened now from stone into something almost human, is still sharp enough to cut. Broad shoulders, a scar tracing one collarbone like a story no one's been brave enough to ask about. When he lifts his face to look up at me properl

Draven's POVNO!The word hits me before I can stop it, sharp and immediate, some ugly reflex I don't have time to examine before it's already sinking claws into my chest.I watch him rise from the dirt — this King, this stranger who walked through my border like it was made of paper, flowers blooming in his wake like the world itself is applauding him — and something in me that I thought I'd already burned down.No, no, no.I have no right to feel this. I know that. I threw her away with my own mouth, in front of my own pack, called her a skeleton in front of three hundred witnesses and watched her rejection settle over her like a physical weight. I don't get to feel anything when someone else looks at her the way I should have looked at her from the start.I feel it anyway.By the time the flowers have finished blooming and the crowd finally, slowly rises from the dirt, murmuring in a hundred different tones of awe, I've composed my face into something passably neutral. Years of Alp