All Chapters of The Silver-Marked Luna: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

​"Stand straight, Nyx. The entire kingdom is watching us tonight," my adoptive mother, Beta Selena, whispered, her fingers tugging sharply at the silk of my dress. ​"I am standing straight, Mother," I murmured, staring out over the Grand Plaza of Asteria. ​Thousands of silver lanterns hung from the ancient white oak trees, reflecting off the dark surface of the sacred Moon Pool at the center of the grounds. The air vibrated with excited chatters, nervous giggles, and the thick scent of pine and heavy pine pollen. Tonight was the annual Mate Revelation Ceremony. Every wolf turning eighteen would finally step into the pool and hear the Moon Goddess whisper the name of their fated match. ​"You look breathtaking," a deep, familiar voice spoke from behind me. ​I turned to see Calix standing there. His dark hair was combed back, his dark suit tailored to perfection, and the silver crest of the Mooncrest Pack pinned proudly over his heart. He offered me a soft, reassuring smile that inst

​​"Execution is the only logical choice, Your Majesty!" High Advisor Malakor slammed a heavy palm down onto the polished obsidian table, his voice echoing loudly across the high vaulted ceiling of the Royal War Room. ​The grand chamber of the Royal Palace of Nocturna was drenched in oppressive silence. High above the city of wolves, dark stained-glass windows cast deep crimson and violet light across the dozen pack elders, commanders, and noble lords gathered around the central table. ​At the head of the long table sat King Evander Draven. ​He rested his chin lightly on his gloved hand, his dark coat draped over his broad shoulders like a mantle of shadows. His striking, molten golden eyes—the very eyes that had watched me from the dark forest edges hours before—stared calmly at the trembling stack of reports lying before him. ​"Execution?" Evander repeated smoothly, his deep baritone dripping with dangerous quiet. "You speak of executing a girl who has committed no crime, Malakor

​My eyes fluttered open to the soft, rhythmic crackle of burning wood.​For a wild, terrifying second, I panicked. I scrambled backward, my heart slamming into my throat, expecting the sharp river stones beneath my back or the wild, bloodshot eyes of the gray rogue tearing at my flesh.​Instead, my hand pressed against soft, dry straw covered by a heavy wool blanket.​"What... where am I?" I whispered, my voice rough and raspy.​I looked around frantically. I wasn't on the muddy riverbank anymore. I was inside a small, weathered cabin built of thick pine logs. Sunlight peeked through the cracks in the wooden shutters, casting warm golden beams across the dusty floorboards. A small stone fireplace burned steadily in the corner, filling the room with the sweet, nostalgic scent of burning cedar.​I quickly pulled back the blanket, looking down at my body.​My dress was still torn and dirty, but my left arm—the arm the rogue had crushed in his jaws—was neatly wrapped in clean, tight linen

​"Drink this, child," a soft, raspy voice broke through the quiet hum of the stone hall.​I jerked back slightly, clutching the collar of my tunic as an old woman with snow-white hair and kind, wrinkled eyes offered me a steaming wooden mug. She didn't flinch at my sudden movement. She didn't stare at the dark mark peeking over the edge of my collarbone, either.​"What is it?" I asked, my voice still trembling from the revelation inside King Evander's war room hours ago.​"Just chamomile, honey, and crushed winter-berry," she replied with a gentle smile, setting the mug on the wooden table in front of me. "Good for restoring cold bones and frayed nerve endings. I'm Mara. Chief healer around this dusty mountain."​I stared at the warm liquid, then looked around the grand hall of Ironclad Keep.​The place was alive with activity, but it didn't feel like a brutal military camp. In one corner, an old blacksmith with a missing right arm was laughing heartily as he taught a young boy how to

​A crossbow bolt slammed directly into the wooden bookshelf an inch above my ear, showering my hair with splintered oak.​"Help!" I screamed into the pitch-black archives, dropping to my knees and scrambling beneath the heavy mahogany desk. "Guards! Someone help!"​Click-clack. The sound of another bolt being loaded echoed through the dark, accompanied by the quiet, terrifying rustle of leather boots against stone.​Before the unseen assassin could fire a second shot, the massive wooden doors of the archives crashed open. Heavy iron torches burst into brilliant, searing life along the walls as a wave of armored warriors flooded into the room.​"Protect the girl!" Commander Jonathan’s voice roared like thunder. "Seal the exits! Block the lower ventilation shafts!"​At the front of the rush was King Evander. He moved like a dark phantom, his obsidian short swords drawn, his golden-silver eyes sweeping the high stone rafters with lethal precision.​"Over there!" a scout yelled, pointing