His Father’s Luna : The Betrayed Warrior’s Return

5.A Calculated Defeat

Lyra’s POV

The midday sun beat down relentlessly on the Crimson Moon training grounds, baking the packed earth into a hard, dusty crust. Standing on the elevated stone balcony of the observation deck, I leaned my forearms against the iron railing, letting my gaze sweep over the hundreds of Vanguard soldiers running through their combat drills. Yet, out of that vast sea of moving steel and leather, my eyes remained entirely locked on one specific flash of fiery red hair: Lyra.

My inner wolf, Raze, let out a low, satisfied rumble at the mere sight of her. I could still taste the dark spice of Moonshade on my tongue, and I could still feel the phantom sensation of her tight, scorching heat dragging me over the edge of absolute ruin. She had been magnificent in the dark—fearless, demanding, and entirely consuming. And then, when dawn broke, she had looked my furious daughter dead in the eye and delivered a threat so brazen it bordered on treason. We’re about to be family. It was a masterful, ruthless stroke of manipulation. She hadn’t stumbled into my bed seeking comfort; rather, she had deliberately aimed the Alpha King at his own heirs like a loaded crossbow. As a sovereign, I should have thrown her in the dungeons, but as an Alpha Prime, the sheer, unadulterated audacity of her ambition was intoxicating.

My dark contemplation was abruptly shattered by the arrival of my son and daughter.

Anton and Selena marched onto the training field flanked by four royal guards. Selena wore an icy, impenetrable mask, though the frantic, chaotic scent of burnt sugar and panic rolling off her thoroughly betrayed the pristine facade. Beside her, Anton looked like a cornered animal. Although his chest was puffed out in a desperate, overcompensated display of Alpha authority, his bloodshot eyes darted nervously around the courtyard. Selena had clearly unleashed hell upon him after fleeing my chambers, and now, the boy was desperate to reclaim his shattered pride.

“Halt the drills!” Anton barked, his voice cracking slightly before he forced it into a deeper, more commanding register.

The entire Vanguard ground to a halt, the sudden silence broken only by the clatter of practice swords being sheathed. Commander Vardus stepped forward and bowed respectfully, though I could easily see the subtle tightening of his jaw at the interruption.

“The Princess and I have come to inspect the frontline troops,” Anton announced loudly. His gaze scanned the ranks until it snagged on Lyra, and the moment he saw her, a visceral, complicated spasm of emotion violently twisted his features. “It seems some of our soldiers have grown… overly comfortable during the Black River campaign. We need to ensure their combat readiness hasn’t been entirely compromised by their lack of discipline.”

Stepping up beside him, Selena locked her ice-blue eyes onto Lyra with a hatred so profound it practically vibrated in the air. She didn’t just call out a name; she pointed a manicured finger as if she were identifying a disease.

“That one,” Selena sneered, her voice pitching high enough for the entire regiment to hear. “The disheveled one in the back. Bring her forward.”

I watched Lyra step out of the formation. She didn’t hesitate, nor did she look toward the balcony for my intervention. Instead, she walked forward with the stiff, perfect posture of a seasoned soldier, stopping exactly ten paces from my children.

“Kneel,” Anton commanded.

A ripple of shock went through the ranks, as warriors did not kneel for inspections. When Lyra hesitated, her jaw locking in silent defiance, Anton’s temper flared.

“I said, kneel!” he roared, viciously kicking the back of her knee with his heavy boot.

Lyra crumbled, hitting the hard-packed dirt with a heavy thud, prompting a few snickers to erupt from the sycophants in the back who were likely hoping to curry favor with the Heir.

“Look at her,” Selena laughed, circling Lyra like a vulture. Wrinkling her nose, she waved a scented handkerchief in front of her face. “She smells like a kennel. Tell me, Lyra, is this the standard hygiene of the Vanguard? Or do you simply enjoy rolling in filth like a stray b***h?”

“I am a soldier, Princess,” Lyra replied, her voice steady but strained as she remained forcibly on her knees. “Dirt is part of the job.”

“Silence!” Anton shouted, pacing agitatedly in front of her. “You speak when given permission. Draw your blade. Let’s see if you can hold a sword better than you hold your tongue.”

Drawing his own heavy broadsword, Anton made a remarkably cowardly move; he was fresh, armored, and standing, while she was exhausted, unarmored, and trapped on her knees.

“Get up,” Anton spat.

Lyra scrambled to her feet and drew her sword, but her movements were undeniably sluggish. Her muscles, taxed to their absolute limits by the grueling war and our intense night together, were actively betraying her. Foregoing a traditional salute, Anton simply lunged.

His strike was fast, fueled by a reckless, chaotic anger. Lyra parried the blow, sending the sharp ring of steel echoing off the castle walls, but the sheer force of Anton’s heavier frame pushed her backward. She spun away, attempting to use her agility to outmaneuver him, but she stumbled. Refusing to let up, Anton swung a brutal horizontal arc. Lyra brought her sword up to block, but her footing slipped on the dry earth, allowing the flat of Anton’s blade to slam heavily against her ribs with a sickeningly loud impact.

Gasping, Lyra dropped her sword as she crashed violently back into the dirt.

“Pathetic!” Anton shouted, kicking her weapon out of reach before looming over her. Placing his heavy boot directly on her chest, he pinned her firmly into the mud. “Is this the hero of Black River? You look like a worm wriggling in the dirt.”

A sharp spike of disappointment pierced my chest.

Gripping the iron railing, my brow furrowed in deep, analytical doubt. Was this truly the fierce equal who had demanded my throne in the dark? The woman currently gasping for air under my son’s boot looked fragile, broken, and entirely outmatched. Had I been blinded by my own lust, or had she surrendered her body to me simply because she lacked the actual strength and skill to rise through the ranks on her own merit?

Selena stepped closer, looking down at Lyra with utter disgust. “Perhaps we should reassign her, Anton. She clearly has no aptitude for fighting.” Leaning down, her voice dropped to a mock whisper that carried perfectly in the tense silence. “We all know her talents are strictly… horizontal. Isn’t that right, Lyra? Best suited for warming beds, not defending borders.”

As cruel laughter rippled through the courtyard, the humiliation was degrading and absolute. Lyra lay there, covered in dust, pinned by a coward, and openly mocked for her sexuality in front of the very soldiers she had led into battle.

“Get up!” Anton roared, removing his foot only to kick a spray of dirt directly into her face. “Get out of my sight. You make me sick.”

Coughing as the dust filled her lungs, Lyra pushed herself up to her hands and knees. She looked small and defeated.

I froze.

The harsh, highly inappropriate insult echoed off the stone walls, bringing a sudden, suffocating stillness over the entire Vanguard. Raze snarled in my mind, a violent, protective urge flaring to life, but I forced the beast down. Narrowing my eyes, I entirely ignored Lyra in the mud to focus exclusively on my children.

Anton’s chest was heaving, his knuckles white as he gripped his sword. He wasn’t looking at Lyra with the detached disappointment of an Heir inspecting a failing soldier; rather, his eyes were wide, frantic, and burning with a deeply agonizing, entirely possessive jealousy.

And Selena. Her hands were trembling, her posture rigid with a manic, territorial panic. She was looking at the woman in the mud not as a subordinate, but as a genuine, terrifying rival.

The pieces of the puzzle began to snap together with devastating clarity in my mind: the sheer venom in Selena’s voice, the visceral, guilty rage in Anton’s eyes, and the absolute, unshakeable audacity Lyra had displayed when she looked at Selena this morning and promised they were about to be family.

This wasn’t about a soldier stepping out of line; this was profoundly, violently personal. I didn’t know the exact history between the three of them, but looking at the dynamic playing out on the training field, I realized with absolute certainty that Lyra hadn’t broken into my room just to secure a higher rank. She was deeply, intimately embedded in their past, and whatever Anton and Selena had done to her, she was currently using my power to burn their entire world to the ground.

My doubt evaporated, instantly replaced by a dark, predatory fascination. She wasn’t weak. She was intentionally taking the physical beating to publicly expose their cruelty and lack of leadership to the entire Vanguard—and to me.

“Enough.”

I didn’t shout, but I laced the single word with the full, crushing weight of my Alpha aura. The invisible shockwave slammed into the courtyard, forcing several lower-ranking wolves to their knees and freezing Anton completely in his tracks.

Stepping away from the balcony, I turned toward the stone stairwell that led down to the training field. The game was far more complex than I had initially anticipated, and it was time the King stepped directly onto the board.