I am not Luna, I am Kira
1160 Words
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring blankly at the ring on my finger—the Luna’s ring. It gleamed in the moonlight that slipped past the sheer curtains, resting cold and weighty against my skin. It had once meant something to me. Power. Duty. Love. Or perhaps I only told myself it did, trying to justify a bond that had long since rotted at its core.
Now… it was just a shackle. And I was done wearing it.
The room around me was still, but my chest was chaos. My thoughts screamed louder than the wind outside. I had stayed for far too long. Endured more than any soul should. I was never truly welcome here—not as a woman, not as a Luna, not even as a person. They never wanted me. Not for who I was. Just for the power I carried in my blood. The last daughter of the Crimson Claw.
Dorian had made that painfully clear. Tonight wasn’t the first betrayal. But it was the last straw.
He had marked her.
The omega. That fragile girl he brought home like a stray. Marked. Claimed. While I stood behind closed doors, silenced like a ghost wandering halls that were once mine.
The way the servants looked at me tonight… some with pity, others with contempt. None with respect.
I rose to my feet and crossed to the mirror. The woman staring back at me didn’t look like a Luna. She looked like a warrior stripped of her armor, bruised by loyalty, and burned by love. But deep in her eyes, buried beneath the pain, there was still a flicker. A flicker of something old. Something fierce.
The girl who once ran barefoot across the training fields, who roared louder than the thunder and fought with a blade as though it were an extension of her soul—she was still there.
And she was done waiting.
I slid the ring off my finger. The weight lifted instantly, like shackles falling to the ground.
I placed the ring on the velvet cushion beside the mirror. A simple, deliberate gesture. It didn’t deserve more than that. Let them see it tomorrow and know what I had chosen.
I would not stay here and watch myself fade.
I moved to the wardrobe, fingers running across gowns and silks I never wanted. I reached to the back, to the clothes I hadn’t touched in years—the ones I wore before I was forced into royalty. Leathers. Simple tunics. Cloaks made for running, not ruling.
I pulled out a faded crimson wrap, one that once belonged to my mother. The last time I wore it, I was still a warrior.
As I dressed, I tied my hair into a tight braid and wrapped it under a hood. My heart beat like a war drum. Not with fear. But with excitement.
Grabbing a small satchel, I packed only the essentials—a dagger, dried herbs for scent masking, and a worn map of the northern wildlands. I had kept it hidden for years, tucked beneath the false bottom of my chest, just in case.
Tonight was the “in case.”
I slipped out of my chamber and moved swiftly down the corridor. The palace was quiet, the air heavy with the remnants of what had happened hours before. I passed by the hallway that led to Dorian’s chambers. My feet paused of their own accord.
The door was still slightly ajar.
Inside, I could hear soft murmurs, her voice, his.
I didn’t need to hear more.
I turned away and walked faster.
The scent trails in the palace were dense, overlapping from years of gatherings, events, and patrols. I slipped into the laundry chambers and grabbed handfuls of scent-laced cloths—used by warriors, servants, cooks. I rubbed them against my clothes, my skin, and then scattered them down opposite corridors. Wolves tracked by scent. Tonight, they would chase ghosts.
I kept moving, ducking through servant paths, avoiding the moonlit windows. Every corner I passed was one I once ruled over. Every breath I took was one step closer to freedom.
At the garden wall, I paused. The vines I used to climb as a child still grew wild. I smiled faintly and pulled myself up with ease, the muscle memory returning like an old friend. At the top, I looked back one last time.
The palace loomed in silence. Cold. Empty. Nothing there belonged to me anymore.
I dropped to the other side and began to run.
The forest welcomed me with darkness and wind. The night whispered against my skin, the trees parting like they remembered me. My legs moved with instinct, each stride stronger than the last. Leaves crunched beneath my feet, and the scent of pine filled my lungs.
I was going home.
Not to a house. Not to walls or royalty.
To history.
The Crimson Claw pack once ruled these wildlands. My ancestors’ bones fed this soil. Their stories echoed in the caves, their bloodline blessed by moon and storm alike. No one remembered them now—at least, not truly. The name still struck fear and reverence in ancient tongues, but the pack itself? Forgotten.
But I remembered.
As I ran deeper, I recalled my mother’s voice, the lullabies about crimson banners and queens crowned in flame. My father’s laugh when he lifted me onto his shoulders during harvest festivals. I remembered war cries. I remembered home.
I ran until my breath came in gasps. Until sweat covered my brow and my limbs ached. Until I reached the stream that marked the edge of the forbidden border. Beyond this stream, no one dared enter. They believed it cursed.
But this place wasn't cursed.
It was sacred.
I knelt at the water's edge and splashed it across my face. Cold clarity shot through my bones. The air here was different. Wilder. More honest.
Here, I was not Luna.
I was Kira.
I climbed higher, into the cliffs that overlooked the valley where the Crimson Claw fortress once stood. Time had swallowed the buildings. Only ruins remained, covered in moss and memory. I stood at the edge, panting, trembling, alive.
The moon peeked through the clouds, bathing the ruins in silver.
And for the first time in years, I felt like I could breathe.
I found an alcove among the ruins, sheltered by thick stone and time. There, I built a small fire with shaky hands, watching the flames dance like they were welcoming me home.
The night pressed on. And though my heart was sore, and my soul still bled from betrayal, there was peace in this silence.
They thought they had broken me. That by marking another, by casting me aside, they had silenced the Crimson Claw.
But they had only reawakened it.
The fire inside me was no longer for love.
I wasn’t done.
And neither was the Crimson Claw.
- Writer
