The Wrong Corpse: The Betrayed Luna's Resurrection

​Episode 1 The rain didn’t just fall on Thorne Manor. It attacked it. It slammed against the ancient stone roof like fists on iron. It shattered against tall arched windows, rolling down the glass in messy rivers that blurred everything outside into darkness. The storm above the manor wasn’t ordinary it felt angry, like the sky itself had chosen this place to punish. Outside, wind ripped through the trees, snapping branches and dragging dead leaves across the flooded courtyard. Lightning flickered in the distance, briefly revealing the sharp, towering silhouette of the manor before darkness swallowed it again. Inside… the oldest part of the building felt even colder than the storm. The War Room was never warm. It was built to be harsh, to remind everyone inside that mercy had no place here. Anwen Sterling stood in the center of the stone floor, her wrists bound tightly behind her back. The rope was rough, almost biting into her skin every time she shifted. She had stopped trying to hold still the pain made no difference anymore. Her soaked dress clung to her body like a second skin. Water dripped from her hair in slow, steady drops, each one echoing faintly as it hit the cold floor. Her bare feet were numb now, planted in a shallow pool forming beneath her. But the cold wasn’t the worst part. It was the silence. The kind of silence that meant judgment had already been made. Everyone in the room was staring at her. Not like a person. Not like someone who once belonged here. But like something already erased. The War Room itself added to the weight pressing down on her chest. High stone walls, blackened by years of smoke and firelight. Ancient wolf carvings circled the massive oak table in the center, symbols of the Thorne pack’s strength and its cruelty. Candles flickered along the walls, their flames bending whenever the wind slipped through hidden cracks. Shadows danced across faces, making everyone look more dangerous than they already were. This was the room where decisions ended lives. And no one ever walked out unchanged. At the head of the table sat Garrick Thorne. The Alpha. He didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He looked carved out of stone, a man trying so hard to become untouchable that he had almost succeeded. But Anwen knew him too well for that illusion to work. His chest rose too quickly. His jaw was locked tight. His fingers pressed into the edge of the table just slightly too hard. He wasn’t calm. He was holding himself together. Barely. Standing just beside him was Saskia Vance. She looked untouched by the storm outside. Perfect hair. Dry clothes. Calm posture. Everything about her felt arranged, like she had stepped out of a portrait instead of a battlefield. Her expression wore sadness—but it didn’t reach her eyes. It was practiced. Carefully designed. Behind Anwen, a guard suddenly grabbed her shoulder and shoved her forward. “Down,” he growled. She stumbled, her knees nearly hitting the stone floor. Pain shot up her legs from the impact she barely avoided. But she didn’t fall. Slowly, she straightened again. That small act made the room shift slightly. A few guards exchanged glances. She lifted her head. And looked at Garrick. Not the council. Not the guards. Only him. Memories flickered in her mind soft, painful ones. Garrick’s voice in the dark. His hands brushing hers when no one was watching. The way he used to say her name like it meant something precious. That version of him felt like another life. Now he couldn’t even meet her eyes fully. “You don’t have to do this,” she said quietly. Her voice didn’t shake. That steadiness made the room feel tighter. Garrick’s jaw tightened. “The decision has already been made.” “By who?” she asked immediately. Silence stretched. Then he said, “The council.” Something inside her cracked but she refused to show it. So that was it. No fight. No defense. Just surrender dressed up as authority. Saskia tilted her head slightly, pretending sorrow for the room to see. But Anwen saw something else her fingers moving slowly, twisting a silver ring. A signal. Immediately, the guard behind Anwen tightened his grip painfully. Her breath caught. So that was how it worked. Silent commands. Hidden control. Saskia wasn’t just present in this room. She was steering it. On the table in front of Garrick lay a thick black folder sealed with the council’s emblem. The top page was visible even from where Anwen stood. TREASON CONFIRMED. Her name followed beneath it. The accusations were detailed, precise, and completely foreign to her own memory. Stolen border maps. Secret dealings with enemies. Ambush plans that resulted in the deaths of three pack guards. But none of it had ever passed through her hands. Not once. No warning. No trial. No chance to speak. Just a conclusion already waiting for her name. The head guard stepped forward, unrolling a parchment. “By order of the Alpha,” he announced loudly, voice echoing off the stone, “the punishment for treason is burial. You will be buried alive tonight.” The words hung in the air like something physical. Stillness followed. No protest. No hesitation. Only acceptance. Anwen inhaled slowly. Fear was there but it had changed shape. It wasn’t chaos anymore. It was clarity. This wasn’t justice. It was removal. She turned her gaze back to Garrick. “Who signed it?” A flicker crossed his face. Something human. Something breaking through. “I didn’t want it to end like this,” he said softly. For a second, the Alpha disappeared. Just a man remained. And then Saskia stepped closer and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’re protecting your people,” she whispered. That was all it took. Garrick straightened again. The man was gone. The Alpha returned. “Anwen Sterling,” he said, voice louder now, “you are sentenced to the burial grounds.” The room didn’t react. But something inside Anwen did. Not fear. Not sadness. Acceptance. Guards seized her. She didn’t fight much but she didn’t make it easy either. Every step they forced her into cost them effort. She wanted them to remember that. Wanted him to remember. As she was dragged toward the doors, she kept her eyes locked on Garrick. “You’ll regret this,” she said. He didn’t answer. Saskia did. “Take her.” The doors opened. The storm hit her instantly. Cold air. Rain. Wind sharp enough to sting. The courtyard outside was chaos mud swallowing every step, water flooding between stones. The manor loomed behind her like a dark memory refusing to fade. And through the rain, she saw Garrick at the window. Watching. Not moving. That silence hurt more than the rope on her wrists. They dragged her across the grounds. Past broken stone paths. Past the iron gates. Toward Ravenwood Forest. The burial site waited at the edge of everything familiar. A deep pit already dug. Fresh soil piled beside it like a warning. Anwen stopped walking. Her heart raced but her mind sharpened. She looked around slowly, forcing herself to notice everything. The wind direction. The guards’ spacing. The forest line stretching endlessly behind them. Then something caught her eye. A torn piece of paper in the mud. Stamped with the pack seal. She narrowed her eyes. The signature was rushed. Uneven. Panicked. This wasn’t careful execution. This was fear disguised as authority. Footsteps approached behind her. Garrick. He had followed. He stood at the edge of the pit, soaked through, staring down at it like he wasn’t entirely sure he had brought her here. “Say something,” he said. “Give me a reason.” Anwen looked at him fully. “I didn’t betray anyone,” she said. “I never did.” The wind howled between them like it wanted to drown her words. Garrick’s expression broke for half a second. “I wish I could believe you,” he whispered. That was all. Saskia stepped beside him again, perfectly dry under an umbrella. “It’s time,” she said softly. And he listened. Always. The guards pushed Anwen forward. Ropes were tied around her legs. Then she was thrown into the pit. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs. Cold mud swallowed her sides. Above her, Saskia’s voice cut through the storm. “Cover it.” Shovels rose. Dirt began to fall. Heavy. Wet. Relentless. It hit her chest. Then her arms. Then her face. Something metallic struck her shoulder. She reached blindly and pulled it free. A tag. A medical record. Her eyes focused through the rain-blurred darkness. Subject Anwen Sterling drugged with wolfsbane before council meeting. Her breath stopped. Drugged. She hadn’t been conscious. She couldn’t have done anything. The entire case was built on a lie. A lie buried right here beside her. More dirt fell. Above, Garrick turned away. He couldn’t watch. But Saskia stayed. Watching. Waiting. Anwen’s breathing became harder. Then A sound. Not above. Not outside. Inside the wall beside her. Scratch… scratch… scratch… Her eyes snapped open. Something was digging in the earth next to her. Something alive. Something awake. Then the darkness shifted. And glowing eyes opened in the soil. Right beside her.