Exile.
1230 Words
The summons came before her wounds had closed. A single howl—Matteo’s. Cold. Commanding.
She should have ignored it.
But shame has its own leash.
Diana dragged herself to the gathering grounds, leaning on a carved stick like a crutch. Her dress, torn beyond decency, stuck to her body in patches. Her skin was yellowed with bruises, her eyes dull from blood loss. Yet she walked. Limped. Bled.
The entire pack had gathered.
Torches ringed the clearing. Warriors stood in formal lines. Elders watched with grim expressions. No one looked at her, but all had come to see her fall.
And his rise.
At the center, Matteo stood tall, cloaked in wolfskin, face painted in ceremonial ash. Beside him stood Roxanne. Scarred, smug, victorious. Her eyes gleamed like frost. Her long, faded wound curved down her throat like a cruel smile etched in flesh.
“You shouldn’t be here,” a whisper said near Diana’s shoulder—someone in the crowd. “She’s no longer one of us.”
But she stayed.
And watched.
Matteo raised his voice. “Tonight, the Luna is chosen.”
No one clapped. No one cheered. They waited. Pack law demanded silence for this rite.
Roxanne stepped forward. Her tunic fell open at the neck, revealing her throat. She bared it proudly.
Matteo leaned in.
Diana’s breath caught. Her fingers twitched at her side.
She had worn that bite once. Still bore the faded crescent near her collarbone. But this—this was the official mark. The sacred seal of mating. Witnessed. Unquestioned.
His teeth sank in slow. Deep. Blood welled.
Roxanne didn’t flinch.
She grinned.
Diana turned her face, but the sound of it—the sound—carried through the air like a verdict. Flesh tearing. Roxanne’s moan. The soft wet snap of bone near muscle.
When he pulled back, blood dripped from his lips.
The bond was sealed.
Roxanne’s body trembled as the magic took root, her eyes flickering gold. She was his now. His equal. His Luna.
And Diana… was nothing.
Matteo turned toward her at last. His voice calm. Cold.
“By ancient rite, Diana, you are exiled.”
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
“You carry no title. No rank. No claim to this pack. You are stripped of blood, name, and purpose.”
Whispers swirled.
Roxanne stepped forward and spat at Diana’s feet. “Crawl back into whatever hole you came from.”
Matteo said nothing more. He turned from her.
And they walked away together.
Diana stood alone in the circle of fire light.
Not even the wind dared touch her.
She left the way she came—limping, torn, humiliated.
But this time, she didn’t cry.
She didn’t plead.
She didn’t even look back.
No warning. No ceremony. Just three of Matteo’s guards, silent as frost, faces unreadable. They bound her wrists with silver-threaded rope that hissed against her skin. She didn't fight—there was nothing left to preserve but breath.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, her voice cracked like dry leaves.
None of them answered.
They dragged her through the forest, up the jagged hill she once ran down as a child. The trail was cruel now, every stone a wound, every branch a slap. By the time they reached the cliff’s edge, the sky was bleeding soft pink and the wind howled like it knew what came next.
She saw the drop—saw the crashing black river far below, foaming white at the rocks.
“Matteo knows I survived the exile,” she said quietly, watching mist curl over the edge. “And this is the loose end he ties with blood.”
Still, no one replied.
The youngest of them shifted his stance, uneasy. But the leader—Jareth—stepped forward, stone-faced.
“His command was clear.”
Diana gave a thin, bitter smile. “And you were eager to obey. Good dogs.”
Jareth didn’t flinch. “We’re loyal to the Alpha.”
“No,” she said. “You’re loyal to fear.”
He struck her across the face. Her lip split open. The metallic taste of irony filled her mouth.
“I was his beginning,” she whispered, lifting her chin as blood ran down her throat. “So I’ll damn sure be his end.”
Jareth grabbed her by the arm, dragged her to the ledge. Her feet scraped against rock. Wind tore at her hair.
“You won’t rise from this,” he said flatly.
Diana’s eyes burned gold for just a breath. “Then may the river remember my name.”
And he pushed her.
She fell like silence. Not a scream. Not a plea. Just the weight of betrayal cutting through air.
The wind howled louder than any voice.
The rocks waited like teeth.
And then—impact.
Bones snapped. Skin tore. The cold water swallowed her. The current pulled her under, cradling her broken body in its ruthless arms.
Rain tapped gently against the windows of the Alpha's den, more a lullaby than a storm. Matteo stood before the mirror, adjusting the collar of his ceremonial tunic. Black silk, gold embroidery, the crest of his newly solidified rule stitched over his heart. He looked every inch the Alpha he had always wanted to be.
He didn’t hear the door open. He didn’t need to. He felt Jareth’s presence before the man spoke.
“It’s done,” the guard said simply.
Matteo’s smile bloomed, slow and indulgent. He didn’t turn from the mirror.
“She’s dead?”
“Thrown from the highest ledge. The river took her. There were... bones on the rocks.”
“Good,” Matteo said, smoothing down a wrinkle in his sleeve. “Very good.”
He finally turned. “Did she beg?”
Jareth hesitated. “No.”
Matteo’s brow lifted, amused. “Of course not. That would’ve been too easy.” He stepped toward the fireplace, poured himself a glass of darkroot wine. The firelight licked at the rim of the glass like a tongue.
Roxanne entered without knocking. She wore a deep green gown, her scar accentuated by the soft braid down her shoulder. She slipped in beside Matteo, draping herself against his side.
“You’re glowing,” she said, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Like a wolf reborn.”
“She was the last stain of weakness I carried,” Matteo said. “Now she’s gone. The past dies with her.”
Roxanne curled her fingers around his wrist. “No ghosts in this house.”
He raised his glass. “To the future.”
“To the purge,” she added, her voice syrup-smooth.
They drank. Fire snapped in the hearth, and outside, the pack howled. A low, unified sound—reverent, obedient.
Matteo stepped onto the balcony, lifting his eyes to the moon. It was full and bold, casting silver across the clearing below.
“She made me,” he whispered. “And now she’s made way for something better.”
Behind him, Roxanne wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her chin on his shoulder.
“No one remembers the woman who built the throne,” she said. “Only the king who sits on it.”
Matteo didn’t answer.
But the smile on his face stayed long into the night.
- Writer
