The Moon's Hidden Heir

Chapter 3

“You have thirty seconds to explain why a grown man is sitting by a lake crying like he lost his spine somewhere between the dormitory and the shore.”

Soren’s voice cut through the quiet without effort, level and controlled, not raised, not sharp, just certain, and that certainty was what made it unbearable.

Nyra turned too slowly, her fingers still clenched in the damp fabric of her tunic where she had wiped her face one too many times, her chest tight, her throat burning, her mind blank in the way it only ever went when she needed it most, because there was no excuse ready, no clever answer she could offer that would make sense of the tears on her cheeks or the way her breathing still hitched.

“I,” she started, then stopped, swallowing hard as she forced the word out again. “I was just trying to think.”

“Think,” Soren repeated, his mouth pulling into something that was not quite a smile. “That is what you call this now.”

“I did not realize there were rules about where we are allowed to think,” she said, her voice coming out rougher than she wanted, weaker than she meant.

He took a single step closer, not rushing, not threatening, just enough to make his presence unavoidable. “You are future Alpha material, Astrlyn, or at least that is the fiction everyone seems determined to sell. You do not sit alone and cry by a lake. You do not fall apart where anyone can see you.”

“I was not falling apart,” she said, even though they both knew it was a lie that convinced no one.

“Then you should work on appearances,” he replied, his gaze sweeping over her face without apology. “Because right now you look undisciplined, emotional, and frankly embarrassing.”

Nyra clenched her hands at her sides. “You did not have to stop. You could have kept walking.”

“And let this continue,” he said calmly. “No. Someone should correct it before it becomes a habit.”

Her jaw tightened. “I did not ask for correction.”

“You do not get to ask,” he said, his tone still even. “That is part of the problem.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and awkward, broken only by the faint movement of the water behind her, and Nyra hated herself for the way her eyes burned again.

“Has no one told you,” Soren continued, his voice dropping just slightly, “that men do not cry like this, not when they expect to lead, not when they expect to survive?”

Nyra felt the words land somewhere deep and painful. “You do not know what you are talking about.”

“I know exactly what I am talking about,” he said. “Your father would never have tolerated this.”

Her breath caught despite herself. “Do not talk about him.”

Soren’s eyes sharpened. “Then stop behaving in a way that would have shamed him.”

For a moment she could not speak at all, because anger and grief and something like humiliation twisted together in her chest until it felt impossible to separate them, and when she looked up again he was already turning away.

“Get yourself under control,” he said over his shoulder. “If I see this again, there will be consequences.”

He left without waiting for a response, his footsteps fading into the trees, leaving behind nothing but quiet and the echo of his words.

Nyra stood there long after he was gone, staring at the space he had occupied, her hands shaking, her throat tight, the pressure inside her chest building instead of easing.

“You absolute nightmare of a person,” she snapped at the empty air, her voice breaking as she grabbed a stone and hurled it toward the water. “You think you know everything, and you know nothing, and I hope someone wipes that look off your face one day.”

The stone skipped once and disappeared, the sound barely audible.

She dragged her sleeve across her face again, straightened her tunic, and ran her fingers through her short silver hair with a practiced motion, steadying herself the way she had learned to do years ago.

“Tomorrow,” she muttered to herself, forcing her breathing to slow, “you will see.”

---

The training grounds were already crowded by the time Nyra arrived the next morning, the dirt packed flat by years of use, chalk lines marking out circles where first-years waited their turn, the air thick with anticipation and nerves.

“First-year sparring assessments will now commence,” the herald announced, his voice carrying easily across the field.

Nyra scanned the perimeter without meaning to, her eyes finding Soren almost immediately, standing with Ragnar at his side, arms crossed, his attention fixed on the circles. Their gazes met briefly, and she looked away before she could read anything in his expression.

“Thorne Astrlyn versus Brock Grim,” the herald called.

Finn let out a low sound beside her. “That is rough.”

“Who is he,” Nyra asked quietly.

“Someone who hits hard and enjoys it,” Marek answered, nodding toward a broad-shouldered boy stepping into the circle. “Do not let him corner you.”

Nyra took a breath and stepped forward.

Brock’s grin was immediate. “Well, if it is not the prince who cannot stay on his feet.”

She ignored him and took her stance.

The whistle sounded.

Brock moved fast, faster than she expected, his first strike forcing her to dodge, the second catching her off balance, the third landing hard enough to knock the air from her lungs.

She went down, grit biting into her palms.

“Get up,” someone shouted.

She pushed herself back to her feet.

The next hit sent pain through her ribs, sharp and deep, and she stumbled again.

“Stay down,” Brock said, circling her. “This is not your place.”

She got up anyway.

The pattern repeated, her body screaming for rest, for relief, for mercy that was not coming, each blow leaving her more unsteady than the last, blood beginning to trail from a cut on her arm.

“Look at you,” Brock said, breathing hard but smiling. “You cannot even bleed right. Pale as ash. What are you supposed to be.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

“The Ghost of the Weak,” someone called out.

The name stuck, repeated, growing louder.

Nyra stood there, swaying, her vision blurring at the edges, refusing to fall.

“Enough,” the herald said at last, stepping forward. “Winner Brock Grim. Astrlyn, report to the infirmary.”

Brock brushed past her, muttering, “Better luck next time, Ghost.”

Hands caught her before she could lose her balance, Finn and Marek supporting her weight as they guided her away.

From the edge of the grounds, Soren watched without expression.

“Pathetic,” he said quietly.

Ragnar glanced at him. “If you say so.”

---

They reached the dormitory just as the adrenaline began to fade, leaving behind exhaustion and pain that settled deep into Nyra’s bones.

“Wait,” Finn said suddenly, stopping short.

Corvin Eldritch stood near the entrance, his posture relaxed, his gaze intent.

“I wanted to speak with you,” Corvin said, looking past Finn to Nyra. “A few questions.”

“She is injured,” Marek said. “This can wait.”

“I am sure she can handle a conversation,” Corvin replied mildly. “How long have you been unwell, Astrlyn.”

“I am not unwell,” Nyra said.

“That blood of yours,” he continued, “it is unusual.”

“I do not know what you are implying.”

“Moonblood,” Corvin said. “Have you heard the term.”

Nyra felt her stomach drop. “No.”

“Interesting,” he said, stepping closer. “The Sacred Moonblood line was said to produce warriors who did not need to shift, who could heal and fight in ways others could not. Their blood was said to be silver.”

“That is a story,” she said. “Nothing more.”

“Then show me,” he said. “Prove it.”

Finn stepped between them. “You are out of line.”

Corvin studied Nyra for a long moment, then smiled. “Another time,” he said lightly. “We will speak again.”

He walked away.

Nyra leaned back against the wall, her heart pounding.

In the Astrlyn palace, Lord Varek read the letter again, his expression dark.

“He should be dead,” he said quietly. “Prepare the others.”

“Yes, my lord.”

They arrived at twilight, blending into the academy with ease.

“Shadowmoon,” Xavier said with a grin. “This will be fun.”

Killian said nothing, his eyes fixed on the distant figure of Corvin Eldritch.

The hunt had begun.

“Stay close,” Nikolai said. “We wait for the right moment.”

Killian’s gaze did not shift as he replied, “He will not be difficult to find.”