Chapter Six: A Bite of Truth
1992 Words
Cassian wasn’t the kind of man who trusted easily, but something had shifted since Martha returned from Moonclaw territory.
He watched her more closely now.
Not with suspicion, but with something sharper.
Respect.
And beneath that curiosity
“Who were you really, before the scars?” he asked one morning, while they sparred by the cliff’s edge.
Martha didn’t answer. She ducked under his elbow, struck his ribs, and knocked him flat on his back.
“That’s not the question you should be asking,” she said, panting. “You should ask what I became.”
Later that day, Cina returned from a run with new information. Her informant. A merchant who traded rare herbs to the Council had sent word through one of the northern taverns.
“Something strange is happening in the Court of Elders,” Cina said, dropping her satchel on the table. “They’re planning a private ceremony next full moon. No pack is invited. No rites. No rituals. Just Pearce. Morgana. And Elder Thane.”
Martha’s eyes narrowed. “Another binding ceremony?”
“No one knows,” Cina replied. “But the last time they kept the pack out of a full moon gathering… was when you died.”
A chill passed through the tent.
Martha stood. “They’re hiding something. Again.”
Cassian crossed his arms. “So what do you want to do? Watch from the trees?”
“No,” Martha said, her voice hardening. “This time, I’m getting inside.”
Three nights later, Martha approached the Moonclaw border under a sliver of moonlight.
She wore the skin of her old life, a faded cloak stolen from one of the estate’s servant houses, a pendant tucked into her collar, and boots soft enough not to snap twigs.
It felt like slipping into a memory. One that no longer fit.
She reached the ceremonial grounds just after midnight.
Torches burned in a perfect ring. A silver altar gleamed at the center.
And there, in a circle of silence, stood Pearce.
Alone.
No guards. No Morgana. No Elders.
Just him and the altar.
Martha crouched in the trees, watching.
He held something in his hand. A scroll, bound in silver string. Slowly, he knelt, placing it atop the altar. Then he pulled something from his coat.
A dagger.
It shimmered under the moonlight.
Without hesitation, Pearce sliced his palm and pressed the bleeding hand against the scroll.
Martha’s breath caught.
Blood rites were ancient. Forbidden without full council approval. And Pearce always so controlled, so lawful had just broken sacred code.
Why?
He whispered something into the night. A prayer, maybe. Or a confession.
She couldn’t hear it.
But when he stood again, his face had changed. He looked older. Heavier. And more broken than she had ever seen him.
Then he turned and walked back toward the woods.
Martha waited until the torches burned low.
Then she moved.
The scroll was still damp with blood when she opened it.
Her fingers trembled.
It wasn’t a ritual text.
It was a letter.
And it was written to her.
Rochelle.
My Luna,
If you ever find this, if there is still a part of you watching. I want you to know that I never wanted this.
They told me you would live. That the poison would only weaken you enough to strip your title. That the prophecy would hold as long as you stayed alive.
But Morgana and Elder Thane lied to me, I never knew they had their own plans.
When I held your body that night, I knew it was too late and I let them convince me not to dig deeper.
I failed you.
But I never stopped feeling the bond. Even in your absence, it pulls at me like a thread and I can't cut it.
If you live somehow, if the Goddess gives you a second chance, I will definitely find a way to protect you as long as I have breath.
Forgive me.
pearce
Martha’s knees buckled.
She fell beside the altar, scroll clutched in shaking hands.
The cold stone pressed against her back as memories surged: the ritual, the pain, Morgana’s voice whispering poison-laced comfort into her ear. And Pearce, silent. Distant.
But he hadn’t known.
Not truly.
He thought she would survive. That it was a political move. That the prophecy could still be fulfilled.
And he regretted it.
The truth twisted in her chest.
She hated him.
And yet, part of her wept with relief.
Because it meant she hadn’t been alone in that final moment.
Because it meant someone still mourned her.
When she returned to the rogue camp, Cassian was waiting by the fire.
She dropped the scroll in front of him.
“What’s this?”
“Proof,” she said, voice raw. “Pearce didn’t kill me. Morgana and Thane did.”
Cassian read it slowly, jaw tightening. “So what now?”
“Now we burn their lies down,” she said. “But we do it right. Not as rogues. Not as cowards in the woods.”
She looked him in the eyes.
“We take the fight to them.”
The next morning, Martha gathered the strongest rogues in the camp.
Cina. Cassian. The twins from the eastern border. A mute tracker named Dov. And three former guards from fallen packs who had once served in noble circles.
She stood before them like a commander before war.
“I was born as Rochelle,” she told them. “Luna of the Moonclaw Pack. Betrayed by my best friend. Poisoned by a Council Elder. Left to die under a prophecy no one understood.”
The rogues stared, wide-eyed.
“I was reborn by the Moon Goddess herself. In this body. With this strength. Not for revenge. But for justice.”
She held up the scroll.
“They feared me enough to kill me once. Let’s make sure they never get another chance.”
Later that day, Cina pulled Martha aside.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she said. “I found something else. Something from the prophecy vault.”
Martha froze. “What kind of something?”
Cina handed her a parchment.
It was old. Torn. Etched in lunar glyphs.
She read slowly.
And then she stopped.
At the final line.
The one born twice shall sever the cursed bond… and awaken the forgotten alpha.
Martha stared.
“Forgotten alpha?”
Cina frowned. “I thought you were the chosen one.”
“I am,” Martha whispered. “But I’m not the only piece on the board.”
She looked north toward Moonclaw.
Toward the Council.
Toward something darker than betrayal.
There was more to this than death.
More to her return than vengeance.
And the prophecy?
It hadn’t even begun to unfold.
- Writer
