The Luna Queen Is Reborn

Silver Ring

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that felt too loud in the empty room. I clutched the ring so hard the metal bit into my skin. It didn't burn—the silver didn't recognize me as a wolf anymore—but the coldness of it felt like a warning.

If Summer was close enough to leave this, she was close enough to hear my father’s threat. She was close enough to know she was now a prisoner in all but name.

I rushed to the window, my movements jerky and uncoordinated. I peered into the darkness of the tree line where the North forest began. The moonlight cast long, jagged shadows across the lawn, making every swaying branch look like a lurking warrior.

"Summer?" I breathed, the word barely catching the wind.

No answer. Only the distant howl of a patrol wolf—a sound that used to feel like home but now sounded like a siren. But I knew she wouldn't be near. How was she able to put this here? How did the warriors miss her?

I wouldn't be able to go out in search for her, Caleb and Collins are still keeping guard.

I pulled the window shut, the click of the latch sounding like a gavel. My room, once my sanctuary, now felt like a glass box. Logan was going to bring in the South Pack healers. He was going to put a veil over my head—a shroud for the girl I used to be—and force me to stand as a trophy of his "mercy."

I looked at the ring again. It was a simple silver band, but in this house of lies, it was the only honest thing I owned.

I couldn't hide it in my jewelry box; Logan’s omegas would find it when they "tidied" the room for the healers. I couldn't throw it away. I couldn't risk him seeing it. You could never tell what Logan recognizes.

My eyes darted around the room until they landed on the loose floorboard under my vanity—the one place the nannies never checked, the place where I used to hide sweets as a child.

As I knelt to pry it open, my reflection caught me in the vanity mirror. The hoodie was still up, shadowing the ruin of my face.

“You will play the survivor,” he had said.

I felt a spark of something—not the heat of a wolf, but the cold, hard edge of a woman who had been pushed too far. He wanted a brave daughter? Fine. I would give him bravery. But I wouldn't be his martyr.

I tucked the ring into the dark crevice beneath the wood and pressed the board back into place.

If Summer was still out there, she was the only thing keeping Alpha Logan's claw a little curled in. With her here, he wouldn't be too outrageous or so I thought. He would not risk her finding out about what was going on.

Either way, the "fragile lies" Logan was weaving were about to meet a truth he couldn't kill.

I stood up, the floorboard creaking beneath my weight like a conspirator’s whisper. My room was silent, but the air felt charged, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for what horror morning would bring.

I walked back to the mirror. Slowly, with hands that only trembled a little, I reached for the hem of the hoodie. I didn't pull it off—not yet—but I adjusted it so I could see my eyes. It had hardened into a glassy, obsidian resolve, but I wasn't ready to see what was left of my confidence.

I looked at the vanity, cluttered with the expensive perfumes and silk ribbons of a girl who no longer existed. I pushed them aside, clearing a space. If I was to be a "survivor," I needed to look the part. I couldn't be the trembling mess Logan expected. I had to be a ghost he couldn't haunt.

The night dragged on, a slow torture of seconds. Every floorboard groan in the hallway made me flinch, thinking he would come over to complete what he started.

Every shadow on the wall looked like Summer’s silhouette. I feared she would jeopardize her safety to come see me.

I spent those hours practicing. I sat on the edge of the bed and practiced the way I would hold my chin. I practiced the way I would breathe—shallow, steady, hiding the rasp in my throat. Hiding trembles when I was scared or nervous. I practiced the silence. I tried to think of how I would react to what was coming, yet I realized I could never be ready.

When the first gray light of dawn began to bleed through the curtains, a sharp, rhythmic rapping sounded at my door. It wasn't the heavy, arrogant knock of my father. It was clinical. Precise.

"Cerelia?" It was Beta Peter’s voice, muffled and strained. "The Alpha is downstairs. The South Pack healers have crossed the border. They’ll be here in twenty minutes."

I didn't answer. I stood up and smoothed the fabric of my hoodie, feeling the hard bump of the loose floorboard under my foot one last time. The ring was safe.

"Cerelia?" Peter tried again, his voice dropping an octave. "Please. He’s in a state. Just... put on the dress the omegas prepared"

I looked at the bed. A garment bag had been placed there while I was at the window. I unzipped it. It wasn't a dress for a daughter; it was a costume for a victim. High-collared, heavy, and a deep, mourning violet.

Then, there was the veil. A lace one meant to shroud my face. The irony.

Regardless of what was happening, he still chose to keep up with the appearance.

I didn't cry. The time for molten tears had passed with the moon.

I opened the door. Peter was standing there, his eyes instantly dropping to the floor. He couldn't even look at my face. His scent was a foul cocktail of old sweat and fresh anxiety.

"You look... appropriate. The veil...," he managed to say, though his voice took a hesitant edge. His eyes darted around.

I sneered "Are they not here to see it",

Peter cleared his throat " They are here. Brace yourself",

My glabella furrowed at his choice of word. Brace.

I shut the door and sat with my back to it. I wasn't ready. No amount of practise prepared me to let another see my scar. I could not bear seeing someone look at me like I was something that needed fixing.