The Luna Queen Is Reborn

Mourning Violet

The silence behind the closed door was absolute, save for the frantic thudding in my chest. I stared at the mourning violet dress—a heavy, suffocating weight that felt more like a burial shroud than a garment. I brushed my hands across the material; it was as soft as a cloud, a softness I wasn’t feeling at the moment.

Brace yourself.

The words echoed in the small space between the door and my vanity. Peter wasn't just telling me to be strong; he was warning me that I was about to be handled. I was a broken tool being sent to the blacksmiths, and Logan was the one holding the hammer.

I might not have had my wolf anymore, but I had been trained since I was a pup to recognize the slightest noise. I heard their footfalls as they approached my room—about three people. My heart rhythm accelerated; I would not have been surprised if they could hear it outside the door.

A sharp knock rang out before the door pulled open. I didn't turn to look at who it was; I couldn't.

The soothing smell of rain after long years of drought and lily had me burning with curiosity. So, I turned to take a look at the owner of such a calming presence. The scent was a cruel irony. In a house that smelled of cold marble, metallic guilt, and the sterile sting of antiseptic, this woman smelled like life. Like the forest floor after a storm—fresh, grounding, and ancient.

Standing in the doorway was a woman whose presence seemed to physically push back the shadows of my room. She wore the white tunic of the South Pack healers, but she didn't have the clinical, detached air of the others I’d glimpsed. Her hair was a shock of silver-white, braided tightly, and her eyes were a deep, knowing amber that seemed to see right through the mourning violet silk I was draped in.

Behind her stood two assistants, their arms laden with mahogany cases that I knew held the "tools" Logan had commissioned. But it was the woman in the lead who held my gaze.

"I am Healer Valerius," she said, her voice like the low hum of a cello. It didn't grate against my raw throat; it seemed to settle the frantic rhythm of my heart. "And you must be Cerelia." She didn't look at my wound. I didn't know how she did it; it was as if she couldn't see it.

She didn't call me "Lady." She didn't call me "The Heir." She used the name that felt like it belonged to a girl who had died in the woods, yet she spoke it as if that girl were still standing there.

"You smell of the rain," I rasped, the words feeling like shards of glass as they left my mouth.

A small, sad smile touched her lips, but it wasn't pity. It was recognition. "And you smell of smoke and iron, little wolf. Or what is left of it."

She stepped into the room, her movements fluid and silent. She didn't wait for my father’s permission—she acted as if the Alpha’s authority stopped at the threshold of my pain. She gestured to the vanity chair, the one where I had spent hours practicing my silence.

As I made to get up, I heard a sharp call of my name. Summer—she hadn't left. She must have seen the healers. I wanted to go see her through the window, but I remembered the Alpha's threats. Logically, he wouldn't harm another pack's heir, especially one whose father was a council member. But, since the night of the full moon, I did not dare assume what he could or couldn't do.

My fingers curled into a fist as I tried not to look downstairs. Finally, I stood behind the curtains, and what I saw gripped my heart. Summer was flanked by two warriors, yet it didn't seem to dull her aura. Her shoulders were held high, and her sharp glare stared pointedly in the direction I could only assume Alpha Logan stood—at the door's threshold.

"The full moon has long since ended; Miss Mistvale should head home," Logan reminded her in a diplomatic manner.

"Oh," Summer's sharp brows raised in mockery. "Is this how Crestfallen treat their guests..." she gestured at the warriors flanking her, "...or is it just me?"

"Only those who meddle where unnecessary," Logan replied gruffly.

A heavy silence remained for a moment, both of them unwilling to bow their heads.

"I want to see Cerelia." Summer played with the finger where I supposed the ring she had left me was meant to be. A silver ring. How could she wear it?

"She's indisposed," he said, waving at her in dismissal.

"Then I suppose we will meet at school." She raised her chin in challenge before smirking in victory at Logan's silence. She was threatening him. If I did not resume classes with them, she would spill all she knew.

Summer turned to stare pointedly at the spot where I hid. She mouthed "coward" before strutting away.

I flinched as if our eyes had made contact, as if I could see the disdain in her hazel eyes. Coward. Yes, I was a coward. I wouldn't bet on anyone's life to prove my courage.

"Come," Valerius beckoned, her voice dropping to a whisper that the warriors in the hall wouldn't catch. "He wants me to knit your skin back together. He wants a mask of perfection to cover the truth."

She reached out, her fingers hovering inches from my wound. She didn't touch me. She waited. Her amber eyes gazed into my blue ones, waiting patiently for my consent.

"But I have found that the most beautiful things are often the ones that were broken and refused to be hidden," she murmured. "Tell me, Cerelia. Are you doing this for him or yourself?"

I had long heard that South Healers had empathetic abilities. I looked at her, then at the floorboard where Summer’s ring lay hidden. The rain-scented air she brought with her made the "shroud" I was wearing feel even heavier.

"He’ll kill you if you don't do what he says," I whispered.

Valerius tilted her head, her amber eyes flashing with a spark of that obsidian resolve I thought I held alone. "The South Pack does not fear the Crestfallen. Now, let us see what the Alpha is so afraid of."

It was true; South Healers were the exception in our world. Normal rules did not apply to them. They had their own special rules—they had their own councils. They were beneath nobody but the Lycan King.

As she spoke, I heard my father’s heavy, impatient stride approaching the door. Summer's disrespect must have worn his patience thin. He knocked sharply at the door before coming in.