The next morning, the pack called me by the wrong name.
It happened in the eastern corridor, where the windows looked out over the training fields. A young guard bowed as I passed.
“Luna Lyra,” he said, respectful and certain.
I stopped.
He looked up, confused by my silence. His eyes flicked to my face, then widened. “My Queen—Raya. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I—”
“It’s fine,” I said, though my chest had tightened.
He moved on quickly, embarrassed. I stood there longer than I meant to, my fingers curling into my palm. One mistake could be nothing. A tired guard. A slip of the tongue.
But it didn’t stop.
By midday, it had happened three more times. Once in the kitchens. Once near the council wing. Once from a female wolf who had knelt without looking up, only to stiffen when she cau
