MARKED BY THE MOON

Watching From the Trees

Luna POV

We leave Renata under guard and run.

The border sits nearly a mile from the pack house, and Kian covers the distance faster than I've ever seen him move, fear and fury driving him harder than exhaustion can slow him down. I keep pace beside him, my wolf pushing my human body past what it should reasonably be able to do tonight, adrenaline burning through hours of dizziness and dread like it never happened at all.

The guards are waiting at the tree line when we arrive, weapons drawn, tension coiled tight in every one of them.

"There," one whispers, pointing into the darkness beyond the boundary markers. "Just past the old oak. Hasn't moved in ten minutes."

I follow his finger and go very still.

A figure stands motionless among the trees, half-hidden by shadow, watching us with the kind of stillness that only comes from someone who's spent their whole life learning how to disappear. Even from this distance, even in the dark, something about the shape of him is instantly familiar.

"Declan," Kian breathes.

He doesn't shout the name. He barely says it above a whisper, like raising his voice might scare away something fragile enough to shatter if handled wrong.

The figure in the trees goes rigid.

"Stand down," Kian orders the guards, voice low but absolute. "All of you. Now."

They hesitate, weapons still raised, until Kian repeats the order sharper, and slowly, reluctantly, they lower their bows.

Kian steps forward alone, hands open, empty, visible even in the dim light. I move to follow, and he glances back at me, something in his expression asking me to stay close but stay quiet, to let him handle whatever comes next.

"Declan." His voice carries clear across the boundary line now, steady despite everything. "I know about your mother. I know what they've been holding over you. I found the cave. I found your message on the wall."

For a long moment, nothing happens. The wind moves through the trees, and somewhere in the darkness, an owl calls once, low and mournful.

Then Declan steps forward, just enough to be seen clearly in the moonlight, and my breath catches at the state of him. Thinner than I remember, a fresh wound along his jaw only half-healed, clothes torn and filthy from days spent hiding in the wild. He looks like a man who's been running from everything at once and hasn't slept properly in longer than he can remember.

"You shouldn't be here," Declan says, voice rough. "It's not safe. For either of you."

"Neither is running alone," Kian says. "Let us help you."

"You can't." Declan's voice breaks slightly on the words, exhaustion and grief bleeding through whatever composure he's been holding onto. "If I come back, if I'm seen accepting help from you, they'll kill her the moment they find out. They've been very clear about that."

"We already know who's on their list," I say, stepping forward despite Kian's earlier caution. "We have names. We have a map of who belongs to them."

Declan's eyes snap to me, sharp and disbelieving. "How?"

"Priya," I say quietly. "Before she disappeared."

Something crosses his face, grief and hope tangled together so tightly I can't tell which one is winning.

"Priya's gone?" he asks, voice hollow.

"She left a letter," Kian says. "A list of everyone involved. We found a symbol beside each name, marking who's loyal to the bloodline. We think it might lead us to wherever they're keeping your mother."

Declan stares at us for a long moment, something breaking open behind his eyes, five years of friendship and weeks of betrayal and hiding and running all colliding at once into something that looks almost like relief.

"If you're wrong," he says quietly, "if you move too soon, or too loud, she dies before you ever reach her."

"Then help us make sure we're not wrong," Kian says. "Come back. Not as a prisoner. As my friend, the way you should have been able to be this whole time if any of this had been fair."

Declan takes one hesitant step closer, then another, close enough now that I can see the exhaustion carved deep into every line of his face.

"There's something you need to know," he says quietly, glancing over his shoulder one more time, like he's checking whether the darkness behind him is truly empty. "Something Priya's list might not have told you."

"What," Kian asks.

Declan's jaw tightens, and when he speaks again, his voice drops low enough that I have to strain to hear it over the wind moving through the trees.

"The person leading them isn't hiding outside these walls waiting to attack," he says. "They've been inside Blackthorn's council for years. Sitting across the table from you at every single meeting since before your father died."

My blood runs cold.

"Who," Kian demands, stepping closer.

Declan opens his mouth to answer.

An arrow whistles out of the darkness behind him and buries itself deep in his shoulder.

Declan crumples with a cry, and chaos erupts instantly, guards surging forward, Kian shouting orders as he lunges to catch Declan before he hits the ground. I drop to my knees beside them both, hands already pressing against the wound, years of Ashwood training taking over before fear has time to fully register.

"Shooter," one guard yells, already sprinting into the trees. "There, moving east!"

More guards follow, crashing through the underbrush, but I already know, with the same cold certainty that's followed every step of tonight, that whoever fired that arrow is long gone before anyone gets close enough to catch them.

"Declan, stay with me," Kian says, voice tight with barely controlled panic, cradling him carefully as I work to stop the bleeding. "You were about to tell us a name. Stay awake. Tell me the name."

Declan's breathing comes ragged, pain and blood loss dragging him toward unconsciousness fast, but his eyes stay locked on Kian's, fighting to hold on.

"They were listening," he manages, voice barely above a whisper. "Same as always. They're always listening."

"The name, Declan."

His lips move, shaping something, but the sound that comes out is too faint to catch, swallowed by the wind and his own labored breathing. His eyes flutter, losing the fight, and Kian curses, pressing his palm hard against the wound alongside mine.

"We need Bettina," I say. "Now. He can't lose more blood."

Kian scoops him up without hesitation, careless of his own strength, and we run back toward the pack house together, guards falling in around us in a tight, protective formation, everyone scanning the darkness for any sign of a second attack.

Behind us, the guards who chased the shooter returned empty-handed, exactly as I expected, breathless and grim, reporting a trail that simply vanished at the edge of a rocky outcrop where tracking became impossible.

We reach Bettina's small healing room, and she springs into action immediately, years of practice taking over as she works to stabilize Declan, cutting away torn fabric, calling for supplies, her hands steady despite the blood soaking through everything she touches.

Kian paces the small room, fury and fear warring across his face in equal measure, unable to sit still, unable to do anything except watch and wait and hope the man he grew up with survives long enough to finish what he started to say.

"He was so close," Kian says quietly, more to himself than to me. "One more word, and we'd have known."

"We'll get it," I say, though I'm not entirely sure I believe it myself. "When he wakes up."

"If he wakes up."

I don't have an answer for that. I sit beside him instead, my hand finding his, both of us watching Bettina work with the same desperate hope, while somewhere out in the darkness, whoever fired that arrow disappears back into whatever shadow they've been hiding in this entire time, one step ahead of us yet again, exactly as they've been all night.