His Missing Luna

CHAPTER 93

Amerie

Rise, Princess of the Silvercrest Pack

A hush falls over the place as Midriel and I pass through, the crowd parting like a sea of silver and white. Bows and murmured greetings follow us, and I catch the shy smiles of several females directed at Midriel. If I weren’t his sister, their glares would likely have been aimed at me instead.

“You’ve got quite the fan club, Iddy,” I tease through our mental link, trying to suppress a laugh.

“They can look all they want,” he responds, his tone amused. “But my heart’s already claimed by my unknown mate.”

“She’s lucky,” I chuckle, but my gaze catches on a particular female whose possessive stare is almost tangible. “Though I hope she will be strong enough to fend off that one.”

Midriel glances briefly, his expression tightening. “Avoid her. She’s worse than Aunt Rissi.” He stops as we reach the double doors of the grand hall. “This is where I leave you. You’ll do great.” He pats my hair and pinches my cheek. “Congratulations, sis. Tomorrow afternoon, we hunt.”

“What…” I begin, but he’s already gone, vanishing into the crowd. What did he mean by that?

A resounding gong echoes through the hall, and Tamia gives me a final once-over. “You still look perfect. That’s your cue, Princess.”

I sigh, the title feeling both heavy and distant. The guards push the massive doors open, revealing the vast hall beyond. Silver banners drape from high columns, each depicting the argent wolf under the crescent moon—symbols of our pack’s legacy.

The walkway is carpeted in shimmering silver, leading to a raised dais where my parents sit on their thrones.

My father’s dark, commanding presence is softened by his robes—a rich blend of deep blues and silvers that mirror the night sky.

My mother, with her striking features and serene expression, wears a gown of pale silver threaded with glints of moonlight, her crown a delicate weave of platinum vines adorned with pearls that catch the light like teardrops.

Midriel takes his seat to the right of my father, exuding a quiet strength in his royal garb—a softer version of our father’s own, marking his position as heir.

Flanking my parents are two elderly men, their flowing red robes stirring an uncomfortable memory of the ritual and the sight of my blood turning silver.

“Announcing, Lady Amerie” a deep voice bellows from the shadows, and every person in the room rises, except those on the dais.

“Go, Princess,” Tamia whispers. I steady myself, taking a deep breath as I step forward. My nerves tighten with each step, my heartbeat a drumbeat in my ears. My fingertips brush against my gown, seeking comfort in the familiar texture.

“You’re doing great, pumpkin,” my father’s voice reassures me through the link, his words easing some of the tension.

The hall seems vast, a blend of grandeur and tradition, every corner draped in silver and white. The banners high above feel alive, watching over the ceremony with silent, unwavering guardianship. The whispered excitement of the crowd swirls around me as I near the dais, my parents rising from their thrones. Their expressions are a mirror of love, pride, and something deeper—relief.

“Stop at the edge of the podium,” my mother instructs through the link. “Turn to face the crowd.”

I follow her direction, trying to keep my balance under the weight of so many eyes. “Look over their heads,” Midriel advises, his voice tinged with playful seriousness. “And smile, just a bit. No teeth.”

I internally roll my eyes, fighting a smirk. “Stop it,” my mother chides gently. “Just be yourself, Amerie. Don’t let your brother distract you.”

“Silvercrest Pack,” my father’s voice booms, commanding the room’s attention. “Today is a day my family and I have long awaited. Many of you remember the pain of over a decade ago when someone took my daughter from us.” His voice wavers slightly, and I feel the echo of his grief. “But the goddess saw fit to bring her back to us, in the most miraculous way.”

Was it really a miracle? I think back to running away, to the frantic escape from Nathan. What if I hadn’t fled? Would I be here now?

“Today, I present to you my daughter, Amerie Rae Thorne. The lost princess of the Silvercrest Pack.” My father’s declaration stirs something warm and thrilling in me—a sense of belonging and purpose. I have a middle name.

“For those who still doubt,” my mother adds, her voice clear and resolute, “the Cravers have performed the royal ritual, and her blood turned silver. She is the rightful princess.”

One of the Cravers steps forward, his red robe brushing the floor. “Indeed, the blood of this young lady proved true. She is your princess, and today she claims her place.”

Applause erupts, echoing off the high ceilings, and I allow myself to breathe. I scan the crowd, meeting faces filled with joy and sincerity—except Aunt Rissi. Her smile is poised, but her eyes tell a different story, one of cold calculation.

“Repeat after me, child,” the Craver says, his voice ancient and solemn. I follow his words, pledging my loyalty to the pack and vowing to protect Silvercrest with all that I am. The crowd applauds once more, and I feel a swell of resolve.

“Turn and face me, child,” my father’s command is gentle yet firm. I pivot, meeting his steady gaze. “Now, walk up to me.”

I step forward, taking Midriel’s outstretched hand as he helps me onto the platform. “This is a job for your mate,” he jokes through the link.

“Already tired of me?” I retort, squeezing his hand.

“Never, sis. Who else would keep me grounded with endless demands?”

“Enough,” our father interrupts, though there’s warmth in his tone. Midriel leads me to the throne beside my mother’s, giving me a wink as I sit. My father moves to stand behind me, and a young man with dark hair approaches, dressed in an attire of deep indigo trimmed with silver.

His eyes meet mine, carrying a weight of admiration and something more. He carries a cushion, atop which rests a silver crown—an exquisite piece crafted from woven vines of pure silver, adorned with opalescent jewels that catch the light in a dazzling display of color. As my father lifts it, the gems flash like stars, casting tiny rainbows.

“Thank you, Anselm,” my father says, and the young man bows before stepping aside, his gaze lingering on me. “I, Malachai Draven Thorne, Alpha of the Silvercrest Pack and Alpha King of all werewolves, mate to Rakiel Amal Thorne, Father to Midriel Colton Thorne, hereby crown you, Amerie Rae Thorne, as the Princess of the Silvercrest Pack.” His voice carries through the hall, reverberating with authority and pride.

As the crown settles on my head, a tingling spark races from it, spreading warmth through me, as the pack’s legacy flow into my veins. I feel the weight of the crown, both physical and symbolic—a blend of duty, power, and acceptance.

“Silvercrest Pack, bow before your princess,” the herald announces, and every head in the crowd inclines. The Cravers also did, their ancient eyes lowered in respect.

“Rise, Princess of the Silvercrest Pack!” my father bellows and I rise to my feet.

“Wave to the crowd,” my mother instructs. “And smile.

I do as she says and feel a thousand links forming in my head as my face roam the crowd.

“Now you’re a part of the pack,” my father explains, hearing me gasp.