Coming Back as Enemy's Luna

36. Before

= Amara =

The street was loud long before the shouting started.

It always was.

Veyrath’s market road ran through the heart of the territory, a wide stone stretch lined with stalls, brick shops, and the constant hum of pack life. Merchants barked prices. Children laughed too loudly. Wolves—shifted and unshifted alike—moved with purpose, shoulders squared, eyes sharp.

This was the first place that came to mind when I decided I needed to get out and walk for a while.

I was still healing—my body marked with bruises that hadn’t quite faded, wounds that reminded me to move carefully. Mikael had been clear about what he wanted: stay home, rest, recover properly. He’d even suggested continuing my lessons indoors, where I’d be safe and out of sight.

I ignored him anyway.

The walls of the house had started to feel too close, and no amount of rest could quiet the restlessness coiling in my chest. I needed air. Space. A reminder that the world still existed beyond recovery schedules and whispered concerns.

Of course, after the a*******n, he hadn’t taken any chances.

I wasn’t alone—not really.

He’d assigned deltas to watch over me, shadows moving where I moved, close enough to intervene but far enough to disappear. I knew they were there in theory, but in practice, they blended seamlessly into the crowd. A passerby lingering too long. A stranger adjusting their pace to match mine. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve missed them entirely.

And honestly, I was grateful for that.

The last thing I wanted was to draw attention—to invite curious stares or uneasy whispers by walking around with obvious guards at my heels. I’d already had enough eyes on me for a lifetime. The glares, the speculation, the way people looked at me differently after everything that had happened… I didn’t have the energy for that today.

I kept looking around, memorizing every corner of the market.

I didn’t know how long I was doing that when I noticed an old woman stood at the edge of the street, hunched and trembling, clutching a thin paper bag to her chest as if it were the last thing tethering her to the ground. Her hair was white, her back curved, her shoes worn thin at the soles. The street in front of her was busy—too busy—and the crowd parted around her like water around a stone.

No one stopped.

They saw her. Of course they did. Wolves missed very little. But seeing didn’t mean acting. It never had.

I hesitated for half a second.

Old instincts flared—quiet warnings shaped by years of experience. Gravemire had taught me that lesson the hard way.

But some things refused to stay buried, no matter how carefully you learned to suppress them.

I stepped forward.

“Ma’am,” I said gently, keeping my voice low. “Would you like some help crossing?”

She startled, then looked up at me with watery blue eyes. For a moment, confusion clouded her expression—then relief softened her face.

I was afraid she might recognize me.

After all, almost everyone in Veyrath already knew who I was—or at least what they believed me to be. The outcast. The enemy. A name spoken in lowered voices, followed by silence that carried far more judgment than words ever could.

Here, my reputation arrived long before I did.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Yes, dear. That would be kind. These legs aren’t what they used to be.”

I smiled, small and polite, and offered my arm.

Her grip was fragile but grateful as she took it. Together, we stepped off the curb and into the street. The noise seemed to dim around us, my focus narrowing to the careful rhythm of her steps, the way she leaned just slightly more heavily on me as we crossed.

Halfway through, a cart rattled past too close.

The paper bag tore.

It happened in an instant—the sound sharp and unmistakable. The bottom of the bag split open, and oranges spilled out like bright drops of sunlight, bouncing and rolling across the stone road.

The woman gasped.

“Oh no—my groceries—”

I bent immediately, reaching for the nearest orange.

It’s alright,” I said, calm, automatic. “We’ll pick them up.”

But the street had already gone quiet.

Too quiet.

When I looked up, I felt it—the shift in the air, the sudden attention pressing in from all sides. Conversations had paused. Stalls had fallen silent. Eyes locked onto the scene as if they’d been waiting for something to ignite.

And then the whispers began.

“Did you see that?”

“She made her drop them—”

“That’s the…outcast, isn’t it?”

“The enemy?”

The woman squeezed my arm. “No, no, it was an accident,” she said, raising her voice, trying to turn toward the onlookers. “She was helping me—”

“Don’t lie for her,” someone snapped.

I straightened slowly. I scanned our surroundings just as the air seemed to tighten. People were gathering now, drawn toward us like gravity, their presence impossible to ignore.

There it was. The judgment. The assumption. I was hoping for a peaceful day yet I should have known I won’t be having it in the next few days to come.

A young man stepped forward, his expression twisted with something ugly and eager.

“What kind of person does that to an elder?” he demanded. “Bullying an old woman in public? You think being our future Luna puts you above decency?”

The words hit like stones—but they didn’t surprise me.

They never did.

“Please,” the old woman said again, her voice shaking now. “She didn’t—”

“Ma’am,” another voice interrupted sharply, “you don’t need to defend her. We all saw it.”

No, they hadn’t.

But truth had never mattered much to crowds like this.

I crouched again, calmly collecting the oranges rolling toward the gutter. My movements were unhurried, deliberate. I could feel their anger coiling tighter with every second I refused to react.

“That’s it?” someone scoffed. “You’re not even going to apologize?”

“Look at her,” another sneered. “Acting as if she’s someone important.”

I placed the oranges gently into a nearby basket, then stood, brushing my hands together. Only then did I meet their eyes.

There were dozens of them now.

Pack members. Veyrath wolves. Faces filled with resentment, suspicion, and something darker beneath it all—fear dressed up as righteousness. They had never wanted me here. They tolerated me because of who stood beside me, not because they believed I belonged.

Gravemire flashed through my mind without warning.

Different streets. Same crowd.

I remembered being younger then—shoulders tight, heart racing, words trembling on my tongue. I remembered trying to explain, to defend myself, to earn fairness from people who had already decided I was guilty.

I had learned better since then.

“I offered to help her cross the street,” I said evenly. My voice carried without effort, calm enough to cut through the noise. “Her bag tore. It was an accident.”

“Convenient story,” someone muttered.

The old woman stepped forward again, trembling but determined. “She’s telling the truth. I swear it. She was nothing but kind—”

“Enough,” a woman snapped. “We don’t need excuses.”

That did it.

I turned fully toward the crowd, my spine straight, my expression composed. Rage simmered in the air around me, thick and suffocating, but I had learned how to stand inside it without letting it touch me.

“You may think you saw something,” I said calmly, “but thinking doesn’t make it true.”

A ripple of outrage followed.

“How dare you—”

“Typical—”

“She thinks she’s better than us—”

I let them speak.

That was the secret they never understood.

You didn’t have to fight every insult. You didn’t have to claw your way out of every accusation. Sometimes, the strongest thing you could do was stand still and refuse to break.

When the noise finally dipped, I spoke again.

“You’re free to believe whatever you want,” I said. “It won’t change what actually happened.”

The old woman reached for my hand, worry etched on her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For helping me.”

I squeezed her fingers gently.

That, at least, mattered.

Behind her, the crowd still glared—still hungry for blood, still dissatisfied. They hadn’t gotten the explosion they wanted. No tears. No panic. No apology bowed low enough to make them feel powerful.

I had been here before. So, this kind of scene wasn’t really new to me.

In Gravemire, they used to say I was too quiet to be trusted.

While here, they said I was too composed to be kind.

Funny how people always found a way to twist restraint into cruelty.

I guided the old woman to the side of the road, making sure she was steady before releasing her arm. She thanked me again before shuffling away, head bowed beneath the weight of attention she hadn’t asked for.

When I turned back, the crowd slowly dispersed, disappointment etched into their faces like they’d been denied entertainment.

I exhaled. My heart still beats steadily in my chest. My hands didn’t shake. My voice hadn’t cracked.

I had survived worse.

And if this pack thought shame would break me—thought prejudice could still find new ways to cut—they were gravely mistaken.

I kept wandering through the market, though this time it felt different.

Earlier, I’d been invisible—just another body drifting between stalls, ignored like background noise, like air no one bothered to notice. Now, after the commotion, eyes followed me wherever I went. People didn’t pretend I wasn’t there anymore. They saw me. Whispers rippled in my wake, subtle but unmistakable, the kind that carried questions and half-formed conclusions.

I didn’t need to hear them to know what they were saying.

Rumors had a way of finding me, of reshaping me into something larger than I was. Something I wasn’t sure I could carry anymore.

The thought made me swallow hard.

Can I really do this?

For a moment, doubt slipped through the cracks I tried so hard to keep sealed. It wrapped itself around my chest, heavy and unwelcome, slowing my steps. I didn’t stop walking, though. I let my feet take me wherever they wanted, aimless and unplanned, as if direction itself felt too demanding.

Gradually, the streets thinned. The crowd faded until the noise softened into distant echoes, replaced by open space and quieter breaths. Then I saw what lay ahead.

A river.

Without thinking, I turned toward it.

The sight alone was enough to ease something tight inside me. A small smile tugged at my lips as the water came into view, smooth and steady, reflecting the sky like it had all the time in the world. Somehow, the chaos from earlier slipped from my mind, washed away by the gentle movement of the current.

I looked around and took it all in.

There were only a handful of vendors nearby, their stalls modest and unhurried. A few people lingered along the riverbank, talking softly or simply existing in comfortable silence. No one stared. No one whispered.

It was peaceful.

Markets were supposed to be loud, crowded, alive with clashing voices and movement—but even places like this had their quiet corners. Hidden pockets of stillness where the world slowed just enough to breathe.

And for the first time that day, so did I.