Exiled Luna

Chapter Three: Exile

The next morning, the elders' summons arrived at my side chamber as I sat clutching that scrap of barbarian sigils, sleepless through the night.

I had planned to take it before the elders as proof—to show them the sigils were barbarian work, and that the one who wove them into the cloak and placed it in my hands was the woman now seated on the Luna's throne. But the priest who delivered the edict read it aloud, and I stood there, speechless.

The edict said—someone had accused me of consorting with barbarians. The elders had ordered a search of my chambers. I was to appear at the Moon Temple for questioning at once.

A search of my chambers. An accusation of barbarian dealings.

I gripped the scrap of fabric and felt the bitter absurdity. I held the truth in my hand, and now it had become a burning coal. My sister had moved faster than I—not only had she taken the cloak, but she had beaten me to the accusation, pinning "barbarian collusion" upon my own head.

In the Moon Temple, silver candles blazed. The elders sat in rows, and my sister occupied the high seat, her gaze gentle and pitiful as she looked down at me.

"Elowen," the High Elder began, his voice rasping. "You have been accused of consorting with barbarians and concealing barbarian sigils. Is this true?"

"No." I lifted my head. "But I do have something to present to the council—"

I reached for the scrap of fabric. But the moment I opened my mouth, my sister let out a soft sigh:

"Sister, must you still deny it?"

She rose and drew something from her sleeve—the moon-white cloak, retrieved and returned. She spread it open, letting the silver candlelight fall across it:

"This morning, my maid found this cloak in your old chest. At first I took it for ordinary clothing, but when I looked closer—" She pointed to the lining, her voice thick with grief. "—woven here are barbarian sigils."

I went rigid. That cloak had been taken by her own hands, yet now it had been "found" in my room.

"Sister," Iseldra said, her eyes glistening, "what I gave you was clean, proper attire. How could you have come to touch barbarian things? Tell me—were you forced? I can plead for mercy on your behalf."

Her voice trembled with anguish, every word meant to speak for you. The elders, watching her, were visibly moved—and their eyes turned toward me with disappointment and suspicion.

And then I understood everything. The cloak had been a trap from the start. She gave it to me to suppress my bond with barbarian sigils and humiliate me at the Moon Festival. She took it back to keep the "evidence" in her own keeping. And now she had "found" it in my room to seal my fate.

She had calculated every step. I clutched the scrap in my sleeve, my palm slick with cold sweat—if I produced it now, claiming the cloak's lining bore barbarian sigils she had given me, she would only say: is that not the very evidence just found in your chamber?

I had no witnesses. The maid who delivered it was hers. The order to retrieve it was hers. The elders would only believe that a disgraced princess, rejected by destiny, embittered by resentment, had turned to the barbarians for vengeance.

"I did not," I said, my voice scraping like sandpaper. "That cloak... was a gift from my sister."

Silence.

My sister blinked, then covered her mouth, tears spilling down her cheeks: "Sister... you would slander me so? I am a Luna. Why would I send you barbarian things?"

"Indeed," the High Elder's voice froze the air. "Her Highness the Luna is pure-blooded, pious to the Goddess. How would she touch barbarian filth? Elowen, first you fail in your bond, then you harbor barbarian sigils, and now you slander the Luna—do you confess your guilt?"

"I am not guilty!" I cried. "You speak of serving the Moon Goddess—but the Goddess sees the truth! The one who is truly defiled is sitting on the highest seat in this temple!"

"Insolence!" the High Elder roared. "Seize her!"

Two high-ranked wolves lunged and pinned my arms behind my back.

In that moment, I made my last stand. From the folds of my inner robe, I drew a square of folded cloth—old, moon-white, its edges yellowed. The only memento my mother had left me. I had kept it close to my heart from childhood, never letting it go. Before she departed, she had placed it in my hands and said: Keep this safe—it knows the way home.

"Look!" I held it up, my voice trembling. "This is no barbarian filth! This was my mother's! My mother was not High Clan—she was a barbarian woman! The barbarian blood in me is not from illicit dealings—it is my mother's legacy!"

The temple erupted.

For an instant—barely perceptible—my sister's composure flickered. But she recovered swiftly, her expression softening into pity as she descended from the high seat and walked toward me.

"Sister," she said softly, "would you weave such lies just to escape your guilt?"

"I am not lying!" I held up the cloth. "The sigils on this—"

My sister reached out, and gently, so gently, drew the cloth from my fingers.

She looked down at it, her fingers tracing the barbarian sigils embroidered at the corner. Then she smiled—a faint, barely there smile, meant only for me.

"Sister," she said, raising her eyes to mine, her voice dripping with sweetness, "this is what you call your mother's keepsake?"

And with a flick of her fingers—the cloth in her palm crumbled to dust.

My eyes went wide, my blood turning to ice in my veins.

"No—" I lunged, but the two wolves held me fast. "That was my mother's—"

I watched helplessly as the square I had kept against my heart for nineteen years dissolved into fine powder, trickling through her fingers, scattering across the floor, brushed aside by her gown.

"Sister," Iseldra said, looking down at me with measured sorrow, "you would even lie about your own mother's keepsake. How this pains me."

She turned and walked back to her seat, her hem sweeping across the dust as if flicking away something worthless.

I knelt there, staring at the powdered remains on the floor, and felt something inside me shatter along with them.

That was all my mother had left me. And I could not even protect it.

I raised my head, fixing my sister's retreating back with a gaze sharp as poisoned steel. Never—never in my life—had I wanted someone dead more than in that moment.

She had destroyed my honor, my place, my mother's last gift.

Sister, I will remember this. I will spend my life paying you back, thread by thread.

"Administer the punishment," the High Elder raised his hand.

Silver moonlight poured down like boiling water. Pain exploded across my back as the brand of shame seared into my flesh. I clenched my teeth and did not cry out—I only kept my eyes fixed on my sister upon the high seat. She met my gaze, and the corner of her mouth curved upward—a smile, a smile of victory meant only for me.

Then the power began to drain from my veins, drawn out like a hand reaching into my chest and ripping out something hot and vital. The pain blackened my vision, and I curled on the floor, low growls of agony tearing from my throat.

"Seven-tenths of her power is stripped," the Elder announced. "From this day, she has no further claim upon the High Clan."

They hoisted me up and dragged me out. My sister descended from her seat, crossed the floor, and knelt before me, gently brushing the tangled hair from my forehead. Her touch was soft as a dream—her voice, a whisper like a serpent's tongue:

"Sister," she said. "Do not blame me. Blame yourself for being born stronger than I. You shone too bright—the entire pack could see only you. But in every pack, there can be only one Luna."

I looked at her, and with all the strength left in me, I asked only one question:

"That cloak—when did you start weaving it?"

She smiled, and did not answer. When she rose, her voice had returned to its placid pity:

"Take her to the barbarian wilds. Her life or death—let the Moon Goddess decide."

The stone door ground shut behind me. I collapsed onto the cold earth of the wilderness, watching that last sliver of moonlight pinch out between the closing door. Above me, a starless sky. In the distance, beasts snarled. The wind carried unfamiliar, barbaric scents into my lungs.

I was covered in wounds, my bloodlines drained, the shame-brand burning on my back. I knew I would not survive the night.

But then—a wisp of something, faint and light, rose from the soil beneath me. Earthy and bitter, rising and falling like the tide—once, twice—like a living thing, gently knocking at the door of my parched, empty veins.

I did not know what it was.

I only knew that it made my dying heart beat once more.