The Luna's Dark Protector

The Unsmiling Guard

The silence in Theron’s study was tangible, colder than the stone walls. The scent of leather-bound books and burning cedar logs did nothing to cut the tension. Elara stood before her brother’s massive desk, the ghost of the creature’s green-lit eyes still burning in her vision. Kael stood at parade rest near the door, his presence a void that seemed to absorb the firelight.

Theron paced behind his desk, a caged wolf. The two guards from the balcony flanked the room, shifting nervously.

“A Stonefang totem,” Theron finally said, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. He held the crude carving, now cleaned of gore, between his thumb and forefinger as if it were a venomous insect. “On a creature that was clearly… tainted. Explain this.”

He wasn’t asking the guards. His furious gaze was fixed on Kael.

“The totem is a marker,” Kael replied, his tone flat, devoid of any deference. “But not of allegiance. It’s a brand. The creature was once Stonefang. It was taken, hollowed out, and repurposed. The totem was left to sow discord. To make you look here,” he gestured with his chin toward the carving, “while the real threat comes from elsewhere.”

“The ‘real threat’?” Theron sneered. “You mean the shadows you command? The power that defies everything we know of wolf-kind? The Council agreed to your guardianship because of ancient treaties, Shadow-Stalker, not because we welcome your kind.”

Elara flinched at the venom in the title. Kael didn’t react.

“My ‘kind,’” Kael said, the words precise and cold, “are the only reason the last taint, the Rot of the Silent Woods, did not consume the northern territories a century ago. We are the scalpel for a disease your warriors’ swords cannot cut.”

Theron’s face darkened. “And what is this disease? Speak plainly.”

For the first time, Kael hesitated. His stormy gaze flickered to Elara, a fleeting, unreadable glance that felt heavier than a touch. “It is an old hunger. It consumes spirit, twists flesh. It makes puppets of the strong and feasts on the magic that runs in royal bloodlines.” His eyes settled back on Theron. “It has a taste for Lunas.”

The words dropped into the room like stones into a still pond. Elara felt a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty castle.

“Why?” The question tore from her, raw and urgent.

Kael’s attention shifted fully to her. In the firelight, his severe features looked almost sculpted from grief. “Because Luna's power is pure creation. Life, unity, healing. Hunger is its absolute opposite. It seeks to devour that light, to use it as a beacon to tear open the world. Your light is both what it wants to consume and what it needs to fully manifest.”

Theron slammed a fist on the desk. “Enough riddles! You speak of prophecies and old wives’ tales. My concern is the here and now. A Stonefang wolf, corrupted, attacked my sister on the day of her union with their Alpha-heir. This is an act of war!”

“Or a desperate warning,” Elara heard herself say. Both men looked at her. She straightened, clasping her hands to hide their tremor. “What if… what if someone within Stonefang knows of this ‘hunger’? What if they were trying to expose it? The creature came for me, but it was Kael who killed it. If their goal was war, they’d have sent a battalion, not one corrupted scout.”

Kael’s intense gaze held hers, and for a heartbeat, she saw a flicker of something like approval. “Perceptive,” he murmured, so low she almost didn’t hear it.

Theron stared at her, a mixture of surprise and frustration on his face. He was used to her being the diplomatic sister, not the analytical one. “A fanciful theory, Elara. It grants our enemies too much credit. The simpler explanation is treachery.” He turned his scowl back to Kael. “You. You will have a guard of my men with you at all times. You will train with them. You will eat with them. You will show them you are not the monster the stories say. And you,” he pointed a finger at Elara, “will go to your chambers and rest. Tomorrow, we hold a council with the Stonefang delegates. We will get to the bottom of this.”

It was a dismissal. As Elara moved toward the door, Kael fell into step behind her, the two Silvermane guards falling in behind him, their suspicion a palpable force at his back.

The walk to her wing was long and silent. The castle, usually humming with life, felt like a held breath. Servants scurried out of their way, eyes wide with a fear that was now directed at the dark figure trailing her.

At the door to her chambers, she turned. The Silvermane guards took up positions on either side of the corridor, giving Kael a wide berth. He stood before her, an unmoving statue.

“A word,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He inclined his head.

She pushed her door open and stepped inside, leaving it ajar in a flimsy nod to propriety. He followed, stopping just inside the threshold. The room felt suddenly smaller, charged with the strange energy of his presence.

“The truth,” she demanded, crossing her arms. “All of it. Not the version for my brother. Why are you really here?”

He studied her, his gray eyes missing nothing. “The Council of Silvermane and the Conclave of Stalkers have an ancient pact. When the rot returns, a Stalker is sent to guard the royal line. I was sent.”

“Sent? Like a letter?”

“Like a weapon,” he corrected, his voice devoid of emotion. “One that has been waiting in its sheath for a long time.”

“And the rot… It’s here because of me? Because I became Luna?”

“It is here because you are awake,” he said. “Your coronation, the bonding to the Packstone… it was a flare in the darkness. It drew their attention. You are not the cause, Elara. You are the lighthouse.”

The use of her name, devoid of title, felt more intimate than any touch. It was a recognition of the person, not the position.

“Can you stop it? This hunger?”

“I can protect you from it. That is my oath.”

“But can you stop it?” she pressed.

A shadow of something bleak crossed his face. “To stop it requires finding the source. And the source is clever. It hides in lies and in the hearts of those you trust.”

A soft tap came at the door. One of her personal maids, Liana, a girl with kind eyes and a nervous smile, entered with a tray. “Your evening tea, Luna. To help you sleep.” She cast a terrified glance at Kael and scurried out.

Elara walked to the small table by the fire where Liana had left the tray. A delicate porcelain cup steamed, filled with a fragrant, pale golden tea. Chamomile and moonflower. Her usual.

She reached for it.

“Don’t.”

Kael’s voice was a whip-c***k. He was beside her in two silent strides, his hand closing around her wrist before her fingers could touch the cup. His grip was firm, not painful, but unyielding. His skin was cool.

“What is it?” she breathed, staring at the innocent-looking tea.

He didn’t answer. Releasing her wrist, he picked up the cup. He held it to his nose, closed his eyes for a second, and then his expression hardened into something lethal. Without a word, he carried it to the window, opened it, and poured the contents out into the night.

“The moonflower was from a blighted patch,” he said, shutting the window. “Its essence twisted. One sip, and you would have slept. And dreamed. And in your dreams, it would have begun to hollow you out from the inside.”

Elara’s legs felt weak. She sank into a chair. “Liana… she’s been with me since I was a child.”

“Not Liana,” Kael said, his voice grim. He picked up the small porcelain pot. He turned it over, and with a careful finger, he scraped at a nearly invisible seam along its base. A false bottom came away, revealing a tiny, empty compartment. “The taint was in the pot. Released by the heat. The maid was a vessel, unaware.”

The enemy wasn’t at the gates. It was in her tea service. The violation was so intimate, so insidious, it stole the air from her lungs.

Kael knelt before her, bringing himself to her eye level. The firelight played over the stark planes of his face. In his eyes, the storm was quiet, replaced by a fierce, unwavering certainty. “This is the war, Elara. Not with armies. Not with politics. It is a war for your soul, fought in shadows and whispers. They will use your trust, your routine, your comfort against you.” He held her gaze. “You must trust no one.”

“Not even you?” The question was out before she could stop it, born of sheer, overwhelmed terror.

He didn’t look away. “Especially not me. My oath binds me, but you should never lower your guard. Not for anyone.” He stood, returning to his post by the door, a sentinel once more. “Sleep. I will be here. The tea is gone.”

But as Elara lay in the dark hours later, hearing only the quiet sound of his breathing from beyond the door, the truth took root.

He had told her to trust no one. But he had just saved her life from a threat no one else had seen. He was the constant, unsettling shadow. He was also, indisputably, the only thing standing between her and a nightmare that poisoned tea and wore the faces of friends.