WHEN THE MOON REMEMBERS

CHAPTER 5

DARIUS'S POV

Some nights still blur together, and, honestly, that scares me more than any enemy I’ve ever faced across a council table, or in battle with steel in my hand. There are pieces missing, nights I can’t pull back, no matter how hard I try.

The night before Lord Ashworth’s trial, my father called me into his study. The fire was low, more shadows than light flickering over shelves of old books he never let anyone touch, not even me. His face looked darker than I’d seen it in years, maybe ever. Not the kind of grim you wear in war council when men bleed and border packs gather at the gates. Something heavier sat on him that night.

“Tomorrow you will stand as witness,” he said, not glancing up from his paperwork. He kept writing the entire time, like this was just another piece of business to finish. “As my heir, your presence gives the pack’s judgment weight. The council needs to see the future backing the present.”

I told him, “I understand.” But inside, something twisted. I thought of Lira’s father, how I didn’t really believe the council’s verdict was fair. Honestly, I barely admitted that doubt to myself, even lying awake at night.

Then my father handed me a small cup. Thick, dark, bitter-smelling. “Drink this before you sleep. It’ll steady your nerves. Trials like this are hard, especially your first. My father gave this to me, once.”

I drank it. Why wouldn’t I trust him? I never had a reason not to, not in seventeen years. Sons don’t question the hand that always shields them. I remember the taste, burning and sharp. I thought it would fade, maybe the way medicine usually does.

But after that? Nothing.

No memory of going to bed. No clear images of the hours after. Now and then, in the hardest part of the night, I try to dig out what’s left. All that comes are flashes: torches everywhere, more than usual, lining the courtyard in a wall of fire. The moon, bright as hell, too full. Like it was watching. The crowd going quiet, the way crowds do before things go bad. And a scream, my name, torn out of someone, sounding like a curse.

I remember my own hand rising.

I don’t remember deciding to raise it.

For years, I told myself grief eats at your memory. That pain smears things until you can’t see where one moment ends and another starts. I made myself believe the details didn’t matter, only the result. Lord Ashworth died. I ended his life. Did I remember every second? Doesn’t change anything. Did I choose it, or did something else grab me and move me like a pawn?

But lately, those lies I built for myself, just to survive are starting to c***k.

Three days ago, a new servant girl glanced up from scrubbing the hallway floor. I didn’t know her. But something spun in me,familiar, sharp, the way a wolf recognizes its own. She smelled like someone I’d lost. Her eyes didn’t fit the plain gray dress. When I asked her name, she said, “Wren,” quiet and careful. I kept my voice flat, like I barely noticed.

All day, I tried to convince myself she was a stranger. Maybe the light was playing tricks. Maybe old ghosts like to show up in the faces of servants sometimes. I kept saying that until supper, and nearly believed it.

But tonight, alone in my room, watching the fire sink low, like my father used to do, I let myself remember. The girl I lost. Lira Ashworth. The promise we made under torchlight, kids swearing things neither of us understood. Her laughter, like nothing in the world, could touch her. I used to believe we could get through anything, despite politics, families, and the pack. I used to think we’d bend the world, as long as we stuck together. Back then, you couldn’t tell me otherwise.

And then I raised my hand and ended her father’s life in front of everyone. She’s hated me ever since, if she’s alive to hate me. That’s kept me up at night more times than I’ll ever admit.

I’ve told myself I deserved that hate. I sit with it in the quiet, when the guilt gets heavy and I have to sit down and just breathe until it passes.

But tonight, staring at the fire, I let the question into my mind, just once.

Why don’t I remember choosing?

Why does it feel like I watched it from outside? Like I was stuck somewhere behind my own eyes, not the one steering?

And why, when that girl looked up at me, did something underneath all the titles, Alpha, heir, everything I wear day after day, know her as Lira before I could talk myself out of it?

Knock at my door. Quick, sharp.

“My lord.” My beta’s voice. Too focused, too urgent. “You’ll want to see this. We found something in the archive, something about the Ashworth trial. It doesn’t match the official record.”

I stood up so fast the chair scraped the stone, the sound bouncing around the room, like a warning.

Three years of trying to bury this, and in one week: a servant girl with eyes I know, and now a broken record about the worst night of my life. Two threads from the same knot, finally pulling loose.

I don’t believe in coincidence. Not anymore, not after tonight.

Something old is cracking open. Whatever truth is waiting, I know it’s going to tear down everything I thought I knew about that night. And probably take whatever peace I’ve managed to put together, right down with it.