THE LUNA HE THREW AWAY

The Sovereign’s Rite 1

Cass found us before dawn, and I couldn’t tell if she was here to help or hurt us. She moved out of the shadows so quietly it seemed like the Hollow itself had made her. Her bright eyes gave nothing away, and a rough scar pulled at her throat. She looked at Fen first, her gaze sharp and secretive, then turned to me, cold and distant. I felt less like a person and more like a puzzle she might decide to solve or leave alone. My heart pounded as I tried not to shrink from her stare.

“So this is the Sovereign,” she whispered hoarsely. “You look worse than I thought.”

“Thanks,” I said, brushing off my knees. I wanted to sound dignified, but it just sounded stubborn.

Cass snorted. “Good. The pretty ones always break first.”

Fen stepped between us. He didn’t stand close enough to protect me, but just close enough to show who had brought who. “She needs the rite. She needs the truth.”

Cass raised a brow. “Or do you just want to see if the stories are true?”

I interrupted. “I don’t care about stories. I care about what happens next.”

Cass studied me for a moment, then nodded as if she’d just confirmed something. "Fine. You get the quick version, human. The Sovereign’s claim isn’t a duel; it’s a declaration with everything at stake. Long before the packs split and before the Council existed, people say the Sovereign stood under the moon and spoke the ancient words. They whisper that the Rite was born from blood and necessity, in the smoke of a war no one could remember starting. The first Sovereign, Miren of the Hollow, gathered enemy leaders at a time when the land ran red, and under a harvest moon she dared the old powers to answer her claim. It's said her voice echoed so loud that the wolves of the northern ranges fell silent. The legend says the first Sovereign ended a war this way. Now, you stand before the moon with witnesses from three packs. If you want the Exiles to count, that’s a legal problem I won’t explain until I’ve eaten. You say the words. If you’re real, the moon answers. If not, you die instantly. It’s final. No drama. No appeals. No second chances. If you fail, you lose your life and any hope your bloodline will rise again."

Kael, until now quiet, spoke. “And if she’s real?”

Cass shrugged. Kael looked at me. “You’ve got the blood. Do you have the stomach?”

I ignored the way my hands quivered. “What do I have to say?”

Cass sat, pulled a scruffy notebook from her coat, and flipped through pages. “You name your line,” she said. “Name what was taken. Claim what’s yours. You don’t ask or beg. Say it like you never learned how to be small.”

The Hollow felt colder. The pool looked back at me, black and silent, almost like it could sense how nervous I was. It seemed to wait for me to show weakness, maybe even hoping I would break down. I clenched my jaw, determined not to let anything, not even myself, see me falter.

“Who are the witnesses?” I asked.

Cass’s mouth twisted. "That’s the problem. Aldric controls two of the three packs that matter. He’ll never agree to be a witness. You can’t finish the rite without three, and if we break tradition, the Council can say the ritual doesn’t count, no matter what happens. "

She looked away, as if thinking about old grudges. "For years, Thornridge and Ashveil have fought over everything, from borders to blood debts. Aldric rules Thornridge and has the Council on his side, but Ashveil would rather go against the Council than share air with Thornridge. They hate Thornridge more than they care about the Council, and that’s your only real chance for a third witness. If you can get their Alpha to show up, your claim might count, and the ritual’s outcome could matter for generations. As for the Exiles, we make our own rules, and they count if we say so. We chose exile instead of bowing to any Council or Alpha. Most see us as outcasts or traitors, but the little authority we have is ours alone. We answer only to our own code, so our witness is unpredictable. Maybe you’ve heard the saying among Exiles, a promise is kept in blood, but an oath is broken in silence. Some of us wear white ash on our hands during rites, to show we answer to no one but ourselves. Everything that matters to the packs, we do differently. That is why no one ever knows how we’ll decide to show up."

Kael’s jaw stiffened. “Rowan Ashveil owes me a favor.”

Cass glared. “He owes you a debt, not a miracle. Maybe that’s enough.”

I tried to picture myself naming a bloodline I’d barely learned. Rage rose. For as long as I could remember, the Council had treated the idea of Sovereigns like a threat they needed to erase, afraid of what might happen if old power was claimed by someone they could not control. Sovereigns were more than a legend to them; they were a living challenge to the Council’s authority, a reminder of a history when the packs chose their own leaders instead of bowing to distant rule. Power built on fear and tradition held the Council together, and the return of a Sovereign could break that balance. “What if the Council says no?”

“Then you do it anyway,” Fen said. “But if you fail, they’ll use it as proof that Sovereigns were always just a myth. It’s not only your life at risk. If you die, the Council will erase your existence and the reason you died. Only the story survives you, or it doesn’t. If you fall here, there may never be another Sovereign. And if that happens, the packs will be left only with long-held grudges and the Council’s rule. The balance that once kept the territories from open war could be broken. If you are lost, the chance for unity and change goes with you, and every pack might suffer the disorder that follows.”