Fiona's diary left no excuse for the past ten years. My hands shook against the old leather as I moved from entries written before my birth to the years I remembered under her roof.
She had poisoned my mother, the true Luna of the Winter Moon Pack, in small doses over several months. The rogue attack the elders still mourned had never happened. My mother weakened in her own bed, trusting the friend who mixed her medicine and later replaced her.
*“The pack accepted me as Luna without question,”* Fiona had written. *“They are sheep. The whelp is the problem. She carries her mother's scent and power. Killing her would draw suspicion. Keeping her close is easier.”*
The hugs and bedtime stories had kept her source of power close.
Another entry read, *“Selena grows stronger every season. Ela
