The Wolfless Luna

Chapter Four

Nia’s POV

They dragged me out of the room like I was already dead. Limp arms, dead eyes, no fight left. Garrick’s hand was on my arm firmly, not mean. He didn’t need to be rough. I wasn’t going anywhere. My legs moved when they were told to. My feet hit the floor because it was there. Inside? Nothing. Just a big empty space where the baby used to be. Where hope used to be.

We went through the back halls. Halls I used to walk with my head up, carrying lists, fixing problems, being the Luna everyone pretended to respect. Now every corner felt lower, and darker. Like the castle was swallowing me. Nobody talked. Just boots scraping stone and wind whining through the arrow slits high up.

We got to the little room by the stables. Liora was waiting.

She stood in the middle like she owned the place. Arms crossed. That smile—sweet on top, knife underneath. Next to her was Mira. My Mira. The girl who brushed my hair every morning for five years. The one who slipped extra honey in my tea when the whispers got too loud. Her eyes were on the floor. Cheeks red. Hands twisting her apron so hard the fabric looked ready to tear.

“Make her beautiful,” Liora said, voice light like she was planning a party. “Something… eye-catching. The uncle deserves to see exactly what kind of broken Luna he is inheriting.”

Mira looked up fast. “Luna Nia, I—”

“Do it,” I said. My voice sounded flat. Far away. Like it belonged to somebody else. “Just do it.”

Mira’s hands shook badly when she helped me out of the bloody shift. She dipped a cloth in warm water—lavender smell, soft—and wiped my face, my arms, the dried tears, the dirt, and the blood still stuck to my thighs gently, as if she was afraid I’d break if she pressed too hard.

She brought the dress Liora picked. My stomach flipped.

Scarlet silk. Low-cut. Clinging. Thin straps. Slits up both thighs. Sheer in places you weren’t supposed to see through. The kind of dress a courtesan wears. Not a Luna. Not a grieving wife. Definitely not me.

Mira started crying while she laced me up. “I’m sorry,” she kept whispering. “I didn’t want—”

“I know,” I said. “It is not your fault.”

She did my face next. Kohl around my eyes. Rouge on my cheeks. On my lips. When she stepped back she looked sick.

“You still look like yourself,” she said softly. Almost pleading. “Beautiful. Strong.”

I didn’t say anything. Beautiful? I felt like a corpse somebody painted.

They shoved me in the cage after. Small iron box on wheels. Black velvet draped over it like a bad joke. Bars cold against my arms. I sat on the thin pad they threw in. Knees up. Staring at nothing.

The procession started at dusk. Horses snorted. Wheels creaked on bumpy roads. Liora rode next to me on her white mare. Close enough I could smell her rose perfume over the horse sweat.

“Look at you,” she said, leaning down so only I could hear. “All dressed up like the gift you are. How fitting—after all those years pretending to be something you are not.”

I didn’t answer. Her words just slid off like rain on a window.

Kieran rode up front. Back straight. Cloak flapping. He kept looking back at the cage, at me. His face was messed up: angry, smug, and something else. Something almost like regret. It almost made me laugh.

Regret? Now?

The thought dragged up an old memory. Sharp. Clear.

**Two years earlier**

Late summer light poured through the council hall windows. I sat at the long table. Quill scratching harvest numbers. The numbers made sense. They didn’t lie.

Kieran came in. Boots loud. Slower than normal. He stopped in front of me. Shoulders tight. Throat moving like the words were stuck.

I looked up. One look at his face—guilt, hesitation, that hard resolve—and I knew.

He was going to reject me.

The bond hummed between us. Bright. Painful. My heart jumped once. Then my head got very calm.

Before he could open his mouth, I put the quill down.

“I, Nia, reject you, Kieran, as my fated mate.”

Pain hit—bright, hot, but it wasn’t the soul-tearing thing the stories talk about. It hurt but I breathed through it and stood up. Rolled the parchments. Looked at him one last time.

“You heard me.”

Then I walked past him. Out of the hall. Head up.

The doors shut behind me.

Something moved inside.

A voice. Low. Warm. Female.

‘Well done, child.’

My wolf. She sounded proud. Almost laughing.

‘He was never worthy of you. A weak and greedy man. You deserve better.’

Warmth spread through me. She curled close. Protective. Fierce.

‘Sleep now,’ she said. ‘I will wake again when the time is right—when a true mate calls.’

Then she went quiet. Left a promise behind.

I didn’t cry that day.

I never cried for him.

**Present**

The memory faded when Riven’s castle gates came into view. Tall black towers. Silver and midnight-blue banners snapping in the wind. The strongest pack in the north. The uncle who used to be just a name.

The procession stopped in the big courtyard. Guards in dark armor opened the cage and dragged me out. Bare feet hit the cold stone. They pulled me forward. Through watching warriors. Up wide steps. Into the great hall full of torches.

They shoved me to my knees in front of the dais.

A voice—deep, strong, used to being obeyed—cut through the noise.

“Lift your head.”

I looked up slowly.

And everything stopped.

Riven stood at the top of the dais. Tall. Broad. Black leather and silver mail. Hair dark, past his shoulders. Face sharp with high cheekbones, strong jaw, lips pressed tight. But his eyes… storm-gray. Piercing. Old. Like they’d seen too much and cared too little.

We stared at each other.

Then my wolf—silent for two years—woke up screaming.

She howled in my head. Wild. Happy.

Mate!

The word echoed everywhere inside me. Bright. Sure.

Mate! Mate! Mate!

I gasped. Hand on my chest. Power rushed in—warm, fierce, alive. She pushed against my skin. Tail whipping. Eyes shining.

Riven’s nostrils flared. His eyes widened just a fraction.

He smelled it too.