The Luna’s chair was mine now.
Not metaphor. Not "right hand." Not "guest."
Mine.
Darius announced it at dawn, three days after the Rite. After Kieran was dragged to the Northern border in chains. After Mira’s screaming voicemails hit my phone 17 times before Corin blocked her number.
“Blood Moon needs a Luna,” Darius told the pack. We stood on the estate steps, whole territory watching. “The Goddess took mine. War took my son’s judgment. But the pack survives.”
He turned to me.
“Lyssa Thorn, Beta-born, has bled for this pack. She’s stood when others knelt. She’s made elders bow.” His eyes were winter and fire. “She’s not fated. She’s chosen.”
He took my hand.
Gasps. Thousands of them.
“Mira was chosen,” someone hissed in the crowd.
“Mira is in Silverpine,” Darius said. Cold. Fin
