Luna Miralexis

Miralexis P O V The metal ring on the courthouse front desk was cold beneath my knuckles as I knocked, the clang echoing louder than I expected in the quiet building. My hand trembled slightly, betraying the nerves twisting low in my stomach. I’d been summoned without explanation, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever waited on the other side of that desk was going to change everything. Again. Just last week, I’d been called in to help the Frost family deliver their first pup. The mother had gone into labor two weeks early, and panic swept the village like wildfire. But my powers—rare, blessed, and unregistered—had been strong enough to guide the delivery safely. The pup was born healthy, her mother resting now in the healer’s quarters with her newborn swaddled in fur-lined blankets. Elderhill had praised me. But now I stood in the town’s ancient summoning hall, heart pounding like prey sensing the eyes of its hunter. And I was alone. Being summoned just a week after my eighteenth birthday felt like the worst possible omen—not just for me, but for the quiet life my family had sacrificed everything to help me build. The courthouse wasn’t the kind of place anyone wanted to end up—especially not someone like me. Not someone marked by the old whispers, touched by powers no one wanted to admit still existed. A young woman with a newly awakened wolf should have been celebrating her freedom, not standing beneath the vaulted arches of a cold stone chamber, waiting to be judged. But I hadn’t been marked like the others. On my eighteenth birthday, no sigil formed on my skin. No crest from a destined pack. No call from the moon to return to Bloodthrone. Instead, I’d been given a choice—and I made it. I left. I ran from fate, from the chain of a name that no longer felt like mine, and planted myself here in Elderhill, where no one knew what kind of wolf stirred beneath my skin. Still, the sweat pooling beneath my sundress betrayed the anxiety tightening my chest. Feeling nervous always made me sweat. I reached up to twist my dirty blonde hair into a knot, trying to cool the back of my neck as I caught the shimmer of moisture building near the corners of my olive eyes. My pale skin was already glossing under the spring heat, and I could feel the fabric of my sundress clinging to my small chest while the hem stretched tighter over the curve of my hips and behind—never easy to hide, no matter how light I dressed. My olive-green eyes were wide and alert, a bead of sweat trailing toward the delicate curve of my cheek. I hated how small I felt in this moment—how exposed. A shuffle of papers and a dry cough made me glance up just as the elder behind the front desk appeared. Garron. The head of delivery in Elderhill—and, unofficially, the man who knew everything before anyone else. He moved like a tree uprooted, slow and deliberate, his age evident in every step. He had to be at least three hundred by now, maybe older. His hair was a pure, cloudlike white, falling in soft waves past his shoulders. His worn hands, veined and gnarled from centuries of labor, trembled slightly as he adjusted the thin-framed glasses perched at the end of his long nose. He didn’t greet me right away. Instead, he dug beneath the counter, muttering to himself, until he pulled out something that stopped the air in my lungs cold. A letter. Not just any letter. Royal orange. My breath caught. Letters sealed in that color only came from one place—the Bloodthrone royal house. The pack I’d run from. The name I never let myself speak aloud. The legacy I’d sworn to bury for good. My pulse thundered as I stared at it. Dozens of rumors roared through my mind—stories of wolves dragged back to the castle in chains, of royal summons that ended in trials, or worse, arranged bondings no one dared refuse. I was so focused on the letter that I didn’t notice Garron leaning closer until his raspy voice broke the silence. “I’m terribly sorry, healer,” he said, his voice softer than I’d expected. “I tried. I did my best not to give them anything that could lead to you. But they… they insisted. No delay. No discretion.” His cloudy eyes met mine with something between sympathy and warning. “They’re not asking you to come to the castle, Miralexis,” he said. “They’re ordering you.” The room felt colder suddenly. Ordering. My fingers reached for the envelope, hesitant, shaking. The seal was unbroken, but the weight of it might as well have been a chain. My name was etched in tight silver script. No title. No honorific. Just Miralexis. I took it. And with it, I felt my past reach for me like claws from the dark. Opening the letter, I barely had time to take a breath before I felt it—my blood beginning to rise, like a river heating from beneath the skin. My wolf stirred inside me, responding to the rush of magic as my fingers tightened around the parchment. A dull ache spread through my spine. My powers—the ones I never used unless absolutely necessary—were surfacing on their own. I gritted my teeth as a wave of energy pulled through me. My muscles began to contract, not in pain, but in preparation. My bones clicked softly, aligning instinctively, anticipating a demand that hadn’t yet been made. I forced myself to inhale. Calm. Breathe. Not here. I closed my eyes and steadied my hands before the power could fully awaken. I knew better. If I let it out without purpose, I’d collapse. Being called a healer made most assume I carried a gentle gift. They saw the way I soothed pain, how I brought a mother and her pup through birth and smiled after. But they didn’t understand what I truly was. My powers were tied to restoration—yes—but not without a cost. If I overused them, the muscles in my own body would begin to dissolve. Every ligament I mended in another could sap my strength. Every bone I rebuilt could turn my own to dust. I was born with the power to fix what others broke—at the risk of breaking myself in the process. That’s why I only used my gift once a moon. One healing. One cycle. One body. Any more, and I might not survive it. My pulse was still racing when I turned my gaze to the letter and began to read. ⸻ Rogue Miralexis, It has come to the royal family’s attention that you have been sighted living within a pack territory without being sworn in. No mark. No last name. No declared identity. This will not be tolerated on lands governed by royal blood. If you attempt to flee or disappear after reading this letter, you will be considered an enemy of the state and executed on sight. You are hereby ordered to cease all healing duties—official or unofficial—immediately. Any labor, service, or role you have accepted during your stay in this territory is now considered null by royal decree. You are commanded to appear willingly before the royal court at the Bloodthrone Castle and plead your case. You have three days to comply. — K.D. ⸻ I stared at the bottom of the letter, my heart still hammering. The initials weren’t ones I’d seen before. K.D. I’d read other castle letters before. Warrants. Decrees. Sealed summonses. But never signed with those two letters. They were unfamiliar, but the threat wasn’t. This wasn’t a warning. It was a death sentence wrapped in courtesy.