The Ancient Moon

Chapter 8: The Tethered Moon

POV Dorian

They summoned me at dawn. As always.

Old wolves liked old patterns. Before the town wakes. Before the blood gets loud. While the moon is still whispering and the instincts haven’t yet dried into reason. I didn’t want to go. I already knew what they’d say, how they’d say it — calm, cold, coated in centuries of self-righteousness. But I showed up anyway. Alpha doesn’t mean you get to ignore the chain. It means you carry it. Even when it cuts.

The meeting hall was half-shadow, the stone floor damp with mountain sweat, fire low in the central pit. They waited in a crescent — three chairs, one empty, always left open for a name no one says aloud. I didn’t sit. I never do.

“You waited too long,” Orlen said. First blood. Of course.

“She isn’t ready,” I replied, arms crossed, voice steady.

Rhys tilted his head. “That’s not your call to make.”

“I’m the one who felt her wake.”

“You’re also the one who kept her hidden.”

“She was never hidden. She just didn’t know what she was yet.”

Orlen leaned forward, eyes sharp as broken glass. “And now that she does, she’s a risk.”

“She’s a girl.”

“She’s a Conduit,” he snapped. “And the longer she stays unbound, the more unstable she becomes. You felt the surge. The others did too. The Pack is unsettled.”

“She’s not one of them.”

“She will be.”

I exhaled through my teeth, jaw tight. “You want her bound so badly? Then do it yourselves.”

“We would,” Rhys said, almost gently. “But you’re the one she listens to.”

That hit harder than I let show.

I looked at the fire. At the smoke curling into nothing.

“She doesn’t trust me.”

“Then make her.”

Silence.

Then Orlen added, “You’ve let her get too close.”

My eyes snapped to him.

He didn’t blink.

“Wolves can’t lead with emotion, Blackwood. Especially not when the heart gets tangled in the leash.”

I didn’t move.

But something behind my ribs twisted.

They saw it.

Good.

Let them.

“She has until the full moon,” Rhys said. “Either she’s prepared — or we prepare her without you.”

I stepped forward once, slow and quiet. The fire hissed between us.

“If you touch her without my say, I’ll burn this Council to the ground.”

Orlen smiled. “There it is. The beast.”

“No,” I said. “That’s the man.”

And that’s worse.

—

I left before my temper grew teeth.

Outside, the cold air slapped my face like it knew I needed it. The trees at the edge of the ridge were still half-dressed in mist, the wind a quiet threat. I shifted without thought, letting the fur take over, the bones stretch and snap into shape. I ran until the mountain blurred, until the pine needles bit into my pads and the wind ripped the anger off my skin.

She wasn’t ready.

But they didn’t care.

The Ritual — ancient, binding, primal — wasn’t about her. It was about control. The Pack couldn’t afford a wild card, and a Lunar Conduit without a tether was the biggest wild card since the Blood Howl Rebellion two centuries ago. They remembered. Hell, I remembered, even though I hadn’t lived it.

We remember through blood.

I shifted back in the creekbed, half-naked and soaking, heart racing.

I didn’t want her to go through the Ritual like that.

Not afraid.

Not surrounded by strangers and forced into something she didn’t choose.

But time was slipping.

And worse — she was slipping away from me.

Because the more she understood who she was… the more she’d start to question who I was to her.

And that scared me more than anything.

—

I found her again near dusk, walking across campus like she had nowhere left to be. She looked tired. Hollowed out. Stronger.

Like she’d shed something I couldn’t see.

She didn’t look surprised when I fell into step beside her.

“Council?” she asked.

“You always this psychic?”

“Only when I don’t want to hear the answer.”

I let the silence hold for a few steps.

“They want to bind you.”

“Bind me how?”

I stopped walking.

She turned.

“They want to run the Ritual,” I said.

She blinked. “What does that mean?”

“It’s a ceremony. A connection. Between you and the Pack. Between you and the Moon. You’d be anchored. Safe. No more random flares. No more dangerous surges.”

“Sounds lovely. What’s the catch?”

I looked her in the eye.

“They don’t care if you’re ready.”

Her throat moved as she swallowed.

“And you do?”

“I care too much.”

Her voice softened. “And that’s a problem?”

“Yes.”

She held my gaze.

I hated how right it felt.

“They gave us until the next full moon.”

“And if I say no?”

“They’ll do it anyway. With or without your consent. And without me to keep it from going wrong.”

Her eyes flared. “Why would you stay away?”

“To protect you.”

“You keep saying that. But sometimes it feels like you’re trying to protect yourself from me.”

That one hit too close.

I looked away.

“I’ll help you prepare,” I said finally. “But on my terms. No elders. No threats. Just you and me.”

“And if I say no to that too?”

I met her eyes again.

“Then we both lose.”

She watched me.

Long.

Hard.

Then nodded.

“Okay.”

One word.

And everything shifted again.

But this time, it felt like something falling into place.

Not out of it.

POV Beatrice

The house looked old and private, tucked behind trees like it was hiding something. The stone was dark, ivy curling like veins along its walls, and the windows glowed with a soft gold I didn’t trust. Dorian didn’t say a word on the way. He barely looked at me. That should’ve made things easier. It didn’t.

When we arrived, he opened the door and gestured for me to step inside. He didn’t follow.

Two women waited for me in the hallway — beautiful, composed, the kind of beautiful that felt designed. The taller one, blonde and refined, gave a practiced smile. “You’ll be staying upstairs. I’m Leia. This is Mara.”

Mara, red-haired and sharper at the edges, gave me a quick once-over and a smirk that didn’t reach her eyes. “So you’re the Conduit,” she said. Like it was an insult.

Leia led me up a creaking staircase. Mara followed.

The room wasn’t what I expected. It was… warm. Lived in. The kind of room you don’t just sleep in — you exist in. Books lined the shelves. A half-burned candle stood by the window. The air smelled like cedar and something dark and familiar — Dorian.

Leia was straightening the sheets as Mara leaned on the doorway. “He used to keep this room empty,” Leia said, voice casual. “Then he started using it again.”

Mara smiled lazily. “He brings the special ones here.”

Something twisted in my stomach.

“I don’t need to know this,” I muttered.

“Oh, but you do,” Mara said, stepping into the room. “You’re not the first. Won’t be the last.”

Leia didn’t even pause. “We’ve both shared his bed. At different times. Once at the same.”

I flinched.

They watched me like vultures.

“He doesn’t keep anyone,” Mara added. “Except her.”

“Felicity,” Leia said, lowering her voice. “His Luna.”

The name dropped like a knife.

“She left?” I asked, trying to sound disinterested.

“He exiled her.” Mara’s grin turned cold. “Burned her things. Didn’t speak her name again.”

No one said why. But they didn’t have to.

They wanted me to feel it. That I was late. That I was nothing new.

I didn’t let them see my face crack. I thanked them, turned my back, and waited for the door to close behind them before letting the emotions burn straight through my ribs.

I hated them.

No — I hated what they represented.

A trail of women. A history I didn’t ask to step into. A man I didn’t know how to understand, and a heart that wouldn’t shut up no matter how hard I pressed down on it.

I couldn’t stop thinking about their voices.

We’ve both shared his bed.

I sat on the edge of the mattress and stared at the shelf. There was a book there, handwritten. A note on the inside cover: For Dorian. When you feel alone. — F.

I closed it without reading another word.

Later, I found myself standing outside his study, fists clenched, thoughts a wildfire behind my eyes. I should’ve left. I should’ve walked away and never asked.

But I knocked.

“Come in,” his voice called, low, unreadable.

I stepped in. He sat behind a heavy desk, a single candle burning beside him. He looked at me like he already knew something was wrong.

“What did they tell you?” he asked.

“You had a Luna,” I said.

“Yes.”

“You exiled her.”

“I did.”

“And the others?”

His jaw tightened. “You shouldn’t listen to them.”

“Then maybe you should talk first.”

The silence between us went sharp.

He stood, walked around the desk slowly, stopped just short of touching me.

“I never made them promises,” he said. “They came to me. I let them.”

“And Felicity?”

“She broke something that couldn’t be fixed.”

“That’s vague.”

“That’s all you get.”

I laughed, bitter and low. “So I’m supposed to let you train me, trust you with my life, but not ask questions?”

He leaned in. “You think knowing who I’ve slept with tells you who I am?”

“I think it tells me how you love.”

His expression darkened.

“I don’t love easily,” he said. “I don’t love safely. And I don’t give myself to people who can’t handle what I am.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Because you’re not like them.”

I stared at him. At the sharp edge of his jaw. At the heat in his voice. At the lie I wanted to believe so badly it made my chest ache.

“You touched me like you’ve done it before,” I said quietly.

“I haven’t.”

“Then why did it feel like a memory?”

“Because you want it to.”

I stepped back.

“I don’t want to be next.”

“You won’t be.”

“How do you know?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me like he could see the war behind my eyes.

Then he said, “Because the last time I let someone close, I tore my pack apart to put her down.”

My throat tightened.

“You’re not her.”

“Then what am I?”

“You’re the reason I’m standing here trying not to tear this house apart.”

His voice cracked, just once.

And for the first time, I saw it.

Not power.

Not hunger.

But fear.

And that was the most terrifying thing of all.