The Rise of The Slave Luna

Vaelora’s POV Scrubbing the floors becomes even more painful when winter arrives and the ice bites into my wounds. The cold seeps through my thin dress, settling into my bones, while the rough bristles of the brush scrape against my raw fingers. Because I am supposedly wolfless, my body cannot heal as quickly as those of other werewolves. The wounds my stepmother leaves behind with her wolfsbane-soaked cane remain open for days, sometimes weeks, each one a painful reminder of what happens when I displease her. I bite down on my lower lip and continue scrubbing, forcing myself to ignore the sharp pain spreading across my back and wrists. The marble floor must be spotless before the guests arrive, and no amount of pain will convince Morvella to lower her expectations. She made that abundantly clear this morning when she threatened to flog me again, regardless of the open wounds on my back, if I failed to finish cleaning in time. I have learned not to test her patience. Tonight is the Moonrite Festival, and the entire Varkhane Pack has been buzzing with excitement for days. Our territory is hosting the Lycan King and his two sons, an honour that has turned even the most ordinary members of the pack into restless, chattering fools. Everyone is eager to catch a glimpse of the royal family, and the unmated females have been talking about nothing else since the announcement. Elarisse is no exception. My stepsister has barely stopped talking about the festival long enough to eat, and Morvella has spent the past week ensuring that everything is perfect for the royal guests. I have never attended a Moonrite Festival since I came of age. There has always been work to do, another room to clean, another meal to prepare, or another piece of clothing to mend. Besides, I have never owned a dress worthy of such an occasion, and nobody in this house has ever considered my presence important enough to warrant the expense. But tonight is different. I still remember the way Morvella stormed into my room this morning, her face twisted into a scowl as though the sight of me alone was enough to ruin her day. I had barely managed to sit up before she flung a dress at me. “You should be grateful that the Lycan King knows Beta Theryn has two daughters,” she said, looking me over with undisguised disgust. “Wear this tonight, and whatever you do, keep your mouth shut. I will not have you embarrassing this family in front of our royal guests.” The dress landed across my lap, and for a moment, I simply stared at it. It was brown, with a frayed hem and a torn undergarment, but it was the finest dress I had ever owned. The fabric was worn in places, and the seams looked as though they might give way if I moved too quickly, yet it was still better than the thin, single-layer dresses I wore every day, even when the winter winds threatened to freeze me. I thanked her because I knew better than to do otherwise. She left without another word, and I spent the next few minutes wondering what it would feel like to stand among the guests without being mistaken for a servant. The thought was foolish, of course. A different dress would not change who I was in their eyes. Still, a small, treacherous part of me dared to hope that tonight might be different. I hear voices drifting down from the rooms upstairs, accompanied by the occasional burst of laughter. Morvella is in an unusually good mood, which is hardly surprising. She will be receiving the Lycan King and his sons under her roof, and she intends to make the most of the opportunity. “Who knows?” she says, her voice carrying clearly through the open doorway. “The Moon Goddess may be generous enough to make you the fated mate of one of the princes. Imagine what that would mean for our family.” Elarisse lets out an excited shriek. “You mean I could become Luna? Mother, can you imagine it? I would be the Lycan Prince's mate, and everyone who has ever looked down on me would have to bow before me.” My hands tighten around the brush. “Yes, darling. You would make a magnificent Luna.” I lower my head and scrub harder, pressing the bristles against the marble until my fingers ache. I have no desire to listen to their dreams, especially when mine have never been permitted to exist. Elarisse has always been the beautiful daughter, the one people admire whenever she enters a room. She has fine dresses, delicate jewellery, and a mother who looks at her as though she is the greatest blessing the Moon Goddess ever bestowed upon the world. I have none of those things. I have scars, an empty stomach, and a body that has become accustomed to pain. That should be enough to remind me of my place, yet I cannot stop wondering what it would be like to have someone look at me with the same affection Morvella shows her daughter. I cannot stop wondering what it would feel like to be wanted, even if only for a moment. When I finally sit back on my heels, the room tilts around me. My stomach cramps painfully, and dark spots dance at the edges of my vision. I grip the handle of the brush until the dizziness passes, swallowing against the nausea that rises in my throat. I cannot remember the last time I ate a proper meal. “Psst.” I turn towards the sound, and my shoulders relax when I spot Oryndel peeking around the corner. He glances towards the staircase before beckoning me over, a small piece of bread clutched in his hand. “This is all I could get for you,” he whispers, holding it out to me. “You need to eat before Mother comes down. She has been in a terrible mood all morning, and I doubt she will be any kinder tonight.” I take the bread with trembling fingers. “Thank you, Oryn.” He gives me a sympathetic look, and the kindness in his eyes almost hurts more than the wounds on my back. Oryndel is my stepbrother, but he has never treated me quite the way the others do. He is not always able to protect me from Morvella's temper, and there are times when he pretends not to notice what happens to me, but he is the only person in this house who remembers that I need to eat. Sometimes, I think he is afraid of his mother, too. The difference is that he has a room of his own, clean clothes, and a place at the family table, while I have learned to survive on whatever kindness he can offer in secret. “Eat up,” he murmurs. “Mother will be downstairs soon, and if she catches me here, we will both have a problem.” I move into the narrow space between the wall and a wooden cabinet, where the shadows conceal me from anyone passing through the doorway. Then I break the bread into tiny pieces and push them into my mouth, chewing as quickly as I can. It is stale and dry, but I have never tasted anything so wonderful. For a few precious seconds, I allow myself to enjoy the feeling of food settling in my empty stomach. I want to savour every bite, to let the taste linger on my tongue, but I know better than to indulge in a luxury I cannot afford. Oryndel disappears around the corner and returns a moment later with a small jar of water. “Drink this as well,” he says, placing it in my hands. “You look as though you are about to collapse.” I take several hurried gulps, barely noticing how cold the water is. When I finish, I hand the jar back to him and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Thank you, Oryn. I do not know what I would do without you.” He looks at me for a long moment, his expression shifting as though he wants to say something he has been holding back. His gaze drops to my wrists, where angry red marks circle my skin, before moving to the bruises peeking above the neckline of my dress. His jaw tightens. “One day, Vaelora,” he begins quietly, “things will be different. You will not have to live like this forever.” I want to believe him. Yet I have heard promises before, and none has ever changed anything. Still, I manage a small smile. “I hope so.” He gives my shoulder a brief, careful squeeze before disappearing down the corridor. I watch him go, wishing I could tell him how much his kindness means to me, but the footsteps approaching from upstairs leave me with no time to speak. I return to the floor and wait for Morvella to inspect my work. When the women finally descend, I clasp my hands in front of me and lower my gaze, standing as still as I can despite the trembling in my legs. “Can't this floor sparkle any more than it does?” Elarisse asks, her voice dripping with disgust. “We are hosting the Lycan King and his sons, Mother. Surely they cannot think our pack is filthy.” I press my teeth into the inside of my cheek and wait. Morvella approaches the marble, examining every inch with the concentration of someone searching for a reason to punish me. My heart begins to pound as she moves closer to the far end of the room, where the light catches the polished surface. Then her eyes settle on a faint smear. My stomach drops. It is barely noticeable, a dull mark left behind where Oryndel stepped while bringing me the bread, but Morvella sees it immediately. “You lazy little wretch!” The slap comes before I can brace myself. My head snaps to the side, and for a terrifying moment, the room spins so violently that I fear my neck has been broken. I stumble against the wall, one hand flying to my cheek as pain blooms beneath my skin. “All you had to do was clean the floor,” Morvella snarls. “One simple task, and you still cannot do it properly. What use are you if you cannot even manage something so basic?” I struggle to steady my breathing. My cheek burns, but I keep my gaze lowered because I know that looking at her the wrong way will only make matters worse. Her hand curls into a fist, and I brace myself for the blow I know is coming. My back throbs beneath my dress, and the thought of another strike against my open wounds makes my stomach twist. Instead, she pauses. “I will deal with you after the festival,” she says coldly. “For now, get dressed. The guests will begin arriving any moment, and you will stand here to receive them with the rest of the family.” I swallow the ache rising in my throat and bow my head. “Yes, Stepmother.” I leave before she can change her mind. My room is small, dark, and damp, tucked away at the back of the house where the winter winds find their way through the cracks in the walls. Strange little creatures scurry beneath the old furniture, and I have grown so accustomed to their presence that I barely notice them anymore. The ceiling leaks whenever it rains, the mattress is thin, and the blanket I own is hardly enough to keep me warm, but it is the only place in the house where I can close my eyes without someone immediately ordering me to work. I pull off the torn dress I have been wearing and carefully step into the brown one Morvella gave me. The fabric settles around my body, hiding most of the bruises on my arms and shoulders, and I smooth the wrinkled material with my palms. I do not own a mirror, but I do not need one to know that I look different. For once, I am wearing something that resembles a proper dress, and although it is old and worn, I cannot stop the small smile that touches my lips. Perhaps I am being foolish, but I want to feel beautiful tonight, even if nobody else thinks I am. I gather my hair into a simple bun, using my fingers to tame the loose strands around my face. There is no time to bathe, and Morvella would never permit me to waste her water on myself, so I take a damp cloth and wipe the dirt from my face, neck, and arms as best I can. When I finish, I study my reflection in the small patch of glass near the window. My eyes look tired, my cheeks are hollow, and the bruise on my face is already darkening, but there is something unfamiliar in the way I look at myself. For once, I do not immediately turn away. Five minutes later, I leave my room and return to the hall I spent the morning scrubbing. Several guests have already arrived, their voices filling the room as they greet one another beneath the chandeliers. Morvella stands near the entrance with her children, welcoming everyone with the warm smile she rarely allows me to see. Elarisse looks breathtaking in her elaborate gown, her hair arranged in elegant curls and a necklace of sparkling stones resting against her throat. I hurry towards them and take my place at the edge of the group, keeping my hands clasped in front of me. Morvella's smile does not falter as she turns slightly towards me. “Remember what I told you,” she whispers through her teeth. “You will not speak to anyone unless you are spoken to. Do not draw attention to yourself, and whatever you do, do not embarrass me.” “Yes, Stepmother.” I lower my gaze and retreat into silence. The guests continue to arrive, but I barely notice them. Nobody pays much attention to me in the Varkhane Pack, and tonight is no different. Their eyes are drawn to Elarisse, who laughs and flutters her lashes at every handsome young wolf who approaches. She knows how beautiful she is, and she has never been shy about using it to her advantage. I stand beside the wall, feeling more like a servant than a daughter, until a sudden stir near the entrance draws everyone's attention. “The Lycan King is here,” Morvella announces, straightening her shoulders. Her expression brightens as she turns towards Elarisse. “Stand properly, darling. Make a good impression.” I lift my head. It is the first time I have ever seen the Lycan King in person. He enters the hall with the effortless authority of a man who has never needed to demand respect because everyone already knows better than to deny it to him. His dark royal garments are embroidered with silver thread, and a heavy cloak rests across his shoulders. The guards accompanying him move with disciplined precision, while the guests bow their heads as he passes. A younger man walks beside him, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and a hard expression that makes him look almost as intimidating as the King himself. There is something unmistakably royal about him, something in the way he carries himself that sets him apart from every other man in the room. I immediately know he's one of the Princes. My heart beats a little faster as I watch them approach, though I cannot explain why. Perhaps it is the sheer weight of their presence, or perhaps it is the realization that I am standing in the same room as people whose lives are so far removed from mine that I can barely imagine what it must be like to live as they do. Elarisse leans towards Morvella, her smile faltering as she looks beyond the two men. “Where is Draeven?” she whispers. “I thought both princes were coming.” Morvella scoffs softly. “Everyone knows he would rather remain locked in his chambers than attend a public gathering. The boy has always been a disappointment. I doubt he will bother to show his face tonight.” I lower my gaze again, though curiosity tugs at me. I have heard the name Draeven before, of course. Everyone has. The elder prince is something of a mystery, rarely seen at court and even less frequently discussed in public. Some say he is sickly and cursed, while others insist he is simply antisocial. I have never known which stories to believe. It does not matter, anyway. Princes belong to a world I have never been allowed to enter, and I have no reason to imagine that any of them would ever notice someone like me. Elarisse steps forward with a graceful curtsy as the Lycan King approaches. “Your Majesty, welcome to Varkhane. It is an honour to receive you and your family in our home.” The King inclines his head, acknowledging her greeting before turning his attention to Morvella, who welcomes him with the sort of warmth I have never known her to extend to anyone outside her circle. I remain where I am, my eyes fixed on the floor, wishing I could disappear into the shadows. Then something changes. It begins with a scent, faint at first, but so distinct that I cannot mistake it for anything else. Cedar, rich and warm, mingles with the crisp scent of winter air, wrapping around me until I forget to breathe. My fingers curl against my palms. I have never smelled anything like it before, yet something deep inside me recognizes it. A strange warmth spreads through my chest, chasing away the cold that has settled into my bones. My heartbeat quickens, and an unfamiliar feeling rises within me, powerful enough to leave me trembling. I lift my head before I can stop myself. The young prince beside the King has turned towards me. His eyes meet mine across the crowded hall, and the world seems to fall silent. All I can see is him, and all I can feel is the inexplicable pull drawing me towards him. His expression changes. For one brief moment, something flickers across his face, something so intense that it makes me flinch. His gaze searches mine as though he has been looking for me without knowing it, and my chest tightens beneath the weight of a feeling I cannot understand. Then the word echoes inside my head, clear and undeniable. Mate. My breath catches. No. I shake my head, my heart pounding so hard that I can feel each beat in my throat. I must have imagined it. Someone like me cannot be the mate of a Lycan prince. I am the daughter of a Beta, born to a woman whose wolfless blood has been used as an excuse to humiliate me my entire life. The Moon Goddess cannot possibly have chosen me for someone like him. Yet the pull remains, fierce and unyielding, and the scent of cedar grows stronger with every breath I take. My wolf stirs beneath the surface, startled by something neither of us understands, and fear rushes through me so suddenly that I can barely stand. What will Morvella do when she finds out? What will Elarisse do when she realizes that the prince she has dreamed of marrying might be destined for me instead? I cannot bear to find out. Before anyone can notice my trembling hands or the panic spreading across my face, I turn and run. I hear someone call out behind me, but I do not stop to see who it is. I push past the guests, ignoring their startled protests as I hurry through the corridor, my skirts tangling around my legs. My lungs burn, and my wounded back throbs with every hurried step, but I keep running. I do not know where I am going. I only know that I need to get away. I do not stop. I cannot stop.