LUNA ELARA

Chapter Eight

Elara’s boots clicked against the marble floor as she fled into the women’s quarters, her breaths stuttering like broken gears. Her stomach churned, knees trembling, and her reflection in the carved walnut mirror blurred with each heartbeat. Silver eyes. She’d seen them. He’d seen them. Kaelen’s pale shock. The world spun too fast.

She yanked open the bathroom door, slammed it shut, leaned against the cool tile. Water splashed across her face as she yanked the tap—frigid streams stung her skin. Her reflection stared back: familiar green eyes, dark lashes clinging with droplets. No silver glow. Did it really happen? She scrubbed at her cheeks, splashed again, willed her vision steady.

A soft knock froze her.

“Luna? Elara?”

Dorian’s voice, low anxiety threading through the syllables.

She swallowed hard. “I’m fine,” she managed, her voice hollow. “Just… give me a moment.”

She wiped her hands on her skirt, squared her shoulders, and opened the door. There he stood—tall, silver brocade catching torchlight, hair shadowed by the hood of his cloak. Concern creased his brow.

“What happened back there?” he asked, voice gentle as dusk.

Elara forced a steady exhale. “Kaelen tried to rattle me,” she said, voice measured. “He grabbed my arm. Said… said I was nothing.” She clenched her fists, knuckles white against her skirt. “I stood my ground.”

Dorian’s gaze flicked to her arm, where faint bruises bloomed beneath her sleeve. He reached out, thumb brushing her wrist. “You’re stronger than you know,” he murmured.

She snatched away. “I don’t need pity.”

His dark eyes softened. “I didn’t offer it.”

He guided her out of the bathroom, into the hush of a side corridor. Torches guttered, shadows danced on stone walls. Elara’s heart pounded, each echo like a galloping wolf. They passed a pair of muttering bodyguards, who bowed so low their crests nearly touched the ground.

The door at the end opened into a high-ceilinged chamber. Alpha leaders—five of the kingdom’s most feared pack heads—stood in a semicircle around Dorian and Elara. Each wore furs and steel, crests blazing on their breasts.

Dorian cleared his throat. “Alphas,” he said, voice carrying authority, “meet my Royal Advisor, Luna Elara.”

Elara’s pulse skittered. Gray hairs, scarred cheeks, cold eyes—each Alpha glared at her like a carrion crow sizing up fresh meat.

The eldest, Alpha Reynard of the North Vale, rasped, “Your Majesty, how can we trust one who was cast out by her own pack?”

Elara’s chest burned. She felt the weight of dozens of eyes, of centuries of pack law, pressing her to the floor. But she remembered suffering, humiliation, cold nights in the servants’ quarters. Blood humming in her ears, she stepped forward, chin high.

“You question my past,” she said, voice resonant. “My exile taught me more about injustice than all your councils ever could. I’ve walked the shadows you fear. I know where we must change: laws that discard the weak, that punish the innocent. If you want truth, you want honesty—I lived it. I survived it. And now, I stand before you to ensure no other wolf suffers as I did.”

A breathless silence followed. The Alphas exchanged glances—some grudging respect glinted in their eyes.

Before anyone could reply, a sudden jolt of pain seared through Elara’s skull. She stumbled, hands flying to her temples. Stars exploded behind her eyelids. Dorian caught her elbow in a vice grip.

“Elara!” he hissed. “What—”

“Dizziness,” she gasped. “Everything’s… spinning.”

Dorian strode forward. “Alphas,” he called, tone frost-laced steel. “We will reconvene—” He shot Elara a fierce look. “Help her.”

Two guards hurried forward as Dorian herded the Alphas from the chamber. He pressed a hand to Elara’s back, guiding her to a low velvet chaise by the window.

Lyra—stepped through the archway. Her pregnancy belly curved beneath pale silk, her face a mask of icy disdain. She paused in the doorway, hands on hips.

“Well, well,” Lyra drawled, voice oiled with contempt. “If it isn’t the cast-off Luna, lounging in the king’s chambers.”

Elara stiffened, every nerve alight. “This is a private audience,” she warned, voice quiet but hard.

Lyra laughed—a brittle, mocking trill. “Private? You? Royal Advisor?” She spat laughter like venom. “Tell me, Elara, what magic trick did you pull this time? How did you worm back into Dorian’s favor?”

Elara rose, pressing her palms flat on the chaise. Pain flickered behind her eyes. “No tricks. Just truth.” She met Lyra’s gaze. “You’ll learn soon enough: truth is stronger than any lie you spun.”

Lyra’s lips curled. “Save your speeches. We both know you’re not ready for this court.”

Footsteps echoed—Kaelen emerged in midnight furs, eyes blazing cobalt anger. He stalked into the chamber, jaw clenched. Lyra slid to his side, pressing her hand to his sleeve as though to still the storm behind his eyes.

Kaelen’s stare bored into Elara. “We need a word,” he hissed, voice low but lethal.

Before Elara could react, Dorian’s voice boomed from the doorway.

“Kaelen. Lyra. Back away from my Luna.”

Kaelen’s features flickered—shock, rage, wounded pride—before he masked it with a scowl. He looked at Dorian, then at Elara. “Just a moment’s talk,” he ground out.

Dorian moved between them, posture all blade. “No. You leave now, or I will have you escorted out.”

A tense heartbeat passed. Kaelen’s lips curled in contempt, but he backed away, Lyra tagging along. They vanished into the corridor’s shadows.

Elara exhaled hard, leaning against the chaise. Her fingers rubbed her temples. Waves of nausea rolled through her.

Dorian crossed the room in three strides, pulled out a small crystal vial from beneath his cloak. “Drink this,” he said, handing it to her.

She raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“Restorative,” he replied. “Ancient remedy from my mother’s fables. It will steady you.”

She tipped back the vial and swallowed. Heat bloomed in her chest; her headaches eased. She closed her eyes, lean spine floating free of pain.

Minutes passed. She opened her eyes to Dorian’s face, soft in torchlight. Relief, concern, something tender.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He stared, caught off-guard. “There’s more you need to tell me,” he said gently.

She hesitated under his gaze, the memory of silver light flickering at the edge of her vision. “It’s… complicated,” she admitted.

He took her hand, warm and steady. “Start where you can.”

Elara’s breath hitched. She shut her eyes, sounding her soul. “Earlier—when Kaelen grabbed me… I thought my eyes changed color.” Her fingers trembled. “Silver. You saw it, too.”

Dorian drew in a sharp breath, heart pounding. “I did.”

A hush fell. She opened her eyes. “What does it mean?”

He pressed her palm. “We’ll find out. But first—rest. Tonight, we plan. Tomorrow, we face the council again.”

She nodded, exhaustion and resolve warring behind her gaze. “Okay.”

He swept a strand of hair from her face. “You amaze me.”

She let herself smile, fragile steel in her chest. “Promise me you won’t hide things anymore.”

He dipped his head. “I promise.”

As Dorian left, Elara rose slowly, limping to the tall mirror. Torchlight flickered across the glass. What am I becoming? Dr. Alaric’s words echoed:

“Your DNA… it’s not purely werewolf. Something primeval, ancient. It may explain the miscarriages—and the power stirring within you.”

She traced the rim of the mirror’s frame with a quivering fingertip. Could she be part celestial, part wolf? Hybrid blood. A rare lineage. Prophecy whispered in her bones.

A soft knock turned her head. Mira slipped through the door, eyes wide with concern. “Luna… are you all right?”

Elara beckoned her forward. “Help me unpack,” she said, voice steady. “I want to be ready for sleep, and for war.”

Mira offered a small smile, relief flooding her features. “Of course.”

As Mira bustled, Elara gazed out a narrow window. Moonlight spilled onto the courtyard where Dorian’s banners snapped in night breeze. Below, the castle guards made rounds, oblivious to the storm brewing within these walls.

Elara’s heart pounded—fear and purpose tangled in her ribs. Tomorrow, she would stand before the Alphas again. She would declare the truth of her lineage. She would demand justice for exiles, for the barren, for every silent victim of pack cruelty.

Her reflection flickered—an echo of silver light danced in her eyes, if only for a breath. Then gone. But Elara knew: it was real. Power thrummed beneath her skin, fierce and hungry.

She turned from the mirror, shoulders straight. She would not run again. Next time, she would strike as the hybrid queen she was. She would seize her destiny and leave no doubt who Elara truly was.

And the night was only beginning.