The Guest Den was neither the infirmary nor was it Lyra's customary chamber near Thorne's in the main packhouse. It was a well-appointed, yet impersonal, cabin tucked on the outside ring of the pack's main settlement, normally intended for visiting dignitaries or temporary partnerships. It was pleasant and clean, yet entirely lacking the warmth that marked home. It seemed like a cage, albeit a gilded one.
The two warriors who accompanied her, their features carved with a combination of pity and discomfort, put her inside with low words of "Rest, Luna," before withdrawing, slamming the thick oak door behind them with a decisive thud. The boom resonated in the sudden calm, a final statement of her new position.
Lyra stood in the center of the room, listening to their footsteps recede. The air hung heavily, thick with the aroma of unknown cedar and the lingering ghost of her fury. The wrath, however, rapidly faded, leaving behind a great, empty aching that nestled deep in her chest.
Beta.
The term, pronounced by Thorne, echoed in her head like a death knell. It was a demotion, a public loss of her identity, a proclamation to the whole Moonstone Pack that Luna Lyra was no more. Her heart raced against her ribs, a frenetic, desperate rhythm against the stillness of a life forever changed.
She ran a hand over her bandaged side, the physical ache a mild throb compared to the excruciating void where her mate connection used to sing. She squeezed harder as if she could force the link back, conjure that deep, resonating hum that had always been the background of her life. Nothing. Just an echoing vacuum.
He stated it was severed. He explained it was due to my injuries.
Disbelief warred with a chilly, growing conviction. Her injuries were terrible, undoubtedly, but no damage, no matter how extreme, was known to disrupt a fated mate link. Not actually. It may be weakened, stretched, challenged, but never broken. Not by natural methods. Lyra understood the old books, the pack's lore. This wasn't how things worked. It defied all she had ever known, everything she had believed.
She walked the little cottage, her bare feet quiet on the cold stone floor. Each step was an accusation, an inquiry. If not the injuries, then what? Elara.
That sneer. That momentary, chilling trace of victory in Elara's eyes when Lyra had challenged her. It had been fleeting, so faint, a tiny ghost of a grin that faded before Lyra could be certain. But Lyra had seen it. She had sensed it. It was the break in Elara's innocent mask, exposing something considerably more evil underneath.
Lyra slid onto the rough-hewn bench beside the window, peering out at the fading light. The Whispering Woods spread out beyond the cottage, its familiar silhouette now seeming to mock her. They had always been her consolation, her sanctuary. Now, they felt like the watching eyes of a thousand uncaring ghosts.
"Thorne," she muttered, the word a sad cry. "How could you? How could you trust her?"
She closed her eyes, attempting to picture his face, the old Thorne. The one who had pledged to protect her, to adore her. The one who had stared at her with passion and adoration. But the picture was contaminated, coated with the cold, unfeeling mask he had worn today, the one that had discarded her with such harsh disregard.
A sob tore through her throat, harsh and raspy. It was not Luna's scream. It was the sound of a woman stripped down, devastated, betrayed. She hid her face in her hands, letting the tears pour, hot and stinging on her damaged cheeks. Agony, pure and unfiltered, devoured her. Denial, a frail barrier, crumbled to dust. This was genuine. This was happening
After what seemed like a lifetime, the tears faded, leaving her hollowed out but with a remarkable clarity. The weariness, both physical and mental, was enormous. But behind it, a small flame of rebellion started to shine.
She couldn't simply lay here and die of a shattered heart. She was Lyra. She was a fighter. And she was a Luna, even if no one else acknowledged it anymore.
The mate relationship felt empty, yeah. But Lyra recognized something profound, her wolf was still inside her. Quiet, injured, but alive. And her wolf roared against this injustice. It wanted answers. It wanted truth.
She rose, her legs still unsteady but her determination firming. She strolled to the little, strong wooden desk in the corner of the cottage. On it lay a few dusty books, possibly left by former inhabitants. They seemed like ancient pack records, maybe lost diaries.
Her gaze skimmed the spines, then paused on one, its leather cover old and broken. It was a compilation of old stories, of lost rites, of the darkest history of the Moonstone Pack, spanning decades before Thorne's rule, even before his father's. It was the type of book seldom touched, regarded as frivolous by many.
But Lyra had always been attracted to the ancient ways, the profound power that flowed through their veins. Her fingertips traced the title, barely legible. Whispers of the Ancient Moon.
She drew it out, a small cloud of dust emerging. It felt heavy in her palms, containing secrets. She flipped to a random page, her eyes searching the worn letters. It talked of connections, of power, of links that regular methods could not sever.
A cold conviction started to crystallize in her consciousness, replacing the blur of misery. Thorne's answer was too straightforward. Too convenient. He had argued her injuries severed the link. But what if it wasn't the injuries? What if something else, something dark and unnatural, had been used?
Her eyes moved to the closed door, visualizing Elara, that slight grin. A scary thought solidified. She knew about the deceit. She was complicit.
And Thorne, her partner, was either blind or knowingly complicit himself.
The thought was nearly too awful to endure. To think the guy she loved, the Alpha she trusted, could be so easily duped, or worse, so intentionally manipulated.
Lyra slumped into the desk chair, bringing the weighty tome closer. Her fingers, despite their frailty, traced the complicated, esoteric patterns on the first page. She could be physically injured, emotionally devastated, and deprived of her title, but her intellect was keen, driven by a burning yearning for knowledge.
She would start here. In this forgotten cottage, with this antique book. She would learn. She would unearth the truth.
And then, she would make them pay. Not with blood, not yet. But with the crushing weight of revealed falsehoods.
As the final sliver of sunshine faded, throwing the cabin into the gloom, Lyra felt a fledgling spark of purpose burn inside the empty place where her mate link had been. A fierce, searing determination.
The world had shattered around her. But from its ashes, Lyra understood, a new type of power was rising. And she was about to find exactly how lethal a discarded Luna might be.
Her fingers turned the first page, and the murmurs of the old moon seemed to respond. What they told her, she had no notion. But she was eager to listen.