Chapter 52 THE LUNA’S FURY (LYRA’S POV)
LYRA’s POV
News travels fast through shattered kingdoms.
But nothing travels faster than ruin.
By dusk, the whispers reach SilverMist Keep—soft at first, like the rustle of silk in a dead room. Then louder. Urgent. Fevered.
“…Moonfire.”
“A massacre…”
“…The Blackridge girl couldn’t control it…”
“…Hundreds burned—enemy and ally.”
“Even Damien is turning from her…”
By the time the fourth messenger stumbles into my chambers, soot on his boots and terror in his eyes, I am already smiling.
A slow, luxurious curl of pleasure slides through me.
Not satisfaction.
Not relief.
No—this is vindication.
“Oh,” I murmur, leaning back against the velvet cushions, swirling wine in a crystal glass. “So she’s finally become the monster I told Kael she was?”
The messenger nods, swallowing hard.
“Y… yes, Luna Lyra. They say the battlefield was left in ruins. Nothing but glass and ash.”
My laughter spills out like perfume—sweet at first, then sharp enough to cut.
Glass and ash.
Of course it was.
“So,” I purr, “the little moon pet can’t control her fire… and now her pack fears her.”
The messenger looks at the floor, trembling. “Damien’s wolves are questioning her place. Some even want her exiled.”
I bite back a gleeful sigh.
Exiled.
Perfect! Delicious! Predictable! Ha!
Selene Thorne was always too fragile to carry the weight of power. Too soft. Too naive.
She was born with a gift that should’ve been mine.
No—was mine, if the Goddess had any sense of justice.
I dismiss the messenger with a flick of my wrist, already bored with his stammering. The door closes behind him, and the silence that settles is warm and thick.
My pulse thrums with a rare, intoxicating thrill.
Everything I’ve planned—everything I’ve clawed for—is finally aligning.
And Selene?
She’s drowning.
I stand and walk to the mirror, admiring my reflection. Moonlight catches on the gold-threaded embroidery of my gown, casting me in a regal glow. My hair spills around my shoulders in dark waves, and my lips curl into a smile that would make lesser wolves kneel.
“Let her burn her own kingdom,” I whisper to my reflection. “Let her destroy herself. It saves me the trouble.”
But gloating is a pleasure, not a strategy. And I am a strategist before I am anything else.
So I breathe in deeply, smoothing my expression into cold purpose.
I need certainty. Finality.
I need Selene…gone. I need her gone!
Not feared.
Not exiled.
Not broken.
Dead.
A knock echoes through the chamber.
I smile because I know exactly who it is.
“Enter,” I call.
The door swings open with a hiss, and the priest steps inside. Tall. Hooded. Always smelling faintly of incense and grave soil. His eyes, those eerie pits of black smoke settle on me like a caress from death itself.
“Luna,” he murmurs. His voice slithers across the room. “You summoned me.”
I step toward him, slow and deliberate. “Tell me,” I say, circling him like a predator in silk. “Is it true? Did she lose control again?”
He inclines his head. “The battlefield burned brighter than the moon. Her power is… spiraling.”
Spiraling.
How poetic.
“How tragic,” I say lightly, though my heart sings. “A Luna who kills her own wolves.”
The priest smiles, revealing teeth too sharp for any mortal. “The prophecy wakes, as all things do when the world trembles. She will burn.”
“And kneel,” I remind him, stepping close enough to feel the cold radiating from his robes. “You said those words months ago when I drank the chalice.”
His eyes shimmer with black fire. “And I stand by them.”
I lift my chin. “I want reassurance. I want her downfall sealed. I want her death handed to me not left to chance.”
“Ah.” His voice deepens. “Then you seek more than prophecy. You seek intervention.”
“Call it what you like.” My gaze hardens. “I want her removed from this world.”
The priest studies me for a moment too long and for the first time in a while, a thin blade of unease pricks my spine. But I don’t look away. I never look away.
Finally, he nods, slow and deliberate.
“Very well.”
His hand slips into the folds of his robe. I hold my breath. Not from fear, but anticipation. And when he withdraws a small vial, delicate and sinister, my pulse leaps.
Silver-black liquid swirls inside the glass like a living shadow. The moment it touches the air, the temperature in the room drops.
“What is it?” I whisper.
Reverently.
Hungrily.
He holds it between two bony fingers, as though offering a sacred relic.
“Moonbane,” he answers. “A poison crafted from corrupted moonlight. It eats through the magic of the blessed. It devours divine fire. It destroys chosen wolves from the inside out.”
My breath catches in my throat.
Moonbane.
A weapon designed specifically for her.
“How does it work?” I ask.
“It must be ingested,” he says. “Once inside her, it will seek the source of her power—her fire, her bond to the Goddess. It will unravel her from within.”
My lips curve into a slow, wicked smile. “Perfect.”
He watches me with an expression I cannot decipher. “But be warned. This poison does not simply kill. It unravels. It… changes.”
“Changes?”
“Her power will thrash before it dies. Others may burn with her. The land may suffer. The skies may split. Death may not be quiet.”
I laugh softly. “Quiet death is for cowards. She deserves agony.”
He inclines his head, but there is something in his gaze—curiosity? Amusement? Hunger?—that I cannot read.
“Give me her death,” I command.
My voice sharpens into steel.
Into destiny.
The priest bows and places the vial into my hand. The glass is icy, so cold it almost burns. I tighten my grip, relishing the pain.
“Her death,” he murmurs, “is now in your hands, Luna Lyra.”
“My enemies should be grateful,” I say, turning the vial so the silver-black liquid catches the moonlight. “Few ever receive a gift this exquisite.”
He chuckles—the sound dry and rusted. “Do not forget,” he says, eyes darkening, “prophecies do not guarantee victory. They only ensure the stage is set.”