Chapter 16 The Luna’s Duty
They dressed me in ritual white because cruelty looks cleaner in light.
The robe was soft, linen cut with old sigils at the hems, sleeves long enough to hide the worst of my bruises. The silver belt my father had once told me to wear for strength hugged my waist. It felt ridiculous and fragile all at once, a thin band of metal holding together the parts of me I wanted to keep.
They led me to the ritual chamber, a vaulted room beneath the Knight Tower where moonlight pooled through a circular oculus and ancient sigils were carved into every stone. It was supposed to be sacred, a place where vows were renewed and the pack’s balance affirmed.
Today it was a theater.
Crowds gathered in the galleries; the pack’s elders, warriors, and curious citizens leaning forward like predators expecting a show. Isabelle sat near the head, flawless, her fingers steepled. Grayson took his place beside her. His profile cut a commanding figure in the room; his posture was an image of calm authority. He didn’t look at me once.
Helena found me in the line, eyes shaded with worry. She placed a small, cool hand at the small of my back, a private anchor, then stepped back like any other Luna must do.
“Breathe,” she mouthed. Her lips were a whisper worth more than anyone else’s roar.
I inhaled, felt the potion my father had given me working in my veins, the magic of herbs and code, the old blend that made wolves heal faster, steadier. The bruises still pricked under my sleeves, but I could move without the world narrowing into jagged shards.
“Begin,” intoned the elder.
I stepped forward as required, hands steadying the ceremonial bowl of moon-water. The ritual required me to speak words of blessing for the pack, to ask the moon’s favor, and to light the three sanctified candles that symbolized strength, sacrifice, and unity.
Every syllable left my mouth like a confession I didn’t intend to make.
I spoke of the moon’s cycles, of duty, of protection. I spoke of healing and of keeping peace. My voice sounded hollow in the vaulted space, swallowed and returned thin, like a note played at the bottom of a well.
When it came time to light the first candle, Strength, a murmur rippled through the crowd.
Someone near the gallery hissed, “Murderer’s hand.”
Another laugh, small and vicious.
Heat rose in my face. I kept my eyes on the flame and extended the bowl just as the script required.
The first candle flared to life. Good. One down.
The second, Sacrifice, I moved toward it and placed the moon-water with purpose. My hands didn’t shake. Or maybe they did. Perhaps I wanted them to. I wanted to feel something.
They called for the third: Unity. The crowd held its breath like a thing waiting for the scent of blood.
A woman’s voice reached me from above, sharp as a fang. “You don’t deserve to hold that bowl.”
The gallery echoed with approval. Someone’s laughter was cruel, and for a moment, I wanted to throw the bowl at the faces I had once called neighbors.
Helena’s hand tightened in a way I could feel even though she stood a distance away. Her brows pinched together.
I continued. Ritual must be completed to keep the old laws. Not to complete it would be an excuse they’d use later.
I spoke the final blessing and set the bowl down. The elders nodded, moving with perfect faces. Grayson had not moved. He didn’t offer a hand, didn’t stand, didn’t even look at the flames.
When the ritual ended, the crowd should have dispersed with the quiet satisfaction of observance. Instead, whispers swelled, sharpened. People turned toward me like hawks checking the weight of prey.
A warrior I’d trained beside, a man named Harrow, stepped forward. He was broad and usually stoic, but now his jaw worked like he had swallowed a bitter thing.
“You stood by while a girl died,” he said to me, voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “You let Chloe fall.”
The room buzzed like fierce insects.
I said, because the oath of Luna still made my tongue obey the bones inside me. “I tried to...”
“You tried nothing,” Harrow spat. “You were there. You touched the glass. You had the opportunity.”
My mouth went dry. “You don’t know...”
“Enough,” said a voice from the dais. Marcus, regal and tired, lifted a hand. “This is not the place for accusations.”
But the tide had turned; once the mouths open and the pack’s anger begins to swirl, even a king’s hand feels small against the wind.
Isabelle smiled like someone who has just tasted her vengeance and found it just the right shade.
Grayson finally moved then, slow as a winter tide. He stood and walked toward the edge of the dais. The room leaned with him. Everyone craved the judge’s face.
His eyes met mine, but his gaze slipped past me as if I were a stain on the floor. He addressed the elder as if making some administrative note.
“We need clarity,” he said. “If the Luna who guides our pack cannot be trusted, we must determine appropriate action.”
Appropriate action. Words skimming like knives.
Helena’s voice was low and fierce beside me. “He’s asking for due process.”
“Due process?” Harrow echoed, indignation ringing like a bell. “How are we to have a process when the evidence is clear?”
The elder looked between all of us, the weight of law heavy in his hands. “We will ask the Hart offices for the raw footage, for any testimony not filtered. We will convene a small tribunal to review the facts.”
A tribunal. A word that meant hearings, cross-examinations, and the slow grinding machine of judgment.
I wanted to protest. I wanted to shout, show them timestamps, data keys, and my father’s hidden code. I wanted them to see the edit, the cut, the way Chloe had stepped into my place, how the tonic had glistened, how I’d reached to steady her.
But Grayson’s presence stopped me. Not with force. With contempt.
“You will cooperate fully,” he said quietly, as if reading from a script he had memorized for months. “If you have nothing to hide, there is nothing to fear.”
The phrase hit me like a slap dressed as doctrine. And as if cued, someone in the gallery threw a scrap of bread toward me. It hit the floor and skidded, ridiculous as a child’s meanness.
Whispers turned to sneers. Faces hardened. The cool of the ritual chamber felt like an oven.
I pressed both hands to my belly as if to reaffirm I was whole, human, something more than the word they’d given me.
Helena’s fingers closed over mine tight enough to bruise. She mouthed something, not words I could make out. Then she rose, palms raised. “We will have order. This tribunal will answer. Until then....”
She looked at me, and in that look was an apology and a promise that tasted like salt.
Grayson’s jaw worked. He stepped down from the dais and approached so close that the heat of his robe brushed my shoulder.
"Now is your chance to come clean."