Emery
I follow Elder Lyra down a corridor I have never been permitted to walk. Alpha Marcus follows me. The placement is deliberate. I am no longer behind them like a servant, but I am not leading. I am escorted. A precious, dangerous object being moved from one secure location to another.
We enter a round room lined with shelves from floor to ceiling. They are overflowing with scrolls, leather bound tomes, and stacks of yellowed parchment. The air smells of dust, dried ink, and something else. Something like old magic.
A single large table dominates the center of the room, a map of the territories carved into its surface.
“Sit, child,” Lyra says, her voice softer now, but still carrying an unnerving weight. She gestures to a simple wooden chair.
I sit. Alpha Marcus remains standing, his arms crossed, his presence filling the room. He watches me, his eyes sharp and calculating.
Lyra doesn’t look at either of us. She moves to a specific shelf, her gnarled fingers tracing the spines of ancient scrolls. She pulls one free. It is encased in a dark, worn leather tube sealed with silver clasps.
She places the tube on the table with a soft thud. The sound echoes in the silence. My heart beats in time with it.
“For a generation, we have believed it to be a myth,” Lyra begins, her fingers working at the silver clasps. “A fairy tale told to pups about a time when our kind did not hide in the shadows.”
The clasps spring open. She carefully unrolls the parchment. It is brittle with age, covered in a script that flows like water, penned in ink that shimmers faintly, even in the dim light.
“The scrolls speak of a royal line. The first lycans. Blessed not just with the wolf, but with the pure light of the Goddess herself. They called themselves the Lumina.”
She looks at me, her ancient eyes searching my face. “They were said to carry the moon’s own light within their blood. They could heal the sick, soothe the wild heart of a rogue, and their presence brought prosperity to the land. They were queens and kings, not just Alphas.”
Alpha Marcus scoffs, a low, skeptical sound. “A bedtime story, Lyra. What has this to do with her?” He gestures at me, a flick of his hand that still holds a hint of dismissal.
“Everything,” Lyra says, her gaze unwavering. She points a trembling finger to a drawing in the center of the scroll. It is an intricate crest.
A crescent moon cradling a blooming nightshade flower.
The same symbol that is now a permanent part of my skin.
My breath catches. I lift my hand, pushing back my sleeve. The mark on my wrist pulses with a soft, silver light, as if answering the call of its ancestor on the page.
Alpha Marcus goes still. The skepticism drains from his face, replaced by a dawning, hungry realization.
“It cannot be,” he breathes.
“The Lumina line was thought to be extinguished a generation ago,” Lyra continues, her voice a low, reverent chant. “Slaughtered by the Northern Exiles who feared their power. They left no survivors. Or so we thought.”
She turns her eyes to me, and they hold a universe of meaning. “Your parents. Who were they, Emery?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, the truth a familiar ache. “I was found at the border. A baby. No one ever claimed me.”
“Left there to protect you,” Lyra murmurs, more to herself than to us. “Hidden in plain sight. The greatest jewel of our people, disguised as a common stone.”
I feel like I am going to be sick. This is too much. Royal lines. Magic blood. It doesn’t make sense. I clean wolf dens. I sleep on straw. I steal bread to quiet the gnawing in my stomach.
“What does the mark mean?” Marcus asks, his voice sharp. He has moved on from shock. He is now on strategy.
“It means the bloodline has awoken,” Lyra answers, her eyes still on me. “The mark appears only on the last true descendant when they come of age or when their power is called forth by great distress. It signifies that she is a Lunar Heir.”
Lunar Heir. The words feel foreign, like a language I was never meant to speak.
“And the prophecy?” Marcus presses, stepping closer to the table, his eyes devouring the ancient text. “There is always a prophecy.”
Lyra nods slowly. “When the last daughter of the moon is revealed, her union will be the key. The Alpha who becomes her mate, who is accepted by her and the Goddess, will see his own power magnified tenfold. He will be granted the strength to unite the fractured territories and end the age of rogue wars forever.”
Silence. Thick, heavy, and suffocating. The air itself seems to bend around her words.
Magnified tenfold. Unite the territories.
I look at Alpha Marcus. The way he is looking at me has changed completely. The contempt is gone. The pity is gone. The annoyance is gone. In its place is a look of intense, terrifying appraisal. He is no longer looking at the kennel girl. He is looking at a weapon of unimaginable power. He is looking at a kingmaker. At a crown.
“Her,” he says, the word a low rumble of ambition. “It all comes down to her.”
He circles the table, his movements like a stalking wolf. He stops in front of my chair. I force myself not to flinch away when he reaches down, his hand surprisingly gentle as he takes my arm, turning it over to inspect the mark.
“Incredible,” he murmurs. His thumb brushes over the glowing lines. A jolt, like ice and fire, shoots up my arm. I snatch it back, cradling it to my chest.
His eyes meet mine. “Your life is about to change, Emery.”
“I don’t want this,” I say, the words tumbling out, raw and panicked. “I don’t know anything about being… whatever you said. A Lunar Heir. I just want to be left alone.”
“That is no longer an option,” Marcus states, his voice leaving no room for argument. “You are no longer just a girl. You are the future of our people. The most important person in this world.”
His words should sound like a compliment. They feel like a death sentence.
“The pack must be told,” he continues, turning to Lyra. “They need to understand. Her status must be formally recognized.”
“Be careful, Marcus,” Lyra warns. “This knowledge is a dangerous fire. Pity can turn to awe, but awe can curdle into greed just as quickly. She will become a target.”
“Then we will protect our asset,” he says, his eyes flicking back to me. Asset. That’s what I am now.
He strides to the door and pulls it open. Asher is standing directly outside, his posture rigid. He must have been there the whole time. His dark eyes find mine, and for a second, I see a flash of the same fierce protectiveness from the ceremony.
“Asher,” Marcus commands, his voice booming with new authority. “Escort Lady Emery to the Luna’s chambers. See that she is given anything she needs. She is not to be disturbed.”
Lady Emery.
Asher’s jaw tightens at the title, but he just gives a stiff nod. “Alpha.”
I stand on trembling legs. Lyra gives me a look, a mixture of pity and reverence. “The Goddess chose you, child. Walk the path with courage.”
I want to scream that I don’t want the path. I want my cot in the kennels. I want the simple misery I understood. This new, gilded misery is terrifying.
Asher walks ahead of me, clearing the way. As we step into the main hall of the pack house, conversations die. Heads turn. The pack members who have ignored me or sneered at me for sixteen years now stare with wide, hungry eyes.
I see a warrior I recognize, one who once shoved me into the mud for being in his way, now lower his head in a gesture of deference as I pass. A group of she-wolves who used to whisper cruelties about my wolf-less nature now part for me, their faces a mixture of awe and envy.
They don’t see me. They see the prophecy. They see the power they can gain through me.
My breath comes in short, sharp gasps. This is worse than being invisible. Before, they looked through me. Now, they look at me, but what they see is a reflection of their own ambition.
Asher leads me up a grand staircase and down another hall to a set of ornate, carved doors. The Luna’s chambers. They have been empty since Bianca’s mother died years ago.
He pushes the doors open and steps aside for me to enter.
I don’t move.
“Asher,” I whisper, his name a desperate plea.
He finally looks at me, truly at me. His face is a mask of stone, but his eyes are turbulent, a storm of emotions he keeps locked away.
“What’s going to happen to me?” I ask, my voice small.
He is silent for a long moment. The sounds of the pack house fade away, and it is just the two of us, standing at the threshold of my new prison.
“I will not let them hurt you,” he says, his voice a low, raw vow.
It is the most he has ever said to me at one time. And it is the only thing in this entire, insane day that feels real.
I nod, clinging to his words like a lifeline, and step alone into the vast, empty room. The doors swing shut behind me, the soft click of the latch sounding as final as a tomb being sealed.
