Where was the wolf-boy my father once sheltered from bullies, the boy mocked for being a “fake pack heir” to the Blackspire bloodline?
Where was the young wolf who blushed when my grandmother handed him extra food and whispered, ‘No one’s ever done this for me before.’
Where was the man who once vowed, ‘I’ll love you forever, Lunessa.’
Seven cycles ago, Draven was revealed to be the wrong son—switched at birth. When the truth came out, he was sent back to his biological pack in the countryside.
He stood outside the crumbling den next to ours, clothes torn, eyes empty.
I was the one who reached for him, shared my meals, defended him when the pack member mocked him, telling him he still mattered.
We grew up together. Those lunar academy cycles were the brightest of my life.
But after we passed the academy exams, the Blackspire Pack suddenly demanded he return.
Before leaving, he held my hands and whispered. “Come with me, Lunessa. I’ll protect you. One day, I’ll make you my Luna.”
I believed him.
Then, in the Alpha Kingdom’s academy, Myrielle resurfaced—his elegant, high-born first moon mate fiancée.
At banquets, they stood beneath moon-crystal chandeliers, perfectly matched.
And I—awkward, out of place—clutched my goblet in the shadows like a fool.
Back then, Draven would still take my hand and declare before everyone.
“This is my betrothed.”
He helped build my craft, defended me from jealous wolves, even crossed entire territories to care for me when I was ill.
I never doubted his love. Until now.
Looking at his cold, unyielding face, hearing his threats, I realized—all that tenderness was guilt.
Not love.
His heart had always been Myrielle’s.
And I… I had been nothing but a debt to repay. A wildflower he pitied.
My love was a cruel joke.
“Three… two—”
“Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll do it.”
Draven paused, then smiled faintly. He pulled me into his arms, resting his chin on my head.
“Good girl. Just endure this one last time. I’ll make it up to you.”
But as he held me, my gaze caught the back of his crystal communicator.
A charm—etched with a picture of him and Myrielle, younger, faces pressed together, smiling.
My heart stopped.
He had never liked using charms. I begged him once, but he refused, calling them childish.
Yet now… he carried her face everywhere.
My voice trembled. “Can you… arrange my father’s healing ritual now?”
“Of course,” he murmured. “I’ll—”
The door burst open.