The Vows and the Void
The night was still. Too still.
It was the kind of silence that made Liora's skin crawl, tight, suffocating, as though even the shadows held their breath. Outside the ceremonial chambers, the guards paced their usual routes, unaware of the ritual unraveling inside.
The chambers were swathed in silver light, moonbeams slipping through the tall lattice windows to paint ghostly lines on the floor.
She lay beside him, Gonzalo, the Alpha, her mate by ceremony, by law, by show.
He slept soundly, one arm tucked behind his head, his breath a steady rhythm in the silence. The soft rise and fall of his chest could have been soothing in another lifetime. Once, perhaps, she might have curled into that rhythm. But that was before betrayal had a name. Before blood became her only vow.
She stared at him.
Not with tenderness.
With calculation.
Her hand moved beneath the ceremonial robe she wore, fingers brushing the cool bone handle of the dagger hidden beneath her pillow. It welcomed her touch like an old friend, like the only honest thing left in her life.
"Tonight," she whispered inside her skull. "No more trials. No more delays."
She waited. Not from fear, but precision. The moon had not yet passed the high mark. Her timing had to be perfect. Her movements exact. She'd rehearsed this moment a hundred times behind closed lids. Every breath counted. Every heartbeat.
Gonzalo stirred slightly in his sleep, murmuring something inaudible. Liora tensed but did not flinch. Let him dream. Let him feel safe. Let him believe, for just one more hour, that the woman lying beside him had forgiven.
When the moon reached its zenith and the guards' steps became lazy echoes in the distance, she rose, silent, fluid, like mist.
Her bare feet met the cold stone floor. The blade slid from its place with a hiss of silk and steel.
She walked to his side, each step a ritual. The chamber smelled of cedar and old magic, the remnants of their binding ceremony. Her stomach turned.
He looked younger in sleep. Less formidable. The weight of leadership slackened in unconsciousness made him look mortal, almost human. But the illusion couldn't last. Not when she remembered the girl he let burn. The child he orphaned. The mate he lied to. The Luna he cast aside for ambition.
"This is what you made me," she breathed.
She raised the dagger.
Its edge caught the moonlight like a mirror to her soul. The runes along the bone handle shimmered with intent, reacting to her purpose. They pulsed softly, red and gold, feeding on her rage. They wanted blood.
She steadied her breath.
And struck.
The dagger met his chest, and ricocheted.
A brilliant flash exploded, a barrier flaring to life in an arcane ring. The dagger rebounded with force, nearly flying from her hand. She stumbled back, shock vibrating through her bones. Her ears rang.
Gonzalo did not stir.
He kept breathing.
Heart racing, Liora crept forward and peered down. Around his neck was a charm. A small stone bound in silver wire, etched with blood runes. Protection magic, ancient, powerful.
Vanya's magic.
Liora's lips curled into a silent snarl. Of course. Vanya his precious seer, the one who still whispered her poison in the Alpha's ear.
She clenched her teeth, the bitterness crawling up her throat like bile. She had planned for everything. Everything but this.
She picked up the dagger with slow reverence, as though cradling a wounded beast. The runes had gone dim, the blade cooling in her hand. Its hunger, like hers, unmet.
She retreated. Back to her side of the bed. Back to stillness. She lay down again, placing the dagger beneath her pillow. Her eyes remained open until the moon dipped beneath the horizon.
By dawn, nothing had changed.
Gonzalo rose first, stretching with a groan. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and turned to her, smiling.
He kissed her cheek. "You didn't sleep well."
She turned to him slowly, schooling her face into softness. "Just nerves," she said. "Still adjusting."
He nodded, running a hand through his dark hair. "Soon, the whole pack will kneel for you again."
Liora smiled faintly. "One way or another," she whispered.
He didn't hear her.
The feast that night was a cacophony of firelight and flesh. Roaring hearths lined the hall, their flames casting shifting shadows on the stone walls. Spit-roasted boar turned over glowing embers. Horns of bloodwine passed from hand to hand. The pack was celebrating, celebrating their Alpha, his reclaimed Luna, the promise of rebirth.
Gonzalo stood tall before the hearth, delivering a speech full of polished pride. He spoke of unity. Of forgiveness. Of second chances. Liora stood beside him, dressed in pale white, her hair braided with silver thread. The symbol of the moon goddess gleamed at her throat.
Her smile was soft.
Her mind was elsewhere.
She scanned the crowd, marking faces. Allies. Traitors. Watchers. Fools.
Nyssa approached from the side, a goblet in hand. "You wear peace well," she murmured.
Liora turned to her. "Peace is a costume," she replied. "I'm just rehearsing."
The healer's eyes dropped to the dagger hanging at Liora's hip, bound now in ceremonial sheath and filigree. It looked ornamental.
It wasn't.
"It'll work," Nyssa said quietly.
"It has to," Liora replied.
Children ran between tables. Soldiers toasted. An old song played, one Liora remembered from her childhood, before it was all stolen.
She saw Marek watching her from across the hall. His gaze lingered a second too long.
Let him watch.
Let them all.
That night, Gonzalo fell asleep quickly, lulled by wine and celebration.
Liora sat in the chamber's moonlight long after his breath turned rhythmic.
She unsheathed the dagger.
It gleamed.
She drew a whetstone from beneath the bed and began to sharpen it slowly, methodically. Each pass of the stone was a vow, a prayer. A curse.
She whispered to the blade. To the moon. To the ghosts.
"Mother of night. Hear me. I have done your rites. I have swallowed my wrath and worn the mask. Give me what is owed."
The runes began to flicker faintly.
She pulled a second charm from her pouch, one older than the rest. A pendant once given to her by a priestess long dead. She pressed it to the blade.
The air grew colder.
She began carving a new rune into the hilt. A forbidden one. One not seen since the Old Luna Wars.
She bled for it, her thumb sliced and offered. The blood hissed as it struck the metal.
The blade hummed.
And for the first time, it smiled back.
She stared out the window, where the moon was waning, but still watching.
"One attempt has failed," she said.
She raised the blade to her lips.
"The next won't."
She closed her eyes. Listened to the wind stir in the high trees beyond the fortress. Somewhere in the forest, a wolf howled a lone cry, long and mourning. But it wasn't grief in Liora's chest. It was resolve.
Tomorrow would bring another chance. And if the moon demanded more blood, she would oblige.
Even if it meant her own.