The morning sun bathed the Crescent Fang Pack in gold, casting long shadows across the courtyard where pack members bustled with their daily tasks. Elara moved among them, her crimson gown brushing against the stone pathways as she offered polite smiles and gentle nods. She carried herself with the quiet dignity expected of a Luna, though beneath her graceful exterior, she felt the familiar strain of holding her silence.
It was during these walks that she often heard the whispers. Servants spoke softly when they thought she was out of earshot, their words carrying fragments of stories not meant for her. Most days, she dismissed them as idle gossip, the kind of chatter that clung to those in power. But lately, a new thread had woven itself through their murmurs—a name that was never spoken too loudly, but always with a mixture of awe and scandal.
Seraphina.
The name had followed Elara like a shadow all week.
At first, she had ignored it. Gossip was the lifeblood of servants and omegas, after all. They wove tales of affairs and betrayals out of thin air, seeking drama where none existed. Victor, her mate, was too proud, too disciplined to risk scandal. He valued appearances above all else. Surely he would never tarnish the image of his leadership with something so reckless.
And yet, the whispers grew.
"She's always in the east wing…"
"The Alpha keeps her there…"
"They say she's an omega, but he treats her like…"
Elara's chest tightened with every half-heard word. She told herself it was beneath her to listen. She was Luna—above suspicion, above jealousy. To lend weight to rumors was to admit weakness. And so she smiled, nodded, and pretended not to hear.
But at night, in the silence of her chambers, the doubts gnawed at her. She would lie awake beside Victor, staring at the ceiling while his steady breathing lulled him into sleep. She would watch the curve of his jaw, the sharp line of his mouth, and wonder if those lips whispered someone else's name when she was not around.
On the seventh night, she could not ignore it any longer.
Victor had returned late, long after the council's matters were concluded. His scent carried something unusual—something faintly sweet, cloying, unlike the earthy musk of their territory. Elara said nothing as he stripped off his coat and washed his hands, but her wolf stirred uneasily inside her, restless and suspicious.
When he joined her in bed, pressing a perfunctory kiss to her forehead, Elara closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. There it was again, that unfamiliar scent. It clung to him like a secret.
Her heart pounded. She wanted to ask him where he had been, who he had seen. But the words lodged in her throat. To question him was to risk his wrath, to shatter the fragile balance of their union. She had survived this long by bowing her head, by swallowing her questions. Tonight would be no different.
And yet, as sleep claimed him, Elara lay awake, her thoughts unraveling.
The next morning, the whispers grew louder.
"She's beautiful, they say. Hair like silver, eyes like midnight stars…"
"He keeps her in silk, while the Luna wears chains of gold…"
"Some say she is his true mate, chosen by fate itself…"
Elara's steps faltered as she passed a group of servants near the kitchens. Their voices hushed the instant they saw her, their eyes dropping to the floor in fear. She forced a smile, but her hands trembled at her sides.
Seraphina. Always Seraphina.
That evening, Elara decided she had heard enough. She told herself she did not believe the gossip, that she only sought proof to silence her restless heart. She followed Victor discreetly, her steps soft, her presence cloaked in the calm façade of a Luna who belonged anywhere she chose to be.
Victor did not notice. He was too focused, his strides purposeful as he moved through the lesser-used corridors of the east wing. Elara's heart hammered in her chest as she trailed him, her gown whispering against the stone.
He stopped before a heavy wooden door and knocked softly. The sound echoed in Elara's ears like a drum. The door opened, and a figure stepped into the threshold.
Seraphina.
She was everything the whispers had promised and more. Her beauty was the kind that silenced rooms—hair cascading in pale silver waves, eyes as dark as midnight, skin glowing with youthful softness. She wore a gown of silk, simple yet elegant, its pale blue fabric clinging to her delicate frame. Her gaze lifted to Victor, and a smile blossomed across her lips, radiant and intimate.
Victor's expression softened in a way Elara had never seen. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Seraphina's face with a tenderness that stole the air from Elara's lungs.
"My Alpha," Seraphina whispered, her voice lilting, reverent.
Victor stepped inside without hesitation, closing the door behind him.
Elara stood frozen in the shadows, her breath caught in her throat. The truth struck her like a blade: the whispers had not been lies. Seraphina was real. And Victor… Victor had chosen her.
The warrior within Elara screamed, demanded she burst through the door, demand answers, claim her place. But the Luna—the obedient wife she had trained herself to be—remained rooted to the spot, silent and unseen.
Her heart splintered as she turned away, her steps trembling as she fled down the corridor. Each stride echoed her anguish, each breath a battle to contain the sobs clawing at her chest. She returned to her chambers, closing the door softly behind her before collapsing against it, her body shaking.
He had betrayed her.
Not with swords or claws, but with tenderness he had never offered her.
Elara pressed a hand to her chest, struggling to breathe. She had lived in his shadow for years, sacrificing her voice, her spirit, her freedom to please him. And still, it had not been enough. He had taken another—an omega, no less—and given her the devotion he had withheld from his own mate.
Her wolf howled inside her, a sound of anguish and fury. For the first time in years, Elara did not silence it. She let the grief wash through her, raw and consuming, until the tears stained her cheeks and the fire in her heart flickered dangerously close to rage.
By dawn, the tears had dried, her body weary but her mind sharp. She gazed at her reflection in the mirror—the woman who stared back at her was pale, her eyes shadowed, her lips pressed in a grim line.
She had dismissed the whispers, ignored the signs, clung to obedience like a shield. But the truth could no longer be hidden. Seraphina was not a rumor. She was a threat, a wound carved deep into Elara's place as Luna.
And Victor—her Alpha, her mate—had delivered the blade himself.
As the sun climbed the sky, Elara stepped onto the balcony once more. The forest stretched before her, vast and unyielding. The wind brushed against her face, carrying with it the scent of pine and promise.
Her hands curled into fists. For years, she had lived in submission, her spirit caged for the sake of peace. But now, as betrayal burned in her chest, Elara felt something stir. The warrior she had buried was not gone. She had only been sleeping.
And soon, she would awaken.