The Crescent Fang Pack was alive with celebration that evening. Torches burned bright along the courtyard walls, their flames licking at the cool night air. Long tables had been set with roasted venison, bread baked from the harvest, and goblets filled with blood-red wine. Music drifted through the air—drums pounding in rhythm with the beat of hearts, flutes weaving haunting melodies that set wolves to sway with the pulse of the night.
It was not just a feast. It was a display.
Victor thrived on such occasions. He relished in the sight of his warriors gathered, his people united beneath his banner, their eyes alight with pride and fear of their Alpha. For him, the gatherings were a chance to remind everyone of his power, his control, and the unshakable image of dominance he had crafted for himself.
And for Elara, they were cages made of silk and smiles.
She sat beside Victor at the head table, draped in a gown of emerald green, its fabric chosen to complement his dark attire. The crown of Luna rested upon her brow, a circlet of gold that weighed heavier with every breath she took. She smiled when spoken to, nodded when eyes fell on her, and raised her goblet only when Victor gave the silent command.
But beneath the veil of duty, her heart pounded with dread.
The memory of the east wing haunted her—the tender way Victor had brushed Seraphina's hair, the softness in his eyes that Elara had never known. She had spent days burying the ache, hiding the fracture within her chest. She had told herself that tonight would be no different from the others: a night of speeches, laughter, and appearances.
She was wrong.
Halfway through the feast, as the music swelled and the warriors raised their goblets in praise, the doors to the courtyard swung open. Every head turned as Seraphina stepped inside.
The omega wore a gown of silk so pale it shimmered like moonlight, its fabric clinging to her delicate frame. Her silver hair flowed freely down her back, and her lips curved into a shy smile that belied the boldness of her entrance. Gasps rippled through the crowd, whispers rising like wind through the trees.
And Victor—Elara's mate, her Alpha—rose to his feet with a smile that carved the world from under her.
"Tonight," Victor announced, his voice carrying across the courtyard with effortless authority, "we welcome one who has become… precious to me."
He extended a hand, and Seraphina glided forward as though she had been born for this moment. Victor pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her temple before the eyes of his entire pack.
Elara's fingers clenched around her goblet, the wine trembling within.
"This is Seraphina," Victor continued, his amber eyes gleaming. "She has proven herself loyal, pure of heart, and deserving of honor. From this day forward, she shall dine among us—not as servant, but as guest."
The pack erupted into murmurs. Some eyes flicked toward Elara, wide with shock, others narrowed in curiosity. A few of the younger warriors smirked openly, reveling in the scandal unraveling before them.
Elara's cheeks burned. She sat frozen, her smile fixed though her chest screamed in protest. She wanted to rise, to demand he remember her place, their bond, the vows they had spoken beneath the sacred moon. But Victor's hand was already on Seraphina's waist, guiding her to the table.
To Elara's seat.
"Elara," Victor said smoothly, "move aside."
The words sliced her deeper than any blade.
The pack held its breath, every eye fixed upon her.
Elara's wolf snarled within her, thrashing against the invisible chains that bound her. She wanted to roar, to bare her teeth, to remind them all that she was Luna, not some shadow to be cast aside. But Victor's gaze bore into her—unyielding, commanding, a silent reminder of the consequences of disobedience.
With trembling hands, Elara slid her chair back and stepped aside. Her gown whispered against the stone as she moved, her crown gleaming under the torches. Seraphina sat gracefully where Elara had been, her smile radiant, her presence a dagger driven into Elara's heart.
Victor raised his goblet. "To Seraphina."
The pack echoed the toast, though their voices carried unease. Goblets clinked, wine spilled, and the music resumed. Yet the night had changed. The balance had shifted. And Elara stood on the outside of her own life, watching as another woman claimed her place.
She moved to the far edge of the table, settling into a seat meant for lesser-ranked Lunas, her head bowed to hide the fire in her eyes. Every laugh Victor shared with Seraphina was a blade across her skin. Every time his hand brushed the omega's, Elara's chest tightened until she thought she might shatter.
Her wolf howled silently within, furious and wounded.
Minutes bled into hours. Elara forced herself to eat, to sip at her goblet, to play the role expected of her. But her thoughts burned with humiliation. She had been cast aside not in whispers this time, but in public spectacle. He had flaunted Seraphina before them all, diminishing Elara's crown until it was nothing more than a meaningless circlet.
At one point, an elder leaned close, his voice pitched low. "Forgive me, Luna, but does the Alpha mean to replace you?"
The question seared her. She forced a smile. "No. I am his Luna still."
But even as she said it, she heard the hollow echo of her own voice.
When the feast ended, Victor escorted Seraphina from the courtyard, his hand resting possessively on her back. He did not glance at Elara, did not thank her for her presence, did not even offer her the courtesy of acknowledgment.
She remained seated long after the torches burned low, the night air cool against her flushed cheeks. The pack had dispersed, leaving only scraps of food and spilled wine in their wake. Elara sat in the silence, her crown heavy, her spirit raw.
At last, she rose, her steps slow but steady as she left the courtyard. Each stride was weighted with resolve. The humiliation had broken something inside her, but in its place, something new began to take shape.
Not yet strength, not yet defiance. But a seed.
A seed of awakening.
For years, she had bowed her head, swallowed her pride, and silenced her wolf. But tonight—tonight had shown her that no amount of obedience would earn Victor's respect. He had already chosen another.
And if he thought she would remain his shadow, silent and forgotten, he had underestimated the warrior he had buried.
The night sky spread above her as she stepped onto the balcony of her chambers. The moon hung full and bright, silver light washing over her. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, her wolf stirring with a low growl that resonated in her bones.
"Not forever," she whispered.
The wind carried her vow into the darkness.
Not forever would she bow her head. Not forever would she stand in another woman's shadow. Not forever would Victor dictate the worth of her spirit.
One day, she would rise.
And when she did, even the moon would bow to her name.