The next morning dawned pale and gray, the sun hidden behind thick clouds that pressed low over the Crescent Fang Pack. The air carried the heaviness of rain yet to fall, as if the sky itself mirrored Elara's heart.
She had not slept. Her body had lain still upon the silken sheets, but her mind had been consumed by the memory of Victor's hand upon Seraphina's waist, the way the pack had lifted their goblets to toast a stranger while their Luna sat forgotten at the end of the table. Every laugh, every glance, every whisper had carved fresh wounds into her spirit.
By the time the servants entered her chamber at dawn, she had already risen, her crown resting untouched upon the vanity. She dressed herself without their help—choosing a simple gown of white, plain against her skin, a quiet rebellion against the emerald and crimson Victor favored.
Today, she would speak.
No more silence. No more bowing her head while her heart bled. If there was any part of Victor that still valued the bond they shared, she would find it. She had to.
The council was convening again that morning. Elara knew he would be there, seated at the head of the chamber with his voice ringing in command. She walked the corridors swiftly, her gown whispering against the marble, her steps echoing with purpose. Pack members paused as she passed, some offering bows, others only pitying glances. The humiliation of last night had spread faster than fire; she could see it in their eyes.
When she entered the chamber, Victor was already addressing the elders. His broad shoulders were squared, his dark hair tied neatly back, his amber eyes sharp with authority. He looked every inch the Alpha, commanding and untouchable. Seraphina was nowhere to be seen, though her absence did nothing to ease the burn in Elara's chest.
"Luna," Victor said when his gaze flicked to her, his voice cool, detached. No warmth, no welcome. Only acknowledgment, as one might offer to a servant who had arrived late.
Elara inclined her head but did not sit at her usual place below him. Instead, she walked forward until she stood beside him, her hands clasped tightly before her. Murmurs rippled among the elders, but Victor's brow arched in faint surprise.
"What is this?" he asked, his tone edged with warning.
Elara lifted her chin, summoning strength from the very marrow of her bones. "I would speak with you. Alone."
The chamber stilled. The elders shifted uncomfortably, glancing between their Alpha and their Luna. Victor's eyes narrowed, but after a long pause, he dismissed the council with a sharp gesture. One by one, they filed out, leaving only the two of them within the cavernous hall. The heavy doors closed with a thud that echoed through the silence.
Victor leaned back against his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Well?"
Elara drew a breath. "Last night…" Her voice trembled, and she forced it steady. "You humiliated me before the pack. You flaunted Seraphina as though she were your equal—my equal. I am your mate, Victor. Your Luna. The one chosen by the moon to stand at your side. I have bowed my head, silenced my voice, sacrificed everything of myself for you. And still, you cast me aside. Tell me, what have I done to deserve this?"
Victor's expression remained cold, carved from stone. "You have done nothing."
Her heart leapt with hope. "Then—"
"Nothing to prove you are worthy," he cut in, his voice sharp as a blade.
The words struck her like a blow.
Victor rose from his chair, his height and presence looming over her. "You call yourself Luna, but what have you done to earn it? You are weak, Elara. Too weak to lead, too weak to stand beside me. A true Luna commands respect, not pity. A true Luna strengthens her Alpha. But you—" He gestured to her with disdain. "You are nothing more than a shadow. Silent. Fragile. Decorative."
Elara's breath caught. Her wolf snarled within, clawing at her ribs, demanding she bare her teeth. But the weight of his words pressed down, suffocating. "I gave up the warrior I was because you asked it of me," she whispered. "I laid down my blade, silenced my instincts, because you told me that was what a Luna must do."
Victor's lip curled. "And still, you are weak. Do not blame me for your failures. You were never meant to be Luna. The pack sees it. They whisper it. And soon, they will no longer question when I choose another."
Her hands trembled, her nails biting into her palms. "Seraphina?"
Victor's silence was answer enough.
Tears burned at the corners of Elara's eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She would not give him that satisfaction. "You swore an oath beneath the moon," she said hoarsely. "You bound yourself to me. Does that mean nothing?"
Victor stepped closer, his voice a low growl. "The moon may have chosen you, but I do not have to be chained by weakness. A Luna who cannot stand with her Alpha is a liability. And I will not allow this pack to suffer because of you."
Her chest constricted, each word driving deeper than claws. She searched his eyes for even a flicker of the man who had once courted her, who had spoken of partnership, of destiny. But all she saw was cold calculation, a leader who valued strength above all else.
"Victor…" Her voice broke. "I love you."
For the first time, his eyes softened—but not with affection. With pity.
"Love is not enough," he said.
The final thread snapped.
Elara's wolf let out a mournful howl inside her, a cry of betrayal and fury that shook her to her core. She turned from him before the tears could fall, before he could see the depth of the wound he had carved into her. Her steps echoed through the chamber as she fled, her gown whispering like a ghost behind her.
Victor did not call after her.
When she reached the balcony of her chambers, the storm finally broke. Rain lashed against the stone, cold and relentless. Elara sank to her knees, the crown slipping from her head to clatter on the floor. She pressed her palms to the wet stone, her tears mingling with the rain.
"Too weak," she whispered, the words cutting her tongue like poison.
But even as grief consumed her, something darker stirred. A spark beneath the ashes. A memory of steel in her hands, of blood pounding in her veins, of a warrior who had once stood unafraid before men like Victor.
Her mate had called her weak.
But she would prove him wrong.
Not today. Not tomorrow. But one day soon, he would see.
The pack would see.
And when that day came, Elara would no longer beg for loyalty. She would command it.