The burn in my lungs started at seven in the evening, right when I pressed the last six vials of wolfsbane salve against my bruised ribs and pushed through the heavy doors of the Ironmaw banquet hall.

For four years, I had ruined my health harvesting toxic night-bloom in the border trenches. I had burned my hands to raw meat grinding the roots, keeping Ironmaw's warriors alive while Matthew took the credit. Tonight, he had promised that things would change.

The cloying scent of jasmine perfume hit me before I took three steps. It choked out Matthew’s dark pine scent, smeared thick over his neck and jaw.

Matthew stood on the raised platform beneath the chandeliers. Beside him stood Peyton Collins, wearing an emerald silk gown that left little to the imagination. Matthew’s hand rested low on her hip.

He raised a dark glass vial to the cheering crowd—my vial.

"Because of Peyton Collins," Matthew’s voice echoed across the hall, "our warriors held the northern ridge. She is the mind behind our border defenses. And tonight, I name her my chosen Luna."

Applause detonated through the room.

My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. I pushed past two guards, clutching the satchel tightly to my chest. "That's mine," I called out, my voice cutting through the noise. "Matthew, you know that’s my work."

The laughter died. Matthew’s jaw tightened, his gray eyes flashing with annoyance.

Peyton didn't flinch. She stepped down from the platform, her heels clicking against the cold stone. When she reached me, she snatched the satchel from my arms with a cruel, satisfied smirk.

"You're confused, Omega," Peyton purred.

She turned the satchel upside down. One by one, the five remaining vials dropped to the flagstones.

*Crack. Crack. Shatter.*

The dark, bitter liquid splattered over our shoes, soaking into the grout. Months of agonizing labor pooled around my boots like dirty water.

"Get this stray out of my sight," Peyton barked to the guards.

"Wait," Matthew commanded, stepping to the edge of the stage. He looked down at me, his face devoid of warmth. There was no hesitation in his eyes, only cold calculation.

"I, Matthew Morgan, Alpha of the Ironmaw Pack, reject you, Rayna, as my mate."

The bond snapped.

My neck went arctic cold. A brutal shockwave ripped through my chest, like thick glass splintering inside my heart. It felt as if half my soul had been ripped out through my skin, leaving raw, freezing emptiness behind. My knees slammed against the stone floor.

I didn't beg. I didn't shed a single tear. I forced my chin up and stared straight into his face.

"Strip her," Matthew ordered, his Alpha tone slamming into my shoulders like lead weights. "Expose the mark. Let every warrior see what happens to an Omega who forgets her place."

Two warriors lunged forward, grabbing my arms and ripping the front of my tunic down. The fading, blackened mate mark on my collarbone lay bare under the bright lights, branding me disgraced for the entire pack.

*Enough,* an ancient, deafening voice roared inside my head.

It wasn't my voice. It was furious, wild, and massive.

My spine arched. Bones cracked, lengthening and re-forming in a split second. A white-hot wave of heat blasted through my veins, incinerating Matthew's Alpha command. Pure silver fur tore through my skin.

A collective gasp echoed across the room as my wolf, Luna, broke through four years of silence.

I didn't stay on the floor. I rose.

Luna stood over two meters tall at the shoulder. Her thick silver coat glowed with an eerie, luminous sheen that cast moonlight across the torches. She was gigantic—dwarfing Matthew’s gray wolf form by half.

The sheer pressure of my aura exploded across the hall. Goblets shattered on tables. Warriors dropped to their knees, clutching their heads. Matthew stumbled backward against the banquet table, his eyes wide with primal, animal terror. Every single wolf in the room dropped their gaze to the floor, compelled by an apex bloodline they couldn't fight.

Before the silence could break, the outer gates blew inward with a metallic roar.

Three armored black SUVs slid into the courtyard, tires smoking on the gravel. Royal Lycan guards spilled out, their heavy boots hitting the pavement in synchronized precision.

Princess Lakelyn stepped from the lead vehicle. Her sharp gaze swept across the hall, catching the scent of my blood and fur. Her eyes flashed molten gold.

She walked straight through the shattered glass, ignoring the whimpering pack warriors. She didn't pause until she stood directly in front of Matthew.

Without a word, Lakelyn lashed out, backhanding Matthew across the jaw.

The force sent the Alpha flying, smashing through a mahogany banquet table and landing in a heap of splintered wood and spilled wine.

"You blind, arrogant cur," Lakelyn said, her voice freezing the entire hall into absolute stone. "You just rejected the lost second daughter of the Lycan King."

The hall went dead quiet.

I shifted back, breathing steadily. A royal guard stepped forward, draping a heavy velvet cloak over my bare shoulders.

Matthew dragged himself up from the wreckage, spitting blood, his hands shaking violently as he looked at me. "Rayna... wait... the border salve—"

"The salve is gone, Matthew," I said, my voice steady and cold. "And you will never see another drop."

Lakelyn gripped my arm, leading me toward the idling SUV.

Behind us, Matthew dropped frantically to his hands and knees, clawing blindly through the shards of broken glass to scoop the spilled black salve back into his bleeding hands.

The sheets against my skin were cool and made of real silk. I wasn't used to that.

For four years, I had slept on a lumpy mattress in the damp basement of the Ironmaw pack house, waking up every morning smelling of mildew and bitter herbs. Here, the air smelled like polished oak and crisp autumn air. Sunlight spilled across high, arched windows.

I tried to sit up, but every muscle in my body screamed in protest.

My ribs ached. My spine felt bruised from the inside out. But worse than the physical soreness was the empty, freezing crater on the left side of my collarbone.

Where Matthew’s mate mark had burned for four years, there was only cold, dead skin. The bond was gone. The thread that had tied my heartbeat to his had been snapped like dry twine. A hollow ache spread through my chest, deep and suffocating.

*Hello, Rayna.*

The voice didn't come from the room. It rumbled softly beneath my ribs, warm, grounded, and unhurried.

My breath hitched. I pressed two fingers against my inner wrist, checking my own racing pulse. "Who’s there?" I whispered aloud.

*I have been here longer than you know,* the voice answered. It wasn't loud, but it filled every corner of my mind.

Tears pricked my eyes, hot and sudden. A storm of dizziness and nausea hit me all at once. Four years. Four years of starving myself, burning my lungs over toxic cauldrons, begging for scraps of Matthew's attention, convinced I was a broken, wolfless nobody.

"I was an Omega," I choked out, staring at my trembling hands. "He threw me away like trash."

*We were never what they said we were,* she replied.

There was no pity in her tone. No soft coddling. Just steady, absolute certainty.

*He broke the lock, Rayna. That is all he did. You called me Luna. Now let me stand with you.*

I didn't entirely believe her yet. The habit of feeling small was carved too deep into my bones. But I closed my eyes and listened to the steady rhythm of her breathing beside mine. For the first time in my life, I wasn't alone in the dark.

The heavy wooden door swung open.

Lakelyn stepped inside, dressed in a tailored black suit. Behind her walked an older woman with silver hair pulled back into a tight bun, carrying an electronic medical tablet.

"You're awake," Lakelyn said, her sharp expression softening by a fraction. "This is Dr. Elara Finch, our head healer."

Dr. Finch didn't waste time with small talk. She approached the bed, clicking on a small penlight to check my pupils before running a flat scanner over my chest and throat. She pressed two fingers to the faded gray scar where Matthew's mark used to be.

The healer pulled back, her brow furrowed in deep disbelief. She tapped the screen of her tablet rapidly, her hands shaking slightly.

"Your Highness," Dr. Finch said, turning to Lakelyn. Her clinical voice couldn't hide the shock underneath. "The damage here is catastrophic. Chronic wolfsbane poisoning. Her lung tissue has severe chemical scarring, and her liver enzymes are off the charts. She’s been inhaling toxic root fumes for years without basic neutralizers."

Lakelyn's eyes darkened to dangerous gold. "And no one in Ironmaw treated her?"

"No," Dr. Finch said coldly. "They ignored it. Medically speaking, she should have gone into organ failure six months ago. But that isn't the most shocking part."

Dr. Finch turned the tablet toward Lakelyn, showing a bright holographic scan of a wolf's skeletal frame.

"It is biologically impossible for a wolfless Omega to undergo a first shift at age twenty-two," Dr. Finch stated. "And certainly not a shift of this scale. The bone density, the muscle mass, the luminous silver pigmentation in the fur... it directly mirrors the Lycan royal archive. She carries the pure bloodline of King Alistair. I have logged these findings directly into the Council's official evidence vault."

I listened to them talk about my body like a piece of evidence.

A strange sensation stirred in my chest. It wasn't the dull ache of sadness anymore. It was heat. A thin, sharp blade of pure fury.

Matthew had known I was coughing up blood in the trenches. He had seen my cracked, blistered hands every time I handed him a fresh supply of border salve. He had known, and he had let Peyton spill it all on the floor just to watch me break.

Before Lakelyn could speak, a sharp chime echoed from the secure comm unit on her hip.

She unclipped the black radio, tapped the receiver, and put it on speaker. "Report."

Static hissed through the speaker, followed by a panicked, breathless voice that made my stomach tighten.

It was Ryder Holt, Matthew's Beta.

"...ambush at the northern ridge!" Ryder’s shout was half-drowned by the blare of Ironmaw’s pack sirens. "Rogue skirmishers used wolfsbane arrows! Three warriors are down. The poison is spreading through their veins, and their skin is necrotizing! Alpha, where is the salve?"

A beat of silence passed, and then Matthew’s voice roared through the line. He sounded frantic, his usual arrogant poise completely shattered.

"Peyton is the Luna!" Matthew snarled. "She made the formula! Send her to the infirmary to brew another batch immediately!"

"She can't do it, Matthew!" Ryder yelled back, abandoning all respect. "Peyton went down to the cellar an hour ago and ruined thirty pounds of fresh roots! She doesn't even know how to balance the carrier oil! The warriors are in agony, and the whole barracks is talking. They saw Rayna shift last night. They know the salve belonged to her!"

"Shut your mouth!" Matthew screamed, his voice cracking with pure terror. "She was an Omega stray! She was nothing!"

Lakelyn reached down and clicked the radio off.

The silence that followed was heavy and cold.

Lakelyn looked over at me, a slow, razor-thin smile touching the corner of her lips.

Inside my chest, Luna let out a low, rumbling growl of satisfaction.

*Let them bleed,* my wolf whispered. *They are about to learn what happens when they throw away the only thing keeping them alive.*

Over the next three days, Lakelyn came to my room every morning like a force of nature.

She wore tailored suits, carried thick leather files, and moved with a restless, military energy. She gave me updates while Dr. Finch changed my IV fluids.

"Father is beyond furious," Lakelyn said, pacing beside the tall windows. "King Alistair wanted to march two royal battalions directly into Ironmaw territory and flatten their pack house to dust. The Lycan Council barely talked him down. They insist on a formal tribunal. We are going to strip Matthew of his title, his land, and his pride in front of every pack Alpha on the continent."

She was brilliant at handling the logistics. She set up three armed Lycan guards outside my door, reviewed Dr. Finch's medical reports twice a day, and gathered every shred of border defense records she could pull from Ironmaw's intercepted comms.

She was taking care of everything. But she was also taking over.

On the fourth morning, Lakelyn closed her folder with a crisp slap. "I’ve set your formal presentation to the Lycan royal court for next Thursday. It will establish your bloodline officially and cement our credibility before the judges seat the tribunal."

I paused with my teacup halfway to my lips.

For four years, Matthew had decided when I spoke, where I stood, and what I was allowed to eat. I had spent four years being managed like property.

I set the cup down carefully. I pressed two fingers against my inner wrist, feeling the calm, steady thrum of my own pulse.

"No," I said.

Lakelyn stopped mid-stride. She blinked at me, clearly not used to hearing that word. "Rayna, it’s protocol. The court needs to see you whole before the trial begins."

"I am not a piece of evidence, Lakelyn," I said. My voice was quiet, but it didn't wobble. "And I am not a weapon for you to aim at the Council. You don't schedule me without asking. I will decide when I am ready to walk into that room."

The bedroom went dead silent.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Pushing back went against every instinct I had developed to survive as an Omega. My learned fear whispered that I would be punished, struck, or locked in a cellar.

Lakelyn stared at me. Her golden eyes narrowed slightly, processing the resistance. Then, her shoulders dropped an inch. The sharp, commanding royal mask softened into something real.

"You're right," Lakelyn said quietly. She gave me a slow, respectful nod. "I'm sorry. I'm used to fighting wars. I forgot you just escaped one."

The knot in my chest loosened. She wasn't Matthew. She wasn't trying to own me; she just didn't know how to stop fighting.

That afternoon, Lakelyn took me down to the compound's private training yard. High limestone walls kept out the wind, and the gravel crunching beneath our boots felt crisp in the autumn air.

*Time to stretch,* Luna whispered in my mind, her presence warm and steady behind my eyes.

"Start small," Lakelyn instructed, standing a few paces back with her arms crossed. "Just reach inside and tap into the pressure. Don't push too hard. Your body is still mending."

I closed my eyes and drew a breath.

With Matthew, Alpha power had always felt like a heavy stone dropped on my chest—suffocating, bruising, meant to crush. But when I reached inward toward Luna, what answered wasn't heavy at all. It felt like silver lightning. It felt like ocean tide.

I pushed just a fraction of it outward.

A soft rush of air swept across the yard.

Twenty meters away, a fully armored Lycan royal guard suddenly stumbled. His boots slid in the gravel, and his left knee hit the stone floor with a sharp crack before he could catch himself. He looked up, his jaw slack and his eyes wide with absolute shock.

I stared at my open hands in disbelief. The skin was still rough from years of handling toxic roots.

*You have been doing this your whole life,* Luna remarked with dry amusement. *You simply had no one to aim it at.*

A faint smile touched my lips, but it vanished instantly.

A brutal, fiery spasm ripped through the center of my chest. I doubled over, clutching my ribs as a harsh cough tore out of my throat. The metallic taste of blood hit my tongue.

"That's enough!" Dr. Finch's voice cut across the yard. The head healer hurried over, pressing a cold, medicinal cloth to my lips and scanning my chest with her tablet. "Your lung tissue is still inflamed from chronic wolfsbane exposure. One trick is enough for today. Back to bed. Now."

They helped me back to my room, but as I lay against the pillows, I didn't feel weak. I closed my eyes and catalogued the feeling of my aura the exact same way I used to study rare herbs: *sharp, pure, undeniable.*

Sleep didn't come that night.

The left side of my collarbone throbbed with a hollow, freezing ache. Even though the mate bond was gone, the phantom coldness lingered in my flesh like an open wound.

*You miss the routine of him,* Luna said gently in the quiet room. *Not the male himself.*

"I loved him," I whispered into the dark ceiling. "I gave him four years of my life. The mate bond was supposed to be sacred. The Moon Goddess gave him to me."

*The bond was a cage, Rayna,* Luna replied.

"It wasn't a cage," I argued back, frustration stinging my eyes. "I chose to serve him! I wanted him to see me!"

*And that is why I stayed dormant,* Luna said, her tone unyielding yet full of sorrow. *You poured every drop of your soul into feeding a male who gave you nothing in return. You shrank yourself every single day just to fit beneath his boot. A royal Lycan wolf cannot breathe in a cage built of scraps. The bond was strangling us both.*

"That's not true," I choked out, turning on my side and pulling the blankets tight.

*It is true,* she answered softly. *His rejection was cruel. But it was the only thing that broke the lock.*

I wanted to keep fighting her. I wanted to defend the girl who had burned her lungs in the trenches, clinging to the pathetic hope that Matthew would one day call her worthy. I argued in the dark until my chest ached and my throat went dry.

Luna didn't snap. She didn't leave. She just stayed with me, absorbing every bitter word with infinite patience.

By the time pale gray dawn began to filter through the arched windows, I had run out of words.

I lay staring at the morning light, hot tears finally spilling silently down my cheeks. Luna was right.

I wasn't crying because I missed Matthew. I didn't want him back.

I was grieving for the four years I had spent tearing myself apart, trying to earn love from a man who was never big enough to hold it.