Rejected by the Alpha, Chosen by the Moon

Selena couldn't bear it anymore.

The way they looked at Lyra now, those wolves she once commanded with a single glance, turned their eyes toward the once-omega with something far more dangerous than pity.

Not sympathy.

Not even respect.

But belief.

They watched Lyra the way prey watches fire, entranced, terrified, drawn in.

In the corridor outside the great hall, Selena stood rigid in the shadows.

The carved stone walls felt tighter than before, the air thick with whispers that slithered between cracks and drifted like smoke beneath the heavy doors.

"Did you see her fight Dagon?"

"She didn't even shift. Still won."

"Maybe… maybe she's moon-blessed."

Each word struck Selena like a fang to the spine.

Moon-blessed.

As if the heavens had reached down and plucked that half-broken girl from the dirt and crowned her.

And the wolves, her wolves, believed it.

She clenched her jaw until her teeth ached. Her nails dug half-moon marks into her palms.

The scent of incense and old stone couldn't cover the rising stink of change, wild, raw, and irreversible.

They used to look at her that way.

Selena, the Luna by bloodright.

The one who had bled in the dark corners of council chambers, forged alliances with daggers hidden in smiles.

She'd buried her rivals behind silken words and kept her claws spotless with charm and contracts.

She had won her place beside Kael the right way.

But the right way didn't matter now.

Because every glance at Lyra was a question.

Every whisper was a doubt.

And hope, that most treacherous emotion, had begun to bloom in places Selena thought long buried.

Hope could rot empires from within.

She had seen what hope could do.

So she smoothed her dress, straightened her shoulders, and turned away from the whispers.

If bonds could be forged, they could be broken.

If symbols could rise, they could be shattered.

If Lyra had become an icon... then icons could burn.

And just like that, beneath the flickering torchlight, Selena began to weave her plan.

Quietly. Elegantly.

Like poison in wine.

Late that night, the knock came, sharp, frantic.

Lyra snapped awake, the moonlight already spilling across her floor like silver blood.

A young messenger stood in the doorway, trembling, eyes wide with fear.

"A child's missing," he gasped. "Near the riverbank. One of the younger pups from training. They need help. Now."

She didn't hesitate.

Didn't even finish tying her boots properly before sprinting down the corridor, cloak half-thrown over her shoulders.

Her heart pounded, but not from panic. Instinct had already taken over, sharp, alert, hungry for clarity.

The woods swallowed her quickly.

Branches clawed at her sleeves. Frost kissed the earth.

The moon hung heavy overhead, casting pale beams between the skeletal limbs of trees.

Her breath fogged in front of her as she ran, feet silent against the cold-packed earth.

The sound of rushing water grew louder, swift, urgent.

But something was wrong.

As she broke through the last line of trees onto the riverbank, a hush fell.

No cries. No scent of fear.

No child.

Only the river murmuring to itself and the whisper of reeds swaying gently in the wind.

Mist clung low, curling over the stones like a living thing.

Her pulse slowed.

Too quiet.

Too clean.

Lyra's eyes narrowed. Every fiber of her body screamed, trap. But the realization came a heartbeat too late.

A flicker.

A whisper of motion from the dark.

Thhk!

The sting struck her neck like a wasp bite, no, deeper. A dart.

She reached for it instinctively, already feeling the heat spread like wildfire beneath her skin.

Burning.

Poison.

The ground tilted. Trees warped and twisted in her vision. Her limbs refused to obey.

Knees struck earth. Her breath turned ragged.

Muscles clenched, twitched, then collapsed.

She could hear her blood now. Like thunder in her ears.

Figures began to form in the mist. Not wolves.

Shadows. Cloaked. Unfamiliar.

They moved with practiced silence. No footsteps. No scent. Just shapes gliding through fog, surrounding her, closing in.

Lyra tried to snarl, to rise, but her body betrayed her.

Her mark pulsed faintly once beneath her skin.

A hooded figure emerged from the mist, taller than the others, cloaked in black stitched with threads that drank the light.

Their gloved hand flexed, and a claw unfolded from the fingers, obsidian steel, serrated like a predator's fang, gleaming with venom.

"You should have stayed rejected," the assassin hissed, voice rasping like dry leaves dragged across stone. "You should've died in the pit like the others."

They raised the clawed hand, swift, lethal, angling straight for her throat.

The claw was forged from meteorite iron, called 'Goddess's Tears.' Only the High Alpha's line had access. Selena's signature.

But then,

[System Alert: Toxin Detected]

Initiating Countermeasure...

Pain = Power Buff Maxed

Override: Lunar Resilience Activated

A violent tremor ran through Lyra's limbs.

Then, stillness.

Her eyes snapped open.

Twin infernos of silver light ignited in the darkness, casting sharp reflections across the assassin's blade. The mist around her seemed to recoil.

The assassin faltered, just for a heartbeat.

Too long.

Her hand lashed up, faster than instinct, a blur of defiance.

She seized the wrist mid-strike, steel claw halted inches from her skin.

CRACK.

With a snarl, she twisted.

Bone split like snapped branches.

The assassin screamed, a strangled, inhuman sound.

Lyra pivoted on her heel, dragging the momentum with her, then hurled the attacker over her shoulder in a perfect arc.

The figure slammed into the embankment stones below, a brutal, wet thud followed by the sharp clatter of broken steel.

Then silence.

Only the wind.

Lyra staggered upright, breath torn and steaming from her lips. Her chest rose and fell like a storm barely caged.

The poison still pulsed in her bloodstream, hot, angry, but her body fought it with something deeper. Ancient. Unrelenting.

Steam curled from her skin, coiling into the moonlight like ghostfire.

Her pulse thundered, a war drum, a summons, a warning.

Every part of her screamed with pain. And power.

The toxin should've killed her. But the System's voice hissed:

[Blood of the First Luna Detected].

Her veins burned with memories not her own.

Footsteps crunched over frostbitten leaves.

The mist parted like torn silk as Ciran emerged from the treeline, blades already drawn, glinting silver beneath the moon.

His eyes scanned the clearing, sharp, calculating, before settling on the twisted form sprawled below the riverbank, limbs bent at wrong angles.

Then he looked at Lyra.

She stood in a halo of steam, breath still heavy, blood and poison mingling on her skin like war paint. Her pulse throbbed visibly at her throat, but she didn't waver.

Ciran didn't sheathe his daggers.

"…You alright?" he asked, voice low, unreadable as always, but his stance had shifted.

Just slightly. Like one assessing a predator no longer wounded.

Lyra ran a hand through her sweat-slicked hair, strands clinging to her temple.

Her fingers came away smeared with dirt and ash, but her eyes burned clean.

"Better than ever," she said, her voice cold and steady, cold as moonlight over graves.

Meanwhile, high in the tower, candlelight danced across carved stone and velvet drapes.

Selena poured herself wine, slow and precise.

But her fingers trembled, just enough that the crystal rim chipped as it struck the decanter.

A single red drop splashed onto her wrist.

She didn't wipe it away.

The ledger lay open beside her, its pages whispering names of wolves who wouldn't live to see the next moon.