The mirror showed me a woman I barely recognized.
She was beautiful, in the way that carefully maintained things are beautiful. Her hair fell in dark waves past her shoulders, brushed until it gleamed. Her face was composed, her lips touched with the faintest rose, her eyes—a pale hazel that once held fire—now flat as river stones. The silver circlet on her brow marked her as Luna, and the deep green dress draped across her body spoke of Greyridge's wealth and tradition.
But when I looked into her eyes, I saw only ashes.
I had been Luna of Greyridge for ten years. Ten years of standing at Marcus's side during ceremonies, of smiling at pack members whose names I knew by heart, of sleeping in a bed that never grew warm beside a husband who never truly saw me. Ten years of being a symbol, a figurehead, a piece of the pack's architecture—necessary, perhaps, but never cherished.
The Ascension Moon ceremony would begin at sunset. I had attended twelve of them in my life—two as a child watching my mother prepare, ten as the Luna who stood beside the Alpha while the pack howled their devotion to the moon. Tonight would be the thirteenth. I had stopped counting the ways I had learned to hollow myself out to survive them.
"You're thinking too loudly."
I didn't turn. I knew his voice as well as I knew the ache in my chest. "I'm thinking nothing at all, Marcus."
My husband's reflection appeared in the mirror behind me. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair cropped close to his skull, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. At forty-three, Alpha Marcus Vance was still the picture of power—the wolf every young pup in Greyridge aspired to become. His eyes, the same pale hazel as mine, swept over me with the practiced assessment of a man inspecting a piece of property he had acquired long ago.
"You're thinking," he said flatly. "Your face always tightens when you think. It's unbecoming before a ceremony."
I felt something twist in my chest—an old reflex, the urge to fight, to speak, to remind him that I was not a statue carved for his convenience. But the reflex had dulled over the years, worn smooth by the weight of a thousand small silences. I smoothed my expression, watched my face go slack and pleasant in the mirror.
"My apologies, Alpha. I will endeavor to think of nothing at all."
He either missed the edge in my voice or chose to ignore it. Marcus had always been skilled at not seeing what he did not wish to see. "The elders will arrive within the hour. You'll greet them at the northern gate. Elena from the Willow Creek pack will want to discuss the trade agreement. Listen to her, nod, and tell her I will consider it. Do not make promises."
"I never do."
He paused at that, something flickering in his eyes—a ghost of the man I had married, perhaps, or the ghost of the woman I had been when I stood at this altar a decade ago, young and hopeful and desperately, foolishly certain that love would grow where it was planted.
"You look tired," he said. Not concerned. Observant.
"I didn't sleep well."
"The ceremony will be over by midnight. You can rest after."
He left without waiting for a response. The door closed behind him with a soft click, and I stood alone with my reflection, watching the woman in the mirror settle back into her mask.
---
The northern gate of Greyridge was a structure of ancient stone and iron, carved with the sigils of the founding families. I stood beneath its arch, my hands folded before me, my circlet catching the last rays of the dying sun. The pack lands spread out behind me—rolling hills of forest and field, the great hall rising in the distance, the training grounds where young wolves learned to shift. Ahead, the road wound through the valley toward the territories of our allies and rivals alike.
I had stood at this gate a hundred times, greeting emissaries, Alphas, Lunas, traders, healers. I had learned to read the approach of every visitor by the dust cloud they raised, the rhythm of their footsteps, the scent they carried on the wind. Tonight, the first to arrive were the elders—three ancient wolves who had served Greyridge since before my birth.
Elder Maris was the first through the gate. She was small and stooped, her hair white as winter snow, but her eyes were sharp as flint. She had been the one to place the Luna's circlet on my head ten years ago, her gnarled hands surprisingly gentle. Of all the wolves in Greyridge, she was the only one who had ever looked at me and seemed to see something other than Marcus's chosen bride.
"Sera," she said, taking my hands in hers. Her skin was paper-thin, her bones bird-delicate. "You look thin. Are you eating?"
"I'm well, Elder Maris."
"Thin and polite," she muttered, shaking her head. "Thin and polite and standing at this gate like a ghost when you should be inside resting before the ceremony."
"I'm fine."
"You're fine," she repeated, and there was something in her voice that made my chest tighten. "Fine is a word women use when they mean anything but. I know. I used it for sixty years before my mate finally learned to hear what I wasn't saying."
I wanted to ask her what she meant. I wanted to ask her if she had ever stood where I stood—Luna to an Alpha who saw her as a function, a woman who had poured herself into a role until there was nothing left of the person she had been. But the other elders were approaching, and Maris released my hands with a squeeze that said *later*.
I greeted them each in turn—Elder Tobin with his booming laugh, Elder Finnian with his quiet nod, Elder Petra with her sharp, assessing gaze. They were the old guard, the wolves who remembered Greyridge before Marcus, before the alliance that had made our pack powerful. They remembered my mother, too, though none of them ever spoke of her.
The other guests arrived in a steady stream after that. Alphas from allied packs, their Lunas in tow, their warriors flanking them like shadows. Elena from Willow Creek, as predicted, cornered me for ten minutes about the trade agreement. I listened, nodded, told her Marcus would consider it. She left satisfied, never once noticing that I had not offered an opinion of my own.
By the time the last guest had passed through the gate, the sun had sunk below the hills and the first stars were pricking the darkening sky. The Ascension Moon would rise soon—the first full moon of autumn, when the pack gathered to honor the old traditions and reaffirm their bonds.
I should have gone inside to prepare. Instead, I found myself walking.
---
The pack lands at twilight were beautiful in a way that always made my chest ache. The forest that bordered Greyridge to the east was old growth, the trees so tall they seemed to hold up the sky. The fields to the west rolled down to the river, silver now in the fading light. The great hall stood at the center of it all, a fortress of stone and timber that had been home to Greyridge wolves for seven generations.
I walked the path that circled the hall, passing the training grounds where young wolves sparred, the nursery where pups played, the gardens where the pack grew the herbs and vegetables that sustained us through the long winters. Wolves nodded to me as I passed—respectful, distant. Luna. Figurehead. The Alpha's wife.
A ghost.
I stopped at the edge of the forest, where the old oak stood alone in a clearing. It was massive, its branches spreading wide enough to shade a dozen wolves. My mother had brought me here when I was a child, told me stories of the wolves who had come before, the magic that still lingered in Greyridge's soil.
"You have old blood in you, Sera," she had said, her hand on my head, her voice soft as summer rain. "Blood that remembers things most wolves have forgotten. Don't let them make you forget it."
She had died a year later. I was twelve. Marcus's father, the Alpha before him, had come to my father and arranged the marriage that would bind my family's lands to Greyridge's growing power. I was sixteen when I walked down the aisle, my father's hand on my arm, my mother's words already fading in my memory.
I was twenty-six now, and I had almost forgotten.
"Sera."
I turned. Elder Maris stood at the edge of the clearing, her small form silhouetted against the lights of the great hall. She walked toward me slowly, her steps careful on the uneven ground.
"You should be inside," she said. "The ceremony begins soon."
"I know."
She stopped beside me, her eyes on the old oak. "I remember your mother standing in this spot. Before you were born. Before the war. She used to come here when she was carrying you, said the tree spoke to her. Told her things."
I had never heard this. "What things?"
