Luna had never known what it meant to belong.
Not truly.
She had grown up inside the Moonshadow Pack's borders, but never within their warmth. Every shared meal, every patrol, every full moon run—they had passed around her like she was invisible, or worse, in the way.
An orphan. A runt. A burden.
Even when she'd found her mate—Orion—fate had snatched the thread before it could even be tied.
Now, seated beneath an open sky streaked in ash and dusk, the Rogue Lands surrounding her like a broken fortress, Luna realized something that made her heart tighten:
She had no pack.
Not in the old way.
Not in the way wolves whispered about in stories—where trust ran as deep as blood and protection was given without question.
She was truly alone.
And yet…
She was still breathing.
⸻
The rogue camp at Deadwood Grove was nothing like the Moonshadow dens.
There were no carved stones, no embroidered banners or gilded alpha marks.
Just canvas shelters, bone-laced fires, and a sharp tension in the air that smelled like old hatred and fresh wounds.
Dozens of rogues had gathered—each more scarred than the last, with eyes like frost and mouths that rarely smiled. They moved in loose packs, wary of one another. Wolves without ties. Without laws. Without leaders.
Or so it seemed.
But at the center of it all stood a woman in a wolfbone crown.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark braids threaded with steel and frost. Her left arm ended in a gleaming black prosthetic carved with ancient runes. Her eyes were silver—but not like Luna's. These were harder. Sharper.
Unforgiving.
"That's her," one of the guards murmured. "The moonborn."
Luna stepped forward, chin high.
The crowned woman watched her with the stillness of a storm waiting to break.
"You're younger than I expected," she said.
"And you're louder," Luna replied coolly.
A beat of silence. Then—laughter. Rough and short-lived.
"You've got a death wish, walking into my grove with no banner," the woman said.
"I don't need a banner," Luna said. "I came for answers."
The crowd murmured. Whispers of Moonshadow… mate-broken… elemental blood… skittered across the clearing like insects.
The woman lifted a hand, silencing them.
"I am Vara, once alpha of the shattered Crescent Pack," she said. "Now commander of the rogue alliance. If you came here for truth, you'd better be ready to bleed for it."
"I already have," Luna said, voice like iron.
⸻
The gathering was called to order.
Dozens of rogues circled the stone pit in the center of the grove. No one sat. No one spoke first.
Then Thorne stepped forward from the shadows.
Luna hadn't seen him since the ambush.
He gave her a subtle nod.
Then he turned to the crowd.
"This one," he began, gesturing to Luna, "was marked for death the moment she was born. Because of who her parents were."
A hush fell.
He continued.
"Sixteen years ago, two wolves defected from Moonshadow Pack. They uncovered a conspiracy hidden in the moon archives—scrolls that told of an ancient bloodline, cursed and blessed, born once every few generations to maintain balance."
Luna's breath caught.
"My mother…" she whispered.
Thorne nodded. "Your mother, Aris. Your father, Kaelen. They weren't killed in a border skirmish. They were executed. By order of Alpha Myros—Orion's father."
Gasps echoed.
Vara's eyes narrowed. "And the child?"
"They hid her. Wrapped in shadow and root. Left her in the care of the Moonshadow pack, believing she might escape notice. But fear is a deep-rooted weed."
Luna stepped forward, every nerve on fire. "Why now? Why me?"
Thorne met her eyes. "Because you awakened."
Vara finally spoke. "A moonborn who survives rejection and emerges with elemental control? That hasn't happened in a hundred years."
Luna felt her pulse in her fingertips.
"I'm not a prophecy," she said. "I'm not a weapon."
"No," Vara said. "You're a choice."
⸻
Later, as the crowd dispersed, Luna sat alone at the edge of the grove.
She stared at the moon—half-full, hazed in clouds.
She didn't cry.
She couldn't.
Grief was too distant now. What remained was something else—hollow and sharp.
A longing.
Not for Moonshadow.
Not for Orion.
But for the idea of belonging.
The ache of a packless heart.
⸻
Footsteps crunched behind her.
Vara.
"You didn't run," she said, settling beside Luna.
"I've done enough of that," Luna said quietly.
Vara studied her. "You're not what I expected."
"Good," Luna said. "I'm not here to fit into anyone's mold."
A pause.
Then: "You know, a heart without a pack isn't weak. It's wild. Free. Dangerous."
"I don't want to be dangerous," Luna said.
"You don't get to choose that," Vara replied. "Only how you use it."
She stood.
"When you decide what you fight for, find me."
And she walked into the night, her bone crown glinting beneath the stars.
⸻
That night, Luna slept beneath a sky that offered no comfort.
And dreamed of wolves running—together—not behind her.
Beside her.
⸻
In Moonshadow territory, Orion stood on the cliff's edge.
He hadn't slept in days.
The scout's report still haunted him.
She was alive.
Powerful.
Unclaimed.
And the rogue lands had taken her in.
The bond throbbed faintly in his chest, like a bruise beneath the ribs.
He thought of her eyes.
Not their weakness.
Their clarity.
And for the first time, he whispered aloud into the wind—
"What have I done?"