Chapter 3

The full moon hung like a silver medallion above the sacred clearing, bathing the gathered pack members in ethereal light. Tonight marked the annual full-moon ceremony—a celebration of strength, unity, and tradition. In years past, I'd stood proudly beside Alexander, our future as Alpha and Luna seemingly written in the stars.

Now, I lingered at the edge of the gathering, watching as Victoria clung to Alexander's arm, her face a perfect mask of fragility. The white dress she wore—traditionally reserved for the Luna—fluttered dramatically in the gentle breeze as she swayed against him.

"I feel so faint under the moon's power," she whispered loudly enough for nearby wolves to hear. "It's overwhelming me."

Concerned murmurs rippled through the crowd. Victoria had cultivated her image as a delicate, vulnerable she-wolf with masterful precision. Each staged weakness only enhanced the narrative of her heroic rescue of Alexander years ago—a rescue that never happened.

Alexander's eyes scanned the crowd until they landed on me. The look he gave me wasn't a request—it was a command.

"Isabella," he called out, his Alpha tone cutting through the whispers. "Show the pack your healing gift. Some of our warriors have minor injuries from today's training."

Lyra bristled within me. *He's using our sacred ability as a distraction. To shift attention from her theatrics to us.*

I stood frozen, humiliation burning through me. The healing gift passed down through my bloodline was meant for moments of true need, not public spectacle. Alexander knew this—we had discussed the sacred nature of such abilities countless times over the years.

"Now, Isabella," he repeated, his voice harder. "The pack is waiting."

Victoria's lips curved into a slight smile as she watched my public reduction from future Luna to performer.

With leaden feet, I moved to the center of the clearing where three warriors sat with minor cuts and bruises from training. Their eyes held sympathy as I knelt before them, my hands trembling slightly.

"I'm sorry," one whispered so only I could hear.

Closing my eyes, I placed my palms over the first warrior's bruised forearm. The familiar warmth flowed from my core, through my arms, and into his injury. The bruise faded beneath my touch, the damaged tissue knitting together under my fingertips.

One by one, I healed their injuries, feeling dozens of eyes boring into my back. My Luna aura—the subtle glow that should have been a source of pride—flickered like a candle in the wind, responding to my emotional turmoil.

"Remarkable," Alexander announced to the crowd when I finished. "The Morgan bloodline's healing gift will serve the pack well."

Not once did he acknowledge that this gift was meant to serve alongside him, as his Luna. Not once did he recognize my humiliation.

"You're so talented," Victoria gushed, her voice dripping with false admiration. "What would we do without you?"

Lyra snarled within me. *She mocks us openly now.*

I rose to my feet, my legs unsteady. In that moment, I caught the eye of Elder Thorne across the clearing. The old healer's face was grim, his eyes knowing. He had seen what this was—a public demotion, a message to the pack about where I now stood in the hierarchy.

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Hours later, the pack gathered in the Great Hall for the ceremonial banquet. Torches flickered against stone walls, casting long shadows across the ancient tables laden with food and drink. I sat three seats away from Alexander—a physical manifestation of the growing distance between us.

Victoria occupied what should have been my place, her hand possessively on Alexander's arm as servers filled our chalices with ceremonial wine.

"A toast," my father announced, rising to his feet. "To the strength of the Moonveil Pack, and to the Moon Goddess who guides us."

We raised our chalices in unison. The wine touched my lips, bitter and strange. Something was wrong—the liquid burned my throat with unnatural fire.

Lyra's panic surged through me. *Poison! Wolfsbane!*

I tried to stand, to warn the others, but my legs wouldn't respond. The room tilted violently as the chalice slipped from my fingers, shattering against the stone floor. The sound seemed distant, underwater.

"Isabella!" My father's voice came from far away.

The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was Victoria's face—her eyes wide with perfectly performed horror, her hand clutched dramatically to her chest.

But in the split second before consciousness fled, I caught something else in her expression.

Satisfaction.