The grand hall of the Lycanthrope Council gleams with an almost oppressive elegance.
Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across marble floors, illuminating the faces of the pack representatives with an unforgiving brightness that reveals every calculation, every political maneuver written in their expressions.
The scent of power hangs in the air–old money, expensive cologne, and beneath it all, the unmistakable musk of predators watching for weakness.
The applause roars around me, loud and relentless, but it feels distant, like I’m hearing it through a thick pane of glass
I stand on the platform, clutching the award in my hands–a polished silver plate engraved with the words Most Innovative Diplomatic Strategy. It’s heavier than I expected, its sharp edges digging into my palms, grounding me in the moment.
From this elevated position, I can see the entire assembly. The Northern Alliance delegates bear with genuine pride–they backed my proposal from the beginning.
The Southern Coalitions maintain polite, measured applause, their expressions carefully neutral despite voting against me.
And there, near the back wall, stands Raiden, his posture rigid and unyielding, hands at his sides rather than joining the applause. The mate bond pulses with his barely contained fury, a cold current running beneath my skin.
The overhead lights catch the ceremonial chains worn by the Elder Council members, sending flashes of gold across the room that momentarily blind me.
In those brief seconds of disorientation, the world seems to tilt and shift–success supposed to feel different than this hollow victory. This achievement should be the culmination of months of work, yet all I feel is the weight of what it has cost me
“Windhowl!” the announcer repeats, her voice bright and chipper, urging the crowd to cheer louder. They oblige. The sound crescendos, layers of clapping and whistling crashing together like waves.
I glance at my pack scattered among the audience.
Their faces are lit with pride, their shoulders squared, spines straighter than I’ve seen in years. For so long, we’ve endured whispers and pointed stares, the weight of shame pressing us down.
Rejected Luna
Unworthy.
Weak
That’s how they saw me. That’s how they saw us. But tonight? Tonight, they see something else.
They see a leader.
It should feel good–no, it should feel great. This is everything I’ve worked for, isn’t it?
To prove that I don’t need anyone else to define me. To show them–and myself–that I’m more than a discarded mate
And yet, holding this award, hearing their cheers, it feels hollow. Like I’m trying to fill a cavernous void with whispers of validation that never quite reach the bottom.
I force a smile and step back from the microphone, nodding politely as the announcer ushers me offstage.
Chapter 51
The applause fades as I descend, the silver plate still clutched tightly in my hands.
My heels click against the marble floor, each step echoing in my head.
I reach the edge of the room, I exhale slowly, letting my shoulders relax. Around me, the crowd mingles, champagne glasses clinking, voices buzzing with congratulations and half–hearted small talk.
I should join them, I know. But the thought of plastering on another fake smile, of enduring more empty compliments. makes my stomach churn.
Instead, I slip out the side door and head back to my quarters.
The room is quiet when I enter, dimly lit by the soft glow of the lamp on my desk. I set the award down carefully, its metallic surface gleaming under the light. For a moment, I just stare at it.
