She jumped 1

[POV Lyssira]

I can still hear her.

“No, please, no! Not him—”

Her voice echoes like it’s trapped in my skull. Small. Terrified. Ripped straight from that day.

Alira’s scent was everywhere—fevered and panicked. Her fingers dug into the stone floor as she begged them not to lock the door. They didn’t care.

The male assigned to her was twice her size and already lost to the frenzy—that brutal, instinct-driven state where thought gave way to need. His mind glazed by a single filthy purpose, eyes were already pitch-black and hollowed out by the hunger.

They called it necessary. They said she needed to be “guided” through her first heat.

But everyone knew what that meant. She was eligible to breed now.

‘Let The Games begin’.

And when it was over, she didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Didn’t even look me in the eyes. Two weeks later, I found her scarf at the edge of the cliff.

She jumped.

I still sleep with that scarf beneath my pillow. A knot tied in the middle, like the promise I made that day. That I’d never give myself to anyone—not unless it was my choice.

Not unless they saw all of me and still stayed.

My fingers tighten around the envelope in my hand now. Thick parchment. Heavy seal. My name glinting on the front like it means something.

I don’t need to open it. I already know what it says.

The Lunar Rite of Descent.

That’s what they call it now. Makes it sound sacred. Holy. Like it’s an honor. But it’s still the same thing.

Every year, every she-wolf eighteen and older is called. Every Alpha heir competes for a chance to mate with the chosen Luna Bride. Her identity stays masked until the final round—until the winner thinks he’s earned her. And then, they claim her. The

Games are brutal. Seductive. Political. I hate every part of it.

Last year, I was excused. Just turned of age, still mourning. I was lucky. I told myself I’d figure a way out before the next year. But the next year came and they didn’t forget about me.

The door creaks open behind me. I don’t look. I already know who it is.

“You haven’t opened it,” Sariah says quietly. Her voice is familiar—low, steady, threaded with something sharper than concern. She’s not just a friend. She’s the only one left who remembers who I was before the Games loomed like prophecy.

We grew up sneaking into the frost orchards, stealing moonfruit and daring each other to race the border wolves. Now, she carries knives in her boots and walks like someone expecting betrayal.

I stare out the window where the wind carries the sound of the temple bells and wolves howling in the distance. Somewhere, the heirs are already training for The Trial.

“Don’t need to,” I mutter. “Same letter every year. Just a new name at the top.”

She steps closer. “This year, it’s yours.”

I finally turned. “Don’t remind me.”

Her gaze sharpens. “You’re not a child anymore, Lyss. You know what happens to the girls who try to run.”

Of course I do. I’ve heard the stories.

The ones who refused the call. The ones who disappeared. One was found bleeding near the river with her scent burned out. Another was stripped of her name and cast into exile. They say she crawled back half-mad.

I don’t know if the stories are true. But I seem to believe them.

“You think I want to be part of this?” I ask, my voice rising. “To stand on a pedestal while a bunch of males sniff around and decide if I’m worth fucking?”

“No.” Sariah doesn’t flinch. “I think you’re meant to break the pedestal.”

I blink caught off guard.

She crosses her arms. “You don’t have to be chosen, Lyss. You have to survive. And if you’re clever, you can do more than that.”

“Clever?” I laugh once, bitter. “Alira was clever.”

“She was kind,” Sariah corrects. “Too kind for this world.”

I look down at the seal. My hand trembles.

“I don’t want to be the Luna Bride,” I whisper.

“Then don’t be.”

I look up at her. What is that supposed to mean?

“Be the threat.” She steps closer, her voice low and sure. “Hide behind the mask. Make them believe you’re nothing but pretty silk and obedience. And when the time comes—burn the whole system from the inside.”

There’s a dangerous glint in her eyes. One I recognize. It’s in me, too.

“But my bloodline,” I say quietly. “It’s dormant. Unproven.”

“Then prove it. You’re Fowler. That name still means something.”

I shake my head. “To who?”

“To the ones who are still watching. To the ones who remember the Luna Line. And to the ones who fear it might not be dead.”

That freezes me.

Because sometimes I wonder… Why did the Oracle look at me like that? Why did the Matron’s hand shake when she touched my forehead during the last solstice?

Why do my dreams feel like someone else’s memories?

Sariah places a hand on my shoulder. “You weren’t meant to be claimed, Lyssira. You were meant to lead.”

I stare down at the envelope. Slowly, I break the seal.

Chosen Entrant: Lyssira Fowler
Status: Eligible. Untouched. Unclaimed.
Rite Entry: Mandatory.

There it is. The beginning of the end. Or maybe the end of everything they think they control.

I folded the letter, slipped it into my boot and then I glanced back at Sariah.

“When do the games begin?”