She jumped 13

“You’re to report to the Elders’ Hall,” the guard said, not meeting my eyes. “Immediately.”

“Why?” I asked, heart already sinking.

He didn’t answer. Just handed me a parchment stamped in red wax and stepped back like I was diseased.

The chamber was freezing.

Not cold from lack of warmth, but from purpose. Cold the way a butcher’s room is cold. Functional. Final.

Six Elders lined the perimeter, seated in silver-backed thrones, their faces half-hidden by veils of moon-thread. The High Matron stood in the center, hands folded like she was about to preside over a ritual or an execution.

Maybe both.

“Lyssira Fowler,” she said without preamble. “You’ve been accused of bond tampering and concealment of magical lineage.”

My throat tightened.

“Strip,” she said.

“What?” My voice cracked, too loud against the polished stone.

“You will be examined for scent layering, sigil manipulation, or any foreign bond enhancement. Now.”

My fingers curled into fists. “You think I’ve… what? Spelled my scent? Altered myself to lure someone?”

They didn’t reply.

One of the Matron aides stepped forward and untied the front of my gown with careful, practiced hands. I stood stiffly as the fabric slipped off my shoulders.

Every breath in the room was measured. Every glance clinical. I was no longer a girl. I was evidence.

“Arms up,” another said.

They moved around me like wolves sniffing for weakness.

“She smells untouched,” one said. “But there’s something underneath. Faint. Residual.”

“Residual bond?” the High Matron asked sharply.

“Possibly. But shielded. Masked.”

“She bears no visible sigils,” another muttered.

“Check the thigh,” the lead aide said.

I jerked. “Don’t—”

The doors slammed open.

“Enough.”

Hector’s voice carved through the chamber like a blade.

He strode in without permission, cloak whipping behind him, silver eyes burning.

“You are not permitted in this room,” the High Matron snapped, standing.

“I don’t give a damn what I’m permitted to do,” Hector growled. “This isn’t justice. It’s humiliation.”

“She is under formal review—”

“She is not your experiment,” he shouted. “You claim to protect the Luna Line—but you don’t even recognize it when it stands before you.”

The room fell silent.

I stared at him, breath trapped in my chest. Every inch of him trembled with barely leashed fury. Not rage for himself. For me.

“Remove him,” one Elder hissed.

“Try,” Hector said, voice low. “But you’ll have to explain why a contender spilled blood defending a she-wolf you claim has no power.”

A beat passed.

Then the High Matron spoke, quieter now. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Lord Veylor.”

“Good,” he said. “It’s the only kind worth winning.”

They didn’t drag him out. They didn’t dare.

But they dismissed me.

I dressed quickly, chin high, pretending my hands weren’t shaking.

“Go,” one of them barked. “Your trial is suspended until the council concludes its findings.”

I turned and walked past Hector, the edge of my fingers brushing his as I passed.

A silent thank you.

Later, alone in my chamber, I scratched the message onto a scrap of parchment with charcoal and blood—my own, just a drop to seal it. Folded, bound with hair thread, tucked inside the hollow heel of my boot.

Sariah would know where to look.

Find the original Luna records. We need proof I belong here.

He came just after midnight.

No knock. Just the quiet creak of my balcony window. I sat up in bed, heart in my throat, and found him climbing over the railing like a shadow in human form.

“Hector?” I whispered.

“Don’t scream.”

I didn’t.

He stepped inside, dripping from the mist, and crossed to my bedside without a word. I scooted back against the pillows, but not in fear.

He didn’t reach for me.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, breathing shallowly, like he wasn’t sure why he’d come—or why he hadn’t stayed away.

“I’m not here for… anything,” he said.

“I know.”

He hesitated. “I just needed to… feel you alive. After today.”

I pulled back the covers.

He didn’t move.

“You don’t have to touch me,” I said softly. “Just lie here. That’s enough.”

Slowly, he eased down beside me, fully clothed, his boots still wet, his shirt rumpled. I turned on my side, facing the wall. He mirrored me, bodies not touching, only inches apart.

I could feel the heat of him. The weight of his breath against the back of my neck.

Neither of us spoke for a long time.

Then—so quietly it hurt—he said, “They broke my mother in a room like that.”

I closed my eyes.

“I couldn’t let them do it to you.”

“You didn’t,” I whispered.

His fingers barely grazed my wrist. Not enough to start a fire. Just enough to remind me it was still burning.

“I saw your memories,” I said after a while. “In the Vault.”

He was silent.

“I saw how alone you were.”

“I’m not anymore,” he said.

The words hung in the space between us.

Not a promise. But close.

I almost turned. Almost reached for him. But instead, I whispered, “Stay until dawn.”

He nodded. But when I woke, the pillow beside me was cold.

Sariah arrived with the sunrise.

She looked exhausted, windburned, but her eyes gleamed.

“I found it,” she whispered, slipping a sealed scroll into my hand.

The wax bore the symbol of the original Luna Matriarchs—a crescent pierced by a fang.