The first time Luna ever saw Orion bleed, he didn't flinch.
She was ten years old, small even for her age, clutching a bundle of folded towels to her chest as she hurried along the covered walkway that ringed the training yard. The morning mist still clung to the ground, a pale veil over packed earth and scattered weapons.
In the center of the yard, two figures moved like shadows against the fog.
One was Beta Kael—broad-shouldered, steady, his strikes solid and disciplined. The other was younger, taller, every line of him honed and purposeful.
Orion.
Luna slowed, the bundle of towels suddenly weightless in her arms.
He was not Alpha yet; his father still sat the high chair, still bore the weight of final decisions. But even now, at twenty, Orion moved like someone who had been born with command wired into his bones.
He flowed around Kael's fist, ducked under the sweep of a leg, turned a near-fall into a low spin that brought him up behind the older male. His bare feet kicked up tiny puffs of dust with each step; his chest glistened faintly with sweat.
A faint scar curved along his cheekbone, pale against tanned skin. Luna had heard the story: a training accident at fifteen, a misjudged timing in a spar with one of the elite warriors. He'd refused healing until after the session, refusing to leave the ring until he could stand on his own.
He refused a lot of things, she'd learned.
Weakness. Hesitation. Indulgence.
Kael feinted left, then drove a sharp elbow toward Orion's ribs from the right. Orion caught the move too late; the blow landed with a solid thud. Pain flashed across his face—quick, sharp—but he did not stumble. He twisted with the force, used the momentum to slide around and bring his own fist up in a clean arc that caught Kael along the jaw.
Blood sprayed from Kael's split lip.
A beat of stunned silence followed. Then Kael grinned through the red.
"That's more like it," he growled.
Luna's breath caught. Her small fingers dug into the towels, the rough cloth biting her palms.
She hadn't meant to stop. Mara would thrash her if she knew Luna was lingering where she wasn't needed. But watching Orion in the ring felt like standing too close to a bonfire. Dangerous, but hard to turn away from.
"Again," Orion said simply.
They went again.
He was not the biggest wolf in the pack. That honor belonged to some of the older, heavier warriors. But there was a focus in him that made his presence feel larger than muscle alone. Every movement was economical, devoid of wasted energy. Every strike had intent behind it.
He did not joke. He did not taunt. He did not bask in the appreciative noises from the small crowd of onlookers who had gathered along the fence.
He simply worked.
When Kael's fist finally connected with Orion's brow, opening a thin line of red that dripped down the side of his face, Orion didn't break stance. He wiped the blood away with the back of his wrist and reset his feet.
"Enough," Kael said at last, breathing hard, a touch of pride in his eyes. "You'll drive them all into the ground if you keep at this pace."
Orion inclined his head, chest rising and falling steadily.
"Then they should learn to stand," he said.
The words were not cruel. Just... factual. A simple statement of how he believed the world worked.
He turned away from the ring then, reaching for the towel someone held out to him along the fence.
Luna realized, belatedly, that *she* was the one holding it.
Her breath hitched. For a fraction of a second, as Orion's hand closed around the cloth, his fingers brushed hers.
Warm. Calloused. Solid.
He didn't seem to notice the contact. His gaze was already shifting past her, to where a young woman was approaching at the far side of the yard, skirts lifted just enough to avoid the damp earth.
Selene.
She was only eighteen then, her beauty still ripening into its full, polished power. But even at that age, she moved with the easy assurance of someone who had always been praised for how she looked before anyone asked what she thought.
"Orion," she called, her voice like honey poured over stone. "You promised you wouldn't ruin your face before the next gathering."
Light laughter rose from a few of the watching warriors.
Orion wiped the remaining blood from his brow with the towel, leaving a faint streak of red.
"It will scar, if I'm lucky," he said. "A reminder not to repeat the same mistake."
Selene reached him and, without asking, took the towel from his hand. Her fingers lingered on his wrist a beat longer than necessary, thumb brushing the pulse there.
"You don't need any more reminders," she chided gently, dabbing at the cut above his eye. "You remember everything—especially your duties."
Her gaze flicked, just once, to Luna.
Luna's stomach dropped.
She ducked her head and stepped back, clutching the remaining towels tighter. The moment of accidental closeness—his fingers brushing hers—vanished like mist under the weight of Selene's presence.
"Thank you, little one," Selene said in a tone that made the term feel like both endearment and insult. "You can go now. We'll take it from here."
Luna turned and hurried away, the sounds of the yard fading behind her.
The image of Orion—calm, bleeding, unbowed—burned in her mind.
That had been years ago.
Now, at twenty-three, Alpha Orion sat in the high chair at the head of the great hall, and the weight on his shoulders had only grown heavier.
Luna moved along the edge of the room with a pitcher in hand, refilling cups as unobtrusively as possible. The hall was thick with voices and heat and the rich smell of roasted meat. Firelight danced across the carved beams overhead, throwing shifting shadows over the gathered pack.
Her path took her close enough to the dais that she could see Orion clearly.
He wore black tonight—a simple shirt and trousers, the fabric cut to move with him rather than encumber him. The Moonshadow crest was pinned at his shoulder in silver, the crescent moon gleaming faintly each time the flames caught it.
His dark hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck. The scar along his cheekbone, barely noticeable from a distance, lent his face a certain hard-earned gravity up close.
He did not lounge. He did not sprawl. He sat straight-backed, forearms resting lightly on the table, hands relaxed but ready. There was nothing of idle ease in him, even at rest.
Beside him, Selene was a study in intentional contrast.
Where Orion's clothing was dark and unadorned, hers shimmered with soft color and subtle jewels. Tonight she had chosen a dress the color of deep wine, its fabric clinging to her waist and flaring at her hips like poured silk. Her hair was swept up, exposing the long line of her throat and the delicate curve of her ears, each tipped with a small moonstone earring.
Her fingers brushed Orion's arm as she leaned in to speak, her smile warm and sure. He turned his head to listen, the corners of his mouth softening.
To the pack, they must have looked like a story brought to life: the strong, stoic Alpha and his radiant, clever mate-to-be. A perfect pairing, blessed by beauty and power and status.
"More ale, Alpha?" Luna murmured, stopping just behind Orion's chair.
His attention shifted from whatever Selene was saying. His eyes—deep grey, like storm clouds over a mountain—flicked briefly to the pitcher in her hands.
"Yes," he said simply.
She poured, careful to keep the stream smooth, the liquid just reaching the appropriate mark in his cup. Not too little; not too much. She'd learned long ago that anything outside of perfect was an invitation for someone to comment.
The scent of him reached her—clean sweat from a late training session, pine, smoke, the faintest hint of iron. It wrapped around her, familiar and painfully distant all at once.
"Thank you," he added, almost as an afterthought.
Luna froze for the barest instant.
Orion rarely spoke directly to her. Orders, yes, when she happened to be standing where his words fell. Dismissals, sometimes, when Selene wanted her gone and used him as the mouthpiece.
But thanks?
She swallowed.
"You're welcome," she said, her voice barely carrying over the clamor of the hall.
His attention had already shifted back to Selene.
"Tomorrow's patrol schedule is too light on the eastern ridge," he was saying. "Kael insists the rogues haven't tested that border in months, but I don't like it."
Selene tilted her head, feigning a small frown.
"Do you think they'll try something soon?" she asked, her tone concerned. "We could reassign from the southern fields. They've been quiet since the last skirmish."
Luna hovered a breath too long, pitcher still in hand, listening.
Orion considered.
"No," he said after a moment. "If we pull from the south, Bloodfang will take it as a sign of weakness and press harder. I'd rather keep them comfortable than hungry."
Selene traced the rim of her goblet with one fingertip.
"Then perhaps," she suggested delicately, "we can adjust the rotations instead. Shorter shifts, more frequent changes. You always say a tired wolf is a dead wolf."
Kael, seated to Orion's left, nodded slowly.
"She has a point," he admitted. "We've been pushing the younger ones hard. They're eager, but eagerness fades when the body's spent."
Orion's jaw tightened.
"Eagerness without discipline is a liability," he said. "But I won't drive them into the ground for the illusion of safety."
His gaze flicked across the hall, scanning faces, postures, howls of laughter, the subtle flinches of exhaustion.
Luna stepped back into the flow of omegas, refilling cups farther down the table. Still, she could hear snatches of conversation from the dais.
"You carry everything alone," Selene murmured, low enough that only those closest could hear. "Let them take some of the weight, Orion."
He exhaled slowly.
"That weight is mine," he replied. "That's what an Alpha is. The one who carries what others cannot."
Selene's hand slid over his on the table, fingers curling slightly.
"Every wolf stumbles if the load is too heavy," she said, her tone a careful blend of concern and admiration. "Even you. Let me help where I can."
He glanced at her, something softer crossing his features—a fleeting mixture of gratitude and... something else. Resignation, perhaps.
"You already do," he said.
It wasn't untrue.
Selene did help. In ways the pack could see, and in ways they couldn't.
She soothed tempers at gatherings, smoothed over minor disputes before they reached Orion's ears. She knew exactly which warriors were nursing bruised pride, which mates were anxious about border tensions, which elders felt overlooked. She flattered, reassured, probed, and listened, her fingers always on the unseen pulse of the pack.
Then, when Orion sat with her in the quieter hours—after dinner, perhaps, or in the privacy of their shared rooms—she passed him that information like a careful stream of water.
"Torren feels slighted," she might say. "He's been passed over for the elite patrol twice now."
Or, "Mira is worried. Her brother's leg has been slow to heal. If you visited the infirmary, just for a moment, it would mean a lot."
Or, "The young ones talk too loosely about Bloodfang. They think the last defense was easy. Maybe a story, shared at the next full-moon gathering, about the costs of arrogance?"
And Orion, who saw the large pattern, the border shifts, the resource charts, the training schedules, would listen. He would weigh. He would act.
He valued information. He valued insight.
Selene understood that.
So did everyone else.
"Selene is good for him," Luna had overheard one of the elders say once, over a board game in the corner of the hall. "He's so serious. She reminds him of the softer things."
"A true Luna-in-the-making," another had agreed. "Sharp mind. Kind heart. And she keeps the house running smoother than it ever did under old Alpha Rian's mate."
Luna had stood in the doorway with a broom, invisible as always, and felt the words settle like stones in her stomach.
They weren't wrong.
Selene *was* smart. She remembered names, histories, small preferences. She could recite the genealogy of three neighboring packs from memory and knew which alliances were born of genuine respect and which of calculated necessity.
She was, in many ways, the perfect partner for a young Alpha trying to maintain his father's legacy while carving out his own.
The pack saw Orion's strength, his scars, his steady leadership.
They saw Selene's beauty, her empathy, her political acumen.
They did not see, or did not want to see, the thin, glinting edge beneath her soft words when she turned them on someone weaker.
"You're frowning," Cook Elia muttered to Luna later that night in the kitchen, where pots hissed and steam blurred the air. "Stop that. Someone'll think you're thinking."
Luna startled, caught mid-scrub at a particularly stubborn stain on a cauldron.
"I—I wasn't—"
Elia snorted, wiping her hands on her apron. She was a large woman with arms like tree trunks and a voice like gravel, and had a grudging tolerance for Luna that sometimes felt almost like rough affection.
"If you're staring at that pot any harder, you'll burn a hole through it," she said. "What's turning around in that head of yours?"
Luna hesitated, then shrugged.
"Just tired," she said. "Long day."
Elia eyed her for a moment, then turned back to the stew she was cooling.
"Long life," she grunted. "Get used to it."
Luna bit her tongue.
How could she explain the knot of conflicting feelings tightening in her chest whenever she looked at the high table?
On the one hand: Orion was everything an Alpha should be. Strong. Fair. Tireless. He trained with his warriors, ate the same food they did, bled beside them when battles came. He took counsel, but did not waver once a decision was made. He punished when he must, but not for sport.
He walked the borders at dawn, cloak dark against the pale sky, watching for threats no one else saw.
He visited the infirmary at dusk, speaking quietly with the healer, resting a hand briefly on a wounded shoulder or a fevered brow.
He stayed up late, long after most of the pack had gone to their beds, bent over maps and ledgers in his study, the candlelight carving deep grooves of weariness into his face.
He never asked for help. But when it was offered, sensibly, usefully, he took it.
Selene understood how to offer it.
She painted his life in soft colors where she could: arranging small surprises at meals, persuading the musicians to learn his favorite old songs, organizing the pups into a mock greeting line when he returned from a long patrol—small, orchestrated moments of warmth that eased the fatigue he carried.
He smiled, more with his eyes than his mouth, when she did those things.
He never smiled when he looked at Luna. He seldom *looked* at her at all.
To him, she was part of the house the way the carved beams or the stone hearths were. A presence that required maintenance, certainly, but not attention.
And why should he? She scrubbed his floors, brushed his cloaks, kept his linens clean. She did her tasks quietly. She was never part of the conversations at his level—not even as a target, most of the time.
He had no reason to see her.
Selene made sure of that.
"Orion will be a legend," Luna heard Gamma Rowan say one afternoon, leaning against the railing outside the training yard as they watched the Alpha put a group of young warriors through a grueling drill. "His father was strong, but this one... he's got an eye for patterns. Sees three moves ahead in a fight. Five seasons ahead on the borders."
Kael grunted in agreement.
"Doesn't rest enough," he said. "But I suppose that's what we're here for. To catch him when he forgets he's still flesh and bone."
"Selene's here for that," Rowan corrected with a half-smile. "She has him eating more. Sleeping a little more. Laughing, even."
Kael snorted.
"She has him *talking,*" he amended. "Which may be worse."
Luna, sweeping near the edge of the yard, kept her gaze studiously on the ground.
"They suit each other," Rowan went on. "She softens his edges. He reins in her... enthusiasm."
"And lucky for her," Kael added, "if she'd been born in a weaker pack, that tongue of hers would've gotten her in trouble. Here, it's a weapon we can use."
Luna's grip tightened on the broom handle.
*A weapon we can use.*
They weren't wrong there, either.
Orion wielded his own weapons—claws, teeth, strategy, discipline. Selene wielded hers—charm, perception, the ability to twist fear into shape and hand it to him in digestible pieces.
The pack saw a united front: Alpha and future Luna, working in tandem to keep them safe.
Luna saw the spaces in between. The things said too quietly. The glances that lasted a fraction too long. The way Orion's jaw sometimes clenched when Selene spoke about "unfortunate elements" in their midst.
Like Luna.
"Someone like that runt," she'd said once in the privacy of their shared sitting room, unaware that Luna was dusting just outside the door. "She's harmless now, yes. But what happens if she attracts the wrong kind of attention? If another pack uses her against us? Her presence is... a loose thread, Orion."
There had been a pause.
Then Orion's voice, low and measured.
"My father took her in. He made a promise under the Goddess' eye. I won't dishonor that lightly."
Selene's silence had been a thing with teeth.
"Of course," she'd said at last, voice silken. "I would never suggest you break an oath. Only that you... consider the cost of keeping it. We have enemies now that your father never had to face."
Another pause. The faint scrape of chair legs against wood.
"The day she becomes a danger to this pack," Orion had said, "I'll handle it. Until then, this conversation is over."
Luna had exhaled softly, a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Selene had not pushed further that night. Not out loud.
But Luna had heard the quiet calculation in her footsteps as she moved to pour Orion more tea. The way she shifted tactics, moving from direct pressure to subtle erosion.
She praised his honor more in public after that. His constancy. His loyalty to even the smallest. Each compliment added another thread to the web that bound his identity to the promise his father had made.
Luna was not blind to it.
She was simply too low to change it.
Now, as she moved through the crowded hall, pitcher heavy in her hands, she watched Orion and Selene in the reflection of polished silverware, in the curve of goblets, in the glossy surface of the dark wood tables.
He laughed at something Kael said, the sound brief but genuine. His eyes crinkled at the corners, the hard lines of his face softening.
Selene's fingers brushed his sleeve, drawing his attention back to her. She said something that made him huff a quiet breath of amusement, shaking his head.
To the pack, it looked easy. Natural. As if the Goddess herself had paired them.
Luna refilled another cup, her movements automatic.
Her heart, traitorous thing, did not see ease when it looked at Orion.
It saw distance.
It saw the way he walked through his days wrapped in a cloak of duty that no one but him could feel the full weight of. It saw the brief moments, when he thought himself unobserved, when his shoulders slumped for a heartbeat before he straightened again. It saw the almost-invisible strain at the corners of his eyes.
She had watched him for years, from the edges of rooms and the shadows of corridors. Not out of some fanciful crush—she had no space for those kinds of fantasies—but out of a strange, hollow longing.
Not to stand *beside* him.
Just to be seen *by* him.
Truly seen. Not as a stray or a symbol or a problem to be managed, but as something that existed in his world with as much reality as the maps on his walls.
It was a foolish wish. Dangerous, even, in light of Selene's threats.
So she buried it under tasks and obedience and whispered prayers.
"Luna."
She nearly jumped at the sound of her own name.
Selene stood a few paces away, empty goblet in hand, eyes alight with that familiar, cool amusement.
"You're daydreaming," Selene said, as if speaking to a child caught with a hand in the honey jar. "Such a bad habit. It makes you clumsy."
Luna dipped her head quickly.
"Sorry," she murmured. "I'll refill your cup."
She stepped forward, pitcher tilting.
Selene placed a light hand on the rim, stopping the motion.
"Careful," she said softly, smile never faltering. "Don't spill." Her gaze sharpened just enough for Luna to see the warning there. "We wouldn't want you to embarrass yourself. Or the Alpha."
Luna's fingers tightened. She adjusted her grip and poured, steady this time, the liquid rising in a smooth, unbroken line.
"Better," Selene said, releasing the cup. "See what happens when you focus on what's *in front* of you, instead of... what isn't?"
Luna swallowed.
"Yes, Selene," she said.
Selene's smile widened, all approval on the surface.
"Run along, little one," she murmured. "There are still plenty of cups to fill."
Luna turned away.
At the dais, Orion's gaze tracked a restless commotion near the far wall, where two young wolves were jostling each other a little too roughly. His hand tightened almost imperceptibly around his fork. Kael leaned in to murmur something about discipline.
Selene's hand slid over Orion's forearm again, fingers a familiar weight.
On the surface, everything was as it should be.
A strong Alpha. A beloved future Luna. A pack well-fed, well-defended, well-led.
Luna moved through that perfection like a shadow, small and unnoticed, the warmth of her earlier connection with the Moon Goddess banked low in her chest.
She did not know yet how entangled her fate would become with the man at the head of the hall. How the goddess who watched from above would pull threads that bound runt to Alpha, stray to leader, rejected to necessary.
She only knew that, from where she stood, Orion seemed as distant and unreachable as the moon itself—bright, powerful, casting light over everyone but never lowering enough to touch the ground where she knelt.
Unattainable.
Unaware.
And, in ways he did not yet begin to understand, already standing on fault lines that would, one day, crack wide beneath his feet.