Chapter 8. The Luna’s Trial

The ritual grounds were etched into the mountainside, their stone platforms slick with rain and centuries-old blood. Wolf-totems loomed from the shadows, their hollow eyes glinting in the torchlight. Smoke curled from braziers packed with pitch, their flames hissing as the wind swept down from the peaks. The pack gathered in full—warriors, scouts, elders, pups—forming a wide ring at the rim of the sacred circle. Even the youngest cubs had been roused to witness. No one spoke. No one even breathed too loudly. The silence was not reverent, but hungry. It watched, and waited.

Neriah stood alone at the circle’s heart.

She wore the ceremonial white—an old, shapeless robe that swallowed her frame, making her look like a wraith half-scoured by winter. Her bare feet ached on the cold, slick stone. The hem of her robe was already stained with mud and old blood. Her hands were clenched so tightly at her sides the scars of her Omega mark stood out, even through the grime. Every mus